“They’re a little restless to-night, but
aren’t they dears, Shorty?” queried Marianne.
“Kind of dear,” said the cowpuncher, “but
maybe they’re worth the price.” For
all his surliness, however, Shorty was her best ally.
“Wait till you see Lady Mary begin to—but
isn’t that a horse beyond the corral? A
grey horse? I think it is, but it can’t
be.”
“Why not?”
“There isn’t a grey horse on the ranch,
and—oh!”
For the gate of the corral creaked and then swung
wide. They could not see Alcatraz, for the bay
mares stood between.
“Don’t move, don’t speak!”
whispered the girl. “It’s that stupid
Lucas man. I told Lew Hervey that he was too
careless to take care of the mares; and the first
thing he’s done is to leave the gate unlatched.
I’ll steal around and—”
At the first sound of the voice the grey mare had
drifted deeper into the safety of the night; Alcatraz
with a careful effort pulled open the gate; and the
wind, aiding him, blew it wide, and now the soft whinny
of invitation to the mares cut into the words of Marianne.
She went around the corral bending low, skulking in
her run; for once the mares got out the gate they
might bolt like crazy things and come to harm in the
murderous barbed-wire fences. Shorty was hurrying
around on the other side.
Before she had taken half a dozen steps the neigh
of the stallion, deafeningly loud, brought her to
a halt with her hands clasped. She saw the mares
start under the alarm-call and rush for the gate; in
a moment their hoofs were volleying down the road
and the wail of Marianne went shrilling: “Lew
Hervey! Lew Hervey! They’re gone!”
Lew Hervey, in the bunkhouse, pushed away his cards
and rose with a curse. “That’s what
comes of working for a woman,” he growled.
“No peace. No rest. Work day and night.
And if you ain’t kept working you’re just
kept worried. It’s hell!”
He clumped to the door and cast it open.
“Well?” he called into the darkness.
“Every one out!” cried Marianne.
“The mares have broken through the gate and
stampeded!”
THE THIEF
They came with a rush, at that. The mares the
girl prized so highly were, in the phrase of the cowpunchers,
“high-headed fools” incapable of taking
care of themselves. Running wild through the night,
as likely as not they would cut themselves to pieces
on the first barbed wired fence that blocked their
way. With such a thought to urge them, Marianne’s
hired men caught their fastest mounts and saddled like
lightning. There was a play of ropes and curses
in the big corral, the scuffle of leather as saddle
after saddle flopped into place, and then a stream
of dim riders darted through the corral gate.
