upper canyon. A rider had told her that Caradec had been putting up hay in the wind-sheltered upper canyon and was obviously planning on feeding his stock there by the warm spring.
She recalled it because she remembered it was something her father had spoken of doing. There was room in the upper valley for many cattle. If there was hay enough for them, the warm water would be a help, and with only a little such the cattle could survive even the coldest winter.
Fording the stream where Caradec had encountered the young squaw, she rode higher on the mountain, angling across the slope under a magnificent stand of lodgepole pine. It was a splendid avenue of trees, all seemingly of the same size and shape, as though cast from a mold.
Once she glimpsed a deer, and another time in the distance in a small, branching valley she saw a small bunch of elk. This was her country. No wonder her father had loved it, wanted it, worked to get and to keep it.
Had he paid the mortgage? But why wouldn't Bruce have told her if he had? She could not believe him dishonest and deceitful. Certainly he had made no effort to foreclose, but had been most patient and thoughtful with her.
What would he think of this ride to warn a man he regarded as an enemy? She could not sit idly by and know men were about to be killed. She would never forgive herself if she had made no effort to avert it.
Too often she had listened to her father discourse on the necessity for peace and consideration of others. She believed in that policy wholeheartedly. The fact that occasionally violence was necessary did not alter her convictions one whit. No system of philosophy or ethics, no growth of government, no improvement in living came without trial and struggle. Struggle, she had often heard her father say, was the law of growth.
Without giving too much thought to it, she understood that such men as Rate Caradec, Trigger Boyne, Tex Brisco and others of their ilk were needed. For all their violence, their occasional heedlessness and their desire to go their own way, they were men building a new world in a rough and violent land where everything tended to extremes. Mountains were high, the prairies wide, the streams roaring, the buffalo by the thousand and tens of thousand. It was a land where nothing was small, nothing was simple. Everything, the lives of men and the stories they told, ran to extremes.
The bay pony trotted down the trail, then around a stand of lodgepole. Ann brought him up sharply on the lip of the ledge that had been her first goal.
Below her, a vast and magnificent panorama, lay the ranch her father had pioneered. The silver curve of the Crazy Woman lay below and east of her, and opposite her ledge was the mighty wall of the canyon. From below, a faint thread of smoke among the trees marked the cabin.
Turning her head she looked west and south into the upper canyon. Far away, she seemed to see a horseman moving and the black dot of a herd. Turning the bay she started west, riding fast. If they were working the upper canyon she still had a chance.
An hour later, the little bay showing signs of his rough traveling, she came down to the floor of the canyon. Not far away, she could see Rafe Caradec moving a bunch of cattle into the trees.
He looked around at her approach, and the black, flat-crowned hat came off his head. His dark wavy hair was plastered to his brow with sweat, and his eyes were gray and curious.
"Good mornin'!" he said. "This is a surprise!"
"Please!" she burst out. "This isn't a social call! Dan Shute's riding this way with twenty men or more. He's going to wipe you out!"
Rafe's eyes sharpened. "You sure?" She could see the quick wonder in his eyes at her warning, then he wheeled his horse and yelled, "Johnny! Johnny Gill! Come a-runnin'!"
Jerking his rifle from his boot, he looked at her again. He put his hand over hers suddenly, and she started at his touch.
"Thanks, Ann," he said simply. "You're regular!"
Then he was
She recalled it because she remembered it was something her father had spoken of doing. There was room in the upper valley for many cattle. If there was hay enough for them, the warm water would be a help, and with only a little such the cattle could survive even the coldest winter.
Fording the stream where Caradec had encountered the young squaw, she rode higher on the mountain, angling across the slope under a magnificent stand of lodgepole pine. It was a splendid avenue of trees, all seemingly of the same size and shape, as though cast from a mold.
Once she glimpsed a deer, and another time in the distance in a small, branching valley she saw a small bunch of elk. This was her country. No wonder her father had loved it, wanted it, worked to get and to keep it.
Had he paid the mortgage? But why wouldn't Bruce have told her if he had? She could not believe him dishonest and deceitful. Certainly he had made no effort to foreclose, but had been most patient and thoughtful with her.
What would he think of this ride to warn a man he regarded as an enemy? She could not sit idly by and know men were about to be killed. She would never forgive herself if she had made no effort to avert it.
Too often she had listened to her father discourse on the necessity for peace and consideration of others. She believed in that policy wholeheartedly. The fact that occasionally violence was necessary did not alter her convictions one whit. No system of philosophy or ethics, no growth of government, no improvement in living came without trial and struggle. Struggle, she had often heard her father say, was the law of growth.
Without giving too much thought to it, she understood that such men as Rate Caradec, Trigger Boyne, Tex Brisco and others of their ilk were needed. For all their violence, their occasional heedlessness and their desire to go their own way, they were men building a new world in a rough and violent land where everything tended to extremes. Mountains were high, the prairies wide, the streams roaring, the buffalo by the thousand and tens of thousand. It was a land where nothing was small, nothing was simple. Everything, the lives of men and the stories they told, ran to extremes.
The bay pony trotted down the trail, then around a stand of lodgepole. Ann brought him up sharply on the lip of the ledge that had been her first goal.
Below her, a vast and magnificent panorama, lay the ranch her father had pioneered. The silver curve of the Crazy Woman lay below and east of her, and opposite her ledge was the mighty wall of the canyon. From below, a faint thread of smoke among the trees marked the cabin.
Turning her head she looked west and south into the upper canyon. Far away, she seemed to see a horseman moving and the black dot of a herd. Turning the bay she started west, riding fast. If they were working the upper canyon she still had a chance.
An hour later, the little bay showing signs of his rough traveling, she came down to the floor of the canyon. Not far away, she could see Rafe Caradec moving a bunch of cattle into the trees.
He looked around at her approach, and the black, flat-crowned hat came off his head. His dark wavy hair was plastered to his brow with sweat, and his eyes were gray and curious.
"Good mornin'!" he said. "This is a surprise!"
"Please!" she burst out. "This isn't a social call! Dan Shute's riding this way with twenty men or more. He's going to wipe you out!"
Rafe's eyes sharpened. "You sure?" She could see the quick wonder in his eyes at her warning, then he wheeled his horse and yelled, "Johnny! Johnny Gill! Come a-runnin'!"
Jerking his rifle from his boot, he looked at her again. He put his hand over hers suddenly, and she started at his touch.
"Thanks, Ann," he said simply. "You're regular!"
Then he was
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