Produced by Matthew H. Heller CHIP, OF THE FLYING U By B. M. Bower (B. M. Sinclair) AUTHOR OF âThe Lure of the Dim Trails,â âHer Prairie Knight,â âThe Lonesome Trail,â etc. Illustrations by CHARLES M. RUSSELL LIST OF CONTENTS I The Old Man's Sister II Over the âHog's Backâ III Silver IV An Ideal Picture V In Silver's Stall VI The Hum of Preparation VII Love and a Stomach Pump VIII Prescriptions IX Before the Round-up X What Whizzer Did XI Good Intentions XII âThe Last Standâ XIII Art Critics XIV Convalescence XV The Spoils of Victory XVI Weary Advises XVII When a Maiden Wills XVIII Dr Cecil Granthum XIX Love Finds Its Hour LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Came down with not a joint in his legs and turned a somersault âThe Last Stand.â Throwing herself from the saddle she slid precipitately into the washout, just as Denver thundered up CHAPTER I. -- The Old Man's Sister. The weekly mail had just arrived at the Flying U ranch. Shorty, who had made the trip to Dry Lake on horseback that afternoon, tossed the bundle to the âOld Manâ and was halfway to the stable when he was called back peremptorily. âShorty! O-h-h, Shorty! Hi!â Shorty kicked his steaming horse in the ribs and swung round in the path, bringing up before the porch with a jerk. âWhere's this letter been?â demanded the Old Man, with some excitement. James G. Whitmore, cattleman, would have been greatly surprised had he known that his cowboys were in the habit of calling him the Old Man behind his back. James G. Whitmore did not consider himself old, though he was constrained to admit, after several hours in the saddle, that rheumatism had searched him out--because of his fourteen years of roughing it, he said. Also, there was a place on the crown of his head where the hair was thin, and growing thinner every day of his life, though he did not realize it. The thin spot showed now as he stood in the path, waving a square envelope aloft before Shorty, who regarded it with supreme indifference. Not so Shorty's horse. He rolled his eyes till the whites showed, snorted and backed away from the fluttering, white object. âDoggone it, where's this been?â reiterated James G., accusingly. âHow the devil do I know?â retorted Shorty, forcing his horse nearer. âIn the office, most likely. I got it with the rest to-day.â âIt's two weeks old,â stormed the Old Man. âI never knew it to fail--if a letter says anybody's coming, or you're to hurry up and go somewhere to meet somebody, that letter's the one that monkeys around and comes when the last dog's hung. A letter asking yuh if yuh don't want to get rich in ten days sellin' books, or something, 'll hike along out here in no time. Doggone it!â âYou got a hurry-up order to go somewhere?â queried Shorty, mildly sympathetic. âWorse than that,â groaned James G. âMy sister's coming out to spend the summer--t'-morrow. And no cook but Patsy--and she can't eat in the mess house--and the house like a junk shop!â âIt looks like you was up against it, all right,â grinned Shorty. Shorty was a sort of foreman, and was allowed much freedom of speech. âSomebody's got to meet her--you have Chip catch up the creams so he can go. And send some of the boys up here to help me hoe out a little. Dell ain't used to roughing it; she's just out of a medical school--got her diploma, she was telling me in the last letter before this. She'll be finding microbes by the million in this old shack. You tell Patsy I'll be late to supper--and tell him to brace up and cook something ladies like--cake and stuff. Patsy'll know. I'd give a dollar to get that little runt in the office--â But Shorty, having heard all that it was important to know, was clattering down the long slope again to the stable. It was supper time, and Shorty was hungry. Also, there was news to tell, and he was curious to see how the boys would take it. He was just turning loose the horse when supper was called. He hurried back up the hill to the mess house, performed hasty ablutions in the tin wash basin on the bench beside the door, scrubbed his face dry on the roller towel, and took his place at the long table within. âAny mail for me?â Jack Bates looked up from emptying the third spoon of sugar into his coffee. âNaw--she didn't write this time, Jack.â Shorty reached a long arm for the âMulligan stew.â âHow's the dance coming on?â asked Cal Emmett. âI guess it's a go, all right. They've got them coons engaged to play. The hotel's fixing for a big crowd, if the weather holds like this. Chip, Old Man wants you to catch up the creams, after supper; you've got to meet the train to-morrow.â âWhich train?â demanded Chip, looking up. âIs old Dunk coming?â âThe noon train. No, he didn't say nothing about Dunk. He wants a bunch of you fellows to go up and hoe out the White House and slick it up for comp'ny--got to be done t'-night. And Patsy, Old Man says for you t' git a move on and cook something fit to eat; something that ain't plum full uh microbes.â Shorty became suddenly engaged in cooling his coffee, enjoying the varied emotions depicted on the faces of the boys. âWho's coming?â âWhat's up?â Shorty took two leisurely gulps before he answered: âOld Man's sister's coming out to stay all summer--and then some, maybe. Be here to-morrow, he said.â âGee whiz! Is she pretty?â This from Cal Emmett. âHope she ain't over fifty.â This from Jack Bates. âHope she ain't one of them four-eyed school-ma'ams,â added Happy Jack--so called to distinguish him from Jack Bates, and also because of his dolorous visage. âWhy can't some one else haul her out?â began Chip. âCal would like that job--and he's sure welcome to it.â âCal's too dangerous. He'd have the old girl dead in love before he got her over the first ridge, with them blue eyes and that pretty smile of his'n. It's up to you, Splinter--Old Man said so.