"Let him lie there and grunt," growled Pete. "Didn't he chuck me into that fire? My back's all blistered."

He pulled on a coat, for his clothes had been quite torn away above his waist at the back when he was putting out the fire.

Frances suffered keenly herself, for the man had tied her wrists and ankles so tightly that the cords cut into the flesh whenever she tried to move them. Beside, she lay in a most uncomfortable position.

But to hear Pratt groan was terrible. The blow on the head had seriously hurt him--of that there could be no doubt. When she called to him he did not answer, and finally Pete commanded her to keep silence.

"Ye want to make a fuss so as to draw somebody down here--I kin see what you are up to."

Frances had a wholesome fear of him by this time. She had seen Pete at his worst--and had felt his heavy hand, too. She was bruised and suffering pain herself. But Pratt's case was much worse than her own just then and her whole heart went out to the young man from Amarillo.

Pete sat over his little fire and smoked. He was evidently expecting Ratty M'Gill to return; but for some reason Ratty was delayed.

Doubtless the two plotters had proposed to themselves that Captain Rugley would be too ill to take the lead in any chase after the kidnappers. Perhaps Pete even hoped that the old ranchman would agree immediately to the terms of ransom set forth in the note Ratty had taken to the Bar-T.

The ex-cowpuncher was to linger around and see what would be done about the message to the Captain; then come here and report to Pete. And as the hours dragged by, and it drew near midnight, with no appearance of the messenger, the chief plotter grew more anxious.

He huddled over the fire, almost enclosing it with his arms and legs for warmth. Frances, lying beyond, and out of the puny radiance of its warmth, felt the chill of the night air keenly. Pete did not even offer her a blanket.

But her attention was engaged by thoughts of Pratt Sanderson's sufferings. The young man groaned faintly from time to time, but he gave no other sign of life.

As Frances lay shivering on the ground her keen senses suddenly apprehended a new sound. She raised her head a little and the sound was absent. She dropped back upon the earth again and it returned--a throbbing sound, distant, faint but insistent.

What could it be? Frances was first startled, then puzzled by it. Each time that she raised her head the noise drifted away; then it returned when her ear was against the ground.

"It's a horse--it's several horses," she finally whispered to herself.

"Can it be----?"

She sat up suddenly. Pete immediately commanded her to lie down.

"I'm cramped," said the girl, speaking clearly. "Can't you change these cords? I won't try to run away."

"I'd hurt you if you did," growled the fellow. "And I ain't going to change them cords."

"Oh, do!" cried Frances, more loudly.

"Shut up and lay down there!" ordered Pete, raising his own voice.

"No, I will not!" retorted the girl, deliberately tempting Pete into one of his rages. If he became angry and yelled at her all the better!

"Do what I tell ye!" exclaimed the man. "Ain't ye l'arned that I mean what I say yet?"

"I must move my limbs. They're cramped and co-o-old!" wailed Frances, and she put a deal of energy into her cry.

Pete began to get stiffly to his feet. "Do like I tell ye, and lie down--or I'll knock ye down!" he threatened.

At that the girl risked uttering a cry and shrank back with a semblance of fear. Aye, there was more than a semblance of fear in the att.i.tude, for she believed he would strike her. She had shrieked, however, at the top of her voice.

"Shut your mouth, ye crazy thing!" exclaimed the man, and he leaped toward her.

Frances threw herself back upon the ground. She heard the clatter of hoofbeats approaching. They could be mistaken for no other sound.

"Daddy! Daddy! Help! Help!"

Her voice was piercing. The cry for her father was involuntary, for she believed him too ill to leave the ranch-house.

But the answering shout that came down the wind was unmistakable.

"Daddy! Daddy!" Frances cried again, eagerly, loudly.

Pete was about to strike her; but he darted back and stood erect. The horses were plunging madly down the hillside through the brush. The party of rescue was already upon the camp.

The scoundrelly Pete leaped away to reach his own horse. He must have found the creature quickly in the darkness; for before the men from the Bar-T pulled in their horses before the smouldering campfire, Frances heard the rush of Pete's old pony as it dashed away down the stream.

"Daddy!" cried Frances for a third time. "We're here--Pratt and I. Look out for Pratt; he's hurt. I'm all right."

"Somebody throw some brush on that fire!" commanded the old ranchman.

"Let's see what's been doing here."

"Sam, take a couple of the boys and go after that fellow. You can follow that horse by sound."

He climbed stiffly out of his own saddle, and when the firelight flashed up revealing the little glade to better purpose, it was Captain Dan Rugley who lifted Frances to her feet and cut her bonds.

CHAPTER XXVI

FRANCES IN SOFTER MOOD

It was the next day but one and the _hacienda_ and compound lay bathed in the hot sun of noon-day. Captain Dan Rugley was leaning back in his usual hard chair and in his usual att.i.tude on the veranda, fairly soaking up the rays of the orb of day.

"Beats all the medicine for rheumatism in the doctor's shop!" he was wont to declare.

Since his night ride to rescue his daughter he had become more like his old self than he had been for weeks. The excitement seemed to have chased away the last twinges of pain for the time being, and he was without fever.

Now he was watching a swift pony-rider coming his way along the trail and listening to the patter of light footsteps coming down the broad stairway behind him.

"Here comes Sam, Frances," the ranchman said, in a low voice. "I reckon he'll have some news."

The girl came to the door. She had discarded her riding habit and was dressed in a soft, clinging house gown, cut low at the throat and giving her arms freedom to the elbow. She wore pretty stockings and pretty slippers on her feet. Instead of a quirt she carried a fan in her hand and there was a handkerchief tucked into her belt.

The chrysalis of the cowgirl had burst and this b.u.t.terfly had emerged.

Of late it was not often that Frances had "dolled up," as the old Captain called it. Now he said, enthusiastically:

"My! you do look sweet! What's all the dolling up for? Me? The c.h.i.n.ks?

Or maybe that boy upstairs, eh?"