"She thinks me a softy. I am. What kind of a hunter did I show myself to be? Pooh! she must be disgusted with my weakness."

Nevertheless, he would have done the same thing over again. It was his nature not to wish to see dumb creatures in pain, or to inflict pain on them himself.

Killing the jack-rabbits was a necessity as well as a sport. Even chasing a poor, unfortunate little fox, as Sue had done in the East, might be made to seem a commendable act, for the foxes, when numerous, are a nuisance around the poultry runs.

But by no possible reasoning could Pratt have ever excused his killing of the pretty, innocent antelope. They did not need it for food, and it was one of the most harmless creatures in the world.

To tell the truth, Pratt was glad Frances was not present at the luncheon. He cared a good deal less about Sue's saucy tongue than he did for the range girl's opinion of him.

During these weeks that he had known Frances Rugley, he had come to see that hers was a most vigorous and interesting character. Pratt was a thoughtful young man. There was nothing foolish about his interest in Frances, but he _did_ crave her friendship and liking.

Some of the other men rallied him on his sudden silence, and this gave Sue Latrop an opportunity to say more sarcastic things.

"He misses that 'cattle queen,'" she giggled, but was careful that Mrs.

Edwards did not hear what she said. "Too bad; poor little boy! Why didn't you ride after her, Pratt?"

"I might, had I known when she went home," replied Pratt, cheerfully.

"I beg the Senor's pardon," whispered Jose, who was gathering up the plates. "The _senorita_ did not go home."

Pratt looked at the boy, sharply. "Sure?" he asked.

"Quite so--_si, senor_."

"Where did she go?"

"_Quien sabe?_" retorted Jose Reposa, with a shrug of his shoulders. "She crossed the river yonder and rode east."

So did the party from the Edwards ranch a little later. Silent Sam Harding had already ridden back to the Bar-T. Jose gathered up the hamper and its contents and started home on mule-back.

Pratt had curiosity enough, when the party went over the river, to look for the prints of Molly's hoofs.

There they were in the soft earth on the far edge of the stream. Frances had ridden down stream at a sharp pace. Where had she gone?

"It was odd for her to leave us in that way," thought Pratt, turning the matter over in his mind, "and not to return. In a way she was our hostess. I did not think Frances would fail in any matter of courtesy.

How could she with Captain Dan Rugley for a father?"

The old ranchman was the soul of hospitality. That Frances should seem to ignore her duty as a hostess stung Pratt keenly. He heard Sue Latrop speaking about it.

"Went off mad. What else could you expect of a cowgirl?" said the girl from Boston, in her very nastiest tone.

The fact that Sue seemed so sure Frances was derelict in her duty made Pratt more confident that something untoward had occurred to the girl of the ranges to keep her from returning promptly to the party.

Of course, the young man suspected nothing of the actual situation in which Frances at that very moment found herself. Pratt dreamed of a broken cinch, or a misstep that might have lamed Molly.

Instead, Frances Rugley was sitting with her back against a stump at the edge of the clearing where she had come so suddenly upon the campfire, with her ungloved hands lying in her lap so that Ratty's bright eyes could watch them continually.

Pete had taken away her gun. Molly was hobbled with the men's horses on the other side of the hollow. The two plotters had rekindled the fire and were whispering together about her.

Had Pete had his way he would have tied Frances' hands and feet. But the ex-cowpuncher of the Bar-T ranch would not listen to that.

Although Pete was the leading spirit, Ratty M'Gill turned ugly when his mate attempted to touch the girl; so they had left her unbound. But not unwatched--no, indeed! Ratty's beadlike eyes never left her.

Not much of their conversation reached the ears of Frances, although she kept very still and tried to hear. She could read Ratty's lips a little, for he had no mustache; but the bearded Pete's lips were hidden.

"I've got to have a good piece of it myself, if I'm going to take a chance like that!" was one declaration of the ex-cowpuncher's that she heard clearly.

Again Ratty said: "They'll not only suspect me, they'll _know_.

Won't the girl tell them? I tell you I want to see my getaway before I make a stir in the matter--you can bet on that!"

Finally, Frances saw the ex-orderly of the Bylittle Soldiers' Home produce a pad of paper, an envelope, and pencil. He was plainly a ready writer, for he went to work with the pencil at once, while Ratty rolled a fresh cigarette and still watched their captive.

Pete finished his letter, sealed it in the envelope, and addressed it in a bold hand.

"That'll just about fix the business, I reckon," said Pete, scowling across at Frances. "That gal's mighty smart--with her trunk full of junk and all----"

Ratty burst into irrepressible laughter. 'You sure got Pete's goat when you played him that trick, Frances. He fair killed himself puntin' that trunk up the river and hiding it, and then taking the punt back and letting it drift so as to put Peckham's crew off the scent.

"And when he busted it open----" Ratty burst into laughter again, and held his sides. Pete looked surly.

"We'll make the old man pay for her cuttin' up them didoes," growled the bewhiskered rascal. "And my horse and wagon, too. I b'lieve she and that man with her set the fire that burned up my outfit."

Frances herewith took part in the conversation.

"Who set the gra.s.s-fire, in the first place?" she demanded. "I believe you did that, Ratty M'Gill. You were just reckless enough that day."

"Aw, shucks!" said the young man, sheepishly.

"But you haven't the same excuse to-day for being reckless," the girl said, earnestly. "You have not been drinking. What do you suppose Sam and the boys will do to you for treating me in this manner?"

"Now, that will do!" said Pete, hoa.r.s.ely "You hold your tongue, young woman!"

But Ratty only laughed. He accepted the letter, took off his sombrero, tucked it under the sweatband, and put on the hat again. Then he started lazily for the pony that he rode.

"Now mind you!" he called back over his shoulder to Pete, "I'm not going to risk my scalp going to the ranch-house with this yere billy-do--not much!"

"Why not?" asked Pete, angrily. "We got to move quick."

"We'll move quick later; we'll go sure and steady now," chuckled the cowboy. "I'll send it in by one of the Mexicans. Say it was give to me by a stranger on the trail. I ain't welcome at the Bar-T, and I know it."

He leaped into his saddle and spurred his horse away, quickly getting out of sight. Frances knew that the letter he carried, and which Pete had written, was to her father.

CHAPTER XXIII

A GAME OF PUSS IN THE CORNER