â âShe'll be dead safe with Chip. HE won't make love to her,â retorted Cal. âWonder how old she is,â repeated Jack Bates, half emptying the syrup pitcher into his plate. Patsy had hot biscuits for supper, and Jack's especial weakness was hot biscuits and maple syrup. âAs to her age,â remarked Shorty, âit's a cinch she ain't no spring chicken, seeing she's the Old Man's sister.â âIs she a schoolma'am?â Happy Jack's distaste for schoolma'ams dated from his tempestuous introduction to the A B C's, with their daily accompaniment of a long, thin ruler. âNo, she ain't a schoolma'am. She's a darn sight worse. She's a doctor.â âAw, come off!â Cal Emmett was plainly incredulous. âThat's right. Old Man said she's just finished taking a course uh medicine--what'd yuh call that?â âConsumption, maybe--or snakes.â Weary smiled blandly across the table. âShe got a diploma, though. Now where do you get off at?â âYeah--that sure means she's a doctor,â groaned Cal. âBy golly, she needn't try t' pour any dope down ME,â cried a short, fat man who took life seriously--a man they called Slim, in fine irony. âGosh, I'd like to give her a real warm reception,â said Jack Bates, who had a reputation for mischief. âI know them Eastern folks, down t' the ground. They think cow-punchers wear horns. Yes, they do. They think we're holy terrors that eat with our six-guns beside our plates--and the like of that. They make me plum tired. I'd like to--wish we knew her brand.â âI can tell you that,â said Chip, cynically. âThere's just two bunches to choose from. There's the Sweet Young Things, that faint away at sight of a six-shooter, and squawk and catch at your arm if they see a garter snake, and blush if you happen to catch their eye suddenly, and cry if you don't take off your hat every time you see them a mile off.â Chip held out his cup for Patsy to refill. âYeah--I've run up against that brand--and they're sure all right. They suit ME,â remarked Cal. âThat don't seem to line up with the doctor's diploma,â commented Weary. âWell, she's the other kind then--and if she is, the Lord have mercy on the Flying U! She'll buy her some spurs and try to rope and cut out and help brand. Maybe she'll wear double-barreled skirts and ride a man's saddle and smoke cigarettes. She'll try to go the men one better in everything, and wind up by making a darn fool of herself. Either kind's bad enough.â âI'll bet she don't run in either bunch,â began Weary. âI'll bet she's a skinny old maid with a peaked nose and glasses, that'll round us up every Sunday and read tracts at our heads, and come down on us with both feet about tobacco hearts and whisky livers, and the evils and devils wrapped up in a cigarette paper. I seen a woman doctor, once--she was stopping at the T Down when I was line-riding for them--and say, she was a holy fright! She had us fellows going South before a week. I stampeded clean off the range, soon as my month was up.â âSay,â interrupted Cal, âdon't yuh remember that picture the Old Man got last fall, of his sister? She was the image of the Old Man--and mighty near as old.â Chip, thinking of the morrow's drive, groaned in real anguish of spirit. âYou won't dast t' roll a cigarette comin' home, Chip,â predicted Happy Jack, mournfully. âYuh want t' smoke double goin' in.â âI don't THINK I'll smoke double going in,â returned Chip, dryly. âIf the old girl don't like my style, why the walking isn't all taken up.â âSay, Chip,â suggested Jack Bates, âyou size her up at the depot, and, if she don't look promising, just slack the lines on Antelope Hill. The creams 'll do the rest. If they don't, we'll finish the job here.â Shorty tactfully pushed back his chair and rose. âYou fellows don't want to git too gay,â he warned. âThe Old Man's just beginning to forget about the calf-shed deal.â Then he went out and shut the door after him. The boys liked Shorty; he believed in the old adage about wisdom being bliss at certain times, and the boys were all the better for his living up to his belief. He knew the Happy Family would stop inside the limit--at least, they always had, so far. âWhat's the game?â demanded Cal, when the door closed behind their indulgent foreman. âWhy, it's this. (Pass the syrup, Happy.) T'morrow's Sunday, so we'll have time t' burn. We'll dig up all the guns we can find, and catch up the orneriest cayuses in our strings, and have a real, old lynching bee--sabe?â âWho yuh goin' t' hang?â asked Slim, apprehensively. âYuh needn't think I'LL stand for it.â âAw, don't get nervous. There ain't power enough on the ranch t' pull yuh clear of the ground. We ain't going to build no derrick,â said Jack, witheringly. âWe'll have a dummy rigged up in the bunk house. When Chip and the doctor heave in sight on top of the grade, we'll break loose down here with our bronks and our guns, and smoke up the ranch in style. We'll drag out Mr. Strawman, and lynch him to the big gate before they get along. We'll be 'riddling him with bullets' when they arrive--and by that time she'll be so rattled she won't know whether it's a man or a mule we've got strung up.â âYou'll have to cut down your victim before I get there,â grinned Chip. âI never could get the creams through the gate, with a man hung to the frame; they'd spill us into the washout by the old shed, sure as fate.â âThat'd be all right. The old maid would sure know she was out West--we need something to add to the excitement, anyway.â âIf the Old Man's new buggy is piled in a heap, you'll wish you had cut out some of the excitement,â retorted Chip. âAll right, Splinter. We won't hang him there at all. That old cottonwood down by the creek would do fine. It'll curdle her blood like Dutch cheese to see us marching him down there--and she can't see the hay sticking out of his sleeves, that far off.â âWhat if she wants to hold an autopsy?â bantered Chip. âBy golly, we'll stake her to a hay knife and tell her to go after him!â cried Slim, suddