Part 13 (1/2)

They were a silent and chagrined pair as they rode out from the Reserve toward the ranch. As they were climbing from the valley to the plateau above they came to a soft bit of ground. Here Cameron suddenly drew rein with a warning cry, and, flinging himself off his broncho, was upon his knee examining a fresh track.

”A pony-track, by all that's holy! And within an hour. It is our man,”

he cried, examining the trail carefully and following it up the hill and out on to the plateau. ”It is our man sure enough, and he is taking this trail.”

For some miles the pony-tracks were visible enough. There was no attempt to cover them. The rider was evidently pus.h.i.+ng hard.

”Where do you think he is heading for, Inspector?”

”Well,” said the Inspector, ”this trail strikes toward the Blackfoot Reserve by way of your ranch.”

”My ranch!” cried Cameron. ”My G.o.d! Look there!”

As he spoke the ginger-colored broncho leaped into a gallop. Five miles away a thin column of smoke could be seen rising up into the air. Every mile made it clearer to Cameron that the smoke rising from behind the round-topped hill before him was from his ranch-buildings, and every mile intensified his anxiety. His wife was alone on the ranch at the mercy of that fiend. That was the agonizing thought that tore at his heart as his panting broncho pounded along the trail. From the top of the hill overlooking the ranch a mile away his eye swept the scene below, swiftly taking in the details. The ranch-house was in flames and burning fiercely. The stables were untouched. A horse stood tied to the corral and two figures were hurrying to and fro about the blazing building. As they neared the scene it became clear that one of the figures was that of a woman.

”Mandy!” he shouted from afar. ”Mandy, thank G.o.d it's you!”

But they were too absorbed in their business of fighting the fire. They neither heard nor saw him till he flung himself off his broncho at their side.

”Oh, thank G.o.d, Mandy!” he panted, ”you are safe.” He gathered her into his arms.

”Oh, Allan, I am so sorry.”

”Sorry? Sorry? Why?”

”Our beautiful house!”

”House?”

”And all our beautiful things!”

”Things!” He laughed aloud. ”House and things! Why, Mandy, I have YOU safe. What else matters?” Again he laughed aloud, holding her off from him at arm's length and gazing at her grimy face. ”Mandy,” he said, ”I believe you are improving every day in your appearance, but you never looked so stunning as this blessed minute.” Again he laughed aloud. He was white and trembling.

”But the house, Allan!”

”Oh, yes, by the way,” he said, ”the house. And who's the Johnny carrying water there?”

”Oh, I quite forgot. That's Thatcher's new man.”

”Rather wobbly about the knees, isn't he?” cried Cameron. ”By Jove, Mandy! I feared I should never see you again,” he said in a voice that trembled and broke. ”And what's the chap's name?” he inquired.

”Smith, I think,” said Mandy.

”Smith? Fine fellow! Most useful name!” cried Cameron.

”What's the matter, Allan?”

”The matter? Nothing now, Mandy. Nothing matters. I was afraid that--but no matter. h.e.l.lo, here's the Inspector!”

”Dear Mrs. Cameron,” cried the Inspector, taking both her hands in his, ”I'm awfully glad there's nothing wrong.”