Once on the trail she dismounted and examined it closely for traces of any recent passage. Two nights before there had been a downpour which washed clean the earthy portions of the road. She could see no hoof marks and was satisfied that none had passed in either direction since the rain. If the owner of the Open A intended to use that gap to the States, she was in time.
Around a sharp bend, she halted her horse in mid-trail, having thought of a subterfuge that might lessen his suspicion that she was laying in wait for him. Loosening the cinch on her cow-saddle, she waited with the patience of a feminine Job. And presently she was rewarded. The scrape of an iron shoe upon a rock came to her ears from beyond the pinnacle that hid her presence. At once she busied herself with the saddle straps, and so Jack Childress found her, engaged in a commonplace operation of the trail.
Flame did not look up until he was almost upon her, and then with well feigned surprise. This changed quickly to real anxiety when she saw the peep of a white bandage beneath the brim of his hat. She took full advantage of the moment afforded her for speculation. Something, then, had happened to him the day before—some injury that required the use of a gauze dressing! Noting the position of the injury, she recalled that other morning when she had discovered Dick Murdock, Roper and Rust about to do a dreadful thing with a red hot running-iron. It required no great strain on her lively imagination to figure out what had happened.
Not for a second did she doubt her father. Samuel Gallagher never had lied to her, and she did not believe that he would begin in this twilight stage of their close acquaintance. This thing that had been done to Childress had been perpetrated after he had deposited the silver stallion and started back to his own little ranch. For just a second she was disappointed in him that he should have permitted a second attack to succeed. A man as upstanding as he seemed to be should not have been caught napping twice, should at least have left his mark upon the enemy. She had seen no trace of conflict upon any of the outfit about the home-ranch board the night before. They must have sprung some new-fangled surprise upon him. She could not bring herself to believe that Jack—her Jack as she whispered to herself—was a man afraid to fight. Should he prove to be that sort, of course, her interest must end; but he would not! She knew he would not.
By this time he was upon her, pulling his mount to a halt in a state of surprise, the genuineness of which could not be doubted.
"Our trails do cross, Flame of Fire Weed!" he exclaimed gladly. "Although yesterday, when I did not find you in your own corral, I feared my luck was slipping."
He had pulled off his hat, in utter disregard of the bandage about his forehead.
"What—what has happened to you, Jack Childress?" she cried, sweeping a hand in gesture across her own fair forehead.
"Nothing worth worrying about," he assured her. "Are you going far and headed my way? Can I help you with that saddle?"
She stamped her foot. "I'll not be put off with polite chatter. Those roughnecks that dad calls an outfit got you and branded you after you'd left Silver with us as a hostage of your good behavior. Dick Murdock, the smiling fiend, will answer to me for every inch of the burn. Does it hurt terribly and have you done everything possible for the wound?"