Thus Sergt. Childress of the "Royal" won his spurs in the most notorious outlaw camp which the States still permits. After a supper with the "bunch," about the board at which he was freely toasted over his escape from the "logger's curse," he rented a cabin of his own and took possession, accepted fully as a horse rustler and a man who could take care of himself whatever the odds.
CHAPTER XXIII.
COMING A CROPPER.
Clothes, summer clothes—or rather the lack of them had taken Ethel Andress to Strathconna a few days after Childress departed on his Montana visit. Her uncle, the devoted old major, had gone with her, leaving Tom Fitzrapp in charge of the ranch and outfit. None of them knew of their neighbor's departure, or they might not have been so confident that rustling had been halted for a time, at least.
But before Ethel was through with her dressmaker a strange foreboding of range trouble harassed her. Not that any disturbing news had come from Fitzrapp, as should have been the case in the event of any unwonted happening at the ranch. Major MacDonald tried to argue against a hurried return to the Rafter A. Hadn't the horse bands been driven to the upper ranges, where they must be safe? But the fair owner's whim persisted. After they had arrived at the nearest railroad station and retrieved their buckboard team from the livery barn, she had crowded the horses over the home trail.
Old Man Cuss alone greeted the returning owner and her nearest relative when the team finally had covered the prairie miles. His face was always gloomy, so his expression told nothing.
"Everything all right on the range, Darned?" asked the widow as she unbuckled the reins and flung one to either side.
"Mostly," returned the home guard.
"Where is Mr. Fitzrapp?" she inquired.
"Up to the house, nursin' a hurt arm."