“Gee!” ejaculated the ranchman. “I never thought o’ that steer.”
“I reckon Old Trouble-Maker will have to stand for it,” scoffed the ranchman’s niece, tossing her head. “Now, Sally, you ride out and see us. These girls from down East are all right. And we’re going to have heaps of fun at Silver Ranch after this.”
Helen Cameron touched a lever and the big car shot ahead again.
“She’s a mighty white girl, that Sally Dickson,” declared Jane Ann Hicks (who hated her name and preferred to be called “Nita”). “She’s taught school here at the Crossing for one term, too. And she’s sweet in spite of her peppery temper——”
“What could you expect?” demanded the stout girl, smiling all over her face as she looked back at the red-haired girl at the store. “She has a more crimson topknot than the Fox here——”
There came a sudden scream from the front seat of the automobile. The car, under Helen Cameron’s skillful manipulation, had turned the bend in the trail and the chapparel instantly hid the store and the houses at the Crossing. Right ahead of them was a rolling prairie, several miles in extent. And up the rise toward the trail was coming, in much dust, a bunch of cattle, with two or three punchers riding behind and urging the herd to better pasture.
“Oh! see all those steers,” cried Ruth Fielding. “Do you own all of them, Mr. Hicks?”
“I reckon they got my brand on ’em, Miss,” replied the ranchman. “But that’s only a leetle bunch—can’t be more’n five hundred—coming up yere. I reckon, Miss Helen, that we’d better pull up some yere. If them cows sees us——”
“See there! see there!” cried the stout girl in the back seat.
As she spoke in such excitement, Helen switched off the power and braked the car. Out of the chapparel burst, with a frantic bellow, a huge black and white steer—wide horned, ferocious of aspect—quite evidently “on the rampage.” The noise of the passing car had brought him out of concealment. He plunged into the trail not ten yards behind the slowing car.