Although at open-country running, the piebald mustang could have given fair Princess an even break, the young woman was satisfied to have the wiry little beast jog along at a fox trot, that easiest of gaits, which both rider and horse can endure for hours without fatigue. The widow had no definite destination and the easy pace suited her mood, which was one of mental readjustment.
What was she going to do with and about Tom Fitzrapp?
Since their sudden return to the ranch from Strathconna there had been several happenings. One had to do with further loss to the rustlers, duly reported to the fair owner after Fitzrapp's return from his first inspection ride over the lower ranch of the several that made up the Rafter holdings.
"How deep did they gouge us this time?" she had asked.
"Without making a count, I say in the neighborhood of fifty head," Fitzrapp had returned despondently. "But I nearly got them this time."
He had tossed his flat-brimmed felt hat to the girl. Through the peaked crown of it a rifle bullet had bored a hole.
"If it had been an inch lower——" he had started on.
But she had held the far-away look in her dark eyes and continued gazing out over the valley. Too many times it had been nearly or almost. And Fitzrapp had reported too many narrow escapes.
The explosion had come later—the next morning. The handsome ranch manager had renewed his importunities that she forsake widowhood and become Mrs. Fitzrapp. When she had shown small—possibly less than usual—interest in his protestations of devotion, he had gone off in a huff to the corrals. At luncheon, for the Rafter A was the one ranch in the Fire Weed country at which dinner was served at night, he suggested an intention of running up to Strathconna for a horse race in which he was interested.
"If you go now, Tom," she had said, "you needn't bother coming back. I'd hate to see you killed on our range and, from past experiences, they seem more likely to get you than you to get any of them. Why don't you bring down a rustler now and then?"