Flame found herself pondering over what might be this mission in Montana from which he might not speedily return. There was something weirdly strange about his leaving Silver with another ranch outfit. Suppose that a raid on their stock took place while he was absent from his "baby" ranch in the basin, presumably on business in Montana? Was not that State the base from which the rustlers worked; the haven to which they drove their loot for brand blotting and hurried sales farther south? Would she, then, still be able to cling to her persistent belief that Childress was a gentleman and not the scoundrel that so many believed him? This last question she did not answer, except to breathe a fervent hope that there would be no raid.
Then she slipped from her bed, put pink toes into purple "mules," walked to her dressing-table and, for the first time in more than a year, set a small alarm-clock. Usually she could waken at any hour on which she set her mind; but to-night her mind did not seem to be entirely under control. And there was something she must know—something that meant getting up with the Chink cook and riding hard until she knew. Her father had been too courteous to ask questions, but she need not be. The newcomer called her Flame and she called him Jack when they were alone.
Why was Jack going down into Montana on an inferior mount, his own prize left to the care of a man he scarcely knew? Why? But particularly why—why was she losing sleep over the fact?
CHAPTER XX.
POOR BRANDED MAN!
Flame's clock did not fail her. Next morning she was up with the cook who, at that season of the year, was not perpetrating any of the half-past-four roars. She slipped out of silken "nighterie" and into the rougher clothes of the range. Without disturbing her father in his quarters across the living-room, she crossed the quadrangle and entered the chuck-shack to the unblinking surprise of Chan.
"Coffee and cakes, Chan," she ordered with a grin as cheerful as though she had slept the clock around instead of only a quarter of it. "And you needn't say that I had so early a breakfast should any one ask for figures."
"Cheerio—I mean righteo," returned the Chinaman. To him these white ranch people were a queer lot, but Gallegher a good boss, and the young lady less troublesome than the housewives for whom he had worked in several towns. "Chan keep sleclet much better 'an Mister Murdock."
She gave him a quick look, followed by sharp demand: "Just exactly what do you mean by that, you heathen."
Chan grinned broadly, as he always did when she called him "heathen." She had been the object of his most respectful worship from the time of a near tragedy of the winter before. The cook had returned from a vacation in Strathconna, which boasted a considerable Chinatown. There he had acquired a new idol or joss, a dreadful-looking dragon figure, which he enshrined upon a shelf in the dining compartment of the chuck-house. Rusty, the buster, came in for supper, saw the new decoration and proceeded to ring it with his sombrero instead of using the regular hat-and-gun rack. At the very moment the Stetson settled over the emblem of Buddhism, Chan appeared in the doorway of the kitchen partition, in hand the carving knife with which he was about to slice roast beef. He saw the desecration, and seeing, saw red. With a yell that would have done credit to the most supernatural banshee, he started after the bow-legged horseman, brandishing the knife in religious frenzy. When almost within reach of the thoroughly frightened Rust, who had entered upon a life-or-death marathon around the long table, not daring to pause to open the door for the refuge of the yard, Flame had entered. Taking in the tense situation at a glance, she tripped the knife-man for a heavy fall.