Horse thieves were anathema to Lightning Rogers, whose life had been wholly spent in cattle countries. His hatred of them was something traditional rather than personal. He believed it was the right of every citizen to shoot to kill “on sight” where cattle thieves were concerned. There could be no extenuation. They were the wolf-pack to which no mercy should be shown, to which no quarter should be given. But the man, Andrew McFardell, who had come into their lives something under two years ago, was on a different plane.
He hated the man. He hated his dark good looks and foxy face. He hated his easy, pleasant manners. He hated the thought that he had come to set up his homestead on the trail to Hartspool, within ten miles of the farm. He hated him because of Molly’s liking for him. So, for once he rolled into his blankets and lay awake for hours searching his mind for the answer to the threat which he believed to be overshadowing the child of whom he had become the self-constituted guardian.
Lightning had no illusions. He had no false sentiments. Molly was the owner of a farm that had been amply prosperous in her father’s lifetime. It still afforded her a livelihood. She had good stock, and ample buildings. She had a stout home, and knew the business in all its phases. Furthermore, she was strong and capable, and a pretty girl of twenty; and as simple as the hills that had bred her.
Now, almost immediately after her father’s death, this “bobtail” policeman had come into her life. Why? Why of all places had he chosen the foothills for the setting up of his homestead?
To Lightning’s method of reasoning there was only one answer to the question. He saw the time coming when Andrew McFardell’s pretence of a homestead would be completely abandoned, and he himself would be asked to serve under a master instead of a mistress. And it would be a master who was a “throw-out” from the Police Force.
More than half the night was endured in angry thought. And when, at last, his stertorous breathing proclaimed his sleep, it was only after his mind had been completely made up as to the line of action he intended to follow on the morrow.
Molly had retired to bed in the firm belief that she had effectually steadied her loyal friend. She was certain that she would discover the precious cows calmly grazing, tucked away in some secret, sweet-grass slough in which the hill country abounded. She anticipated a day in the saddle, perhaps; a day of hill-ranging, with her saddle-mare’s eager body thrilling under her. She would strike out north and east along the creek in the direction of Whale River, into which it flowed. It was sweet grass all the way. It was on the way to Hartspool, but she had no intention of doing the whole journey. She would not go farther than Andy McFardell’s homestead. If the cows were not in that direction she would strike out on a fresh line that afternoon.
Molly was at that age when self-deception is the most natural thing in the world. It never occurred to her to doubt her sincerity in selecting the direction of McFardell’s homestead for her first search. But, having decided her course, she lay there between the snowy sheets contemplating a picture of the dark-faced, dark-eyed man she had first learned to pity for the hardships confronting him; whose courage she applauded.
Lightning was right. For all her twenty years Molly was an innocent child. Love as yet meant nothing to her. But even so, as she dropped off to sleep at last, it was with a ravishing feeling that to-morrow would be a day of unusual pleasure. And the pleasure of it had no relation to her search for her missing cows.