Part 34 (1/2)

”But you're not going alone?” said Farrish.

”Yes.”

”But--”

”Bill's knocked out. Curly's off as soon as he can start for Tellurium. That leaves you and Pete to look after the ranch. I may be gone some time.”

”But you can't rope him alone!” protested Farrish.

”I don't expect to. There isn't a horse in the Park that could overtake him. He'll make for the San Luis, of course. I'll get help there. Now then, Farrish, you're in charge of the ranch. If anything should happen to me, Jim knows where all my papers are. That's all.”

Farrish hastened to saddle Trixy, coiling a rope at the saddle horn, and strapping a slicker behind the saddle. At this moment came Pete from the cottage, bringing the revolver and cartridge belt, which Haig buckled on while Farrish led Trixy out in front of the stable.

There was a word or two more to Farrish, about the cattle and the hay, and Haig swung himself into the saddle.

”Wait!” cried Pete, running out of the stable.

He handed a flask of whisky to Haig, who took it, smiling, and thrust it into a pocket of his coat.

”Sure cure for everything, eh, Pete?”

But he reached down, and clasped Pete's hand.

”You will be cold, maybe,” said the Indian simply.

”All right, men!” said Haig. ”You'll take good care of Craven, of course. And you'll use your best judgment about everything, Farrish.

I'm not coming back without Sunnysides.”

He put spurs to the little bay mare, and dashed away. Pete and Farrish stood watching him until he had turned the point of the ridge.

”h.e.l.l!” said Farrish.

In the cottage door stood a figure in blue silks, intently gazing after the disappearing horseman.

”He catchum, allee light!” murmured Slim Jim.

CHAPTER XIX

SMYTHE'S LAST BUDGET

Seth had heard at the post-office that the deer were coming down unusually early from their summer haunts high in the mountains. A fine herd had been seen just above Bratner's, and Seth proposed to Marion that she should have a try at them. They would start early in the morning, stop the night at Bratner's, and be back home late the second evening. Marion reluctantly consented, and before going to bed that night she laid out woolen underwear, her stoutest riding costume, with divided skirts and knickerbockers and tan boots lacing almost to her knees. She did not want to go, but, as more than once before, she yielded to Seth's insistence rather than attempt an explanation.

That night, however, summer departed from the Park. A dry storm descended on the valley, and Marion lay awake while the wind howled around the corners of the ranch house, of which every timber seemed to be crying out in agony. She knew that high among the rocks the storm was smas.h.i.+ng about in fury, and even in its sheltered hollow the house was hammered as if the elements were bent upon its annihilation. When each prodigious outcry had spent itself and died away there was still the moaning and fretting and troubled whimpering that reminded her of the plaints of an invalid pleading for help between paroxysms of pain.

She was strangely depressed by it, unaccountably distressed, and was glad when the first faint whitening of the window curtains told her of the dawn. She arose and dressed--after a moment's hesitation--in the costume she had prepared the night before. Seth surely would not insist on the shooting trip in such weather, she thought, but it would please him to see her dressed for it. Besides, the temperature of her room reminded her that she would need warm clothes if she went out anywhere on such a day.

”Good, Marion!” cried Seth sure enough, when he saw her at the breakfast table. ”Glad you're not discouraged by a little wind.”

”But--you don't mean to go on a day like this?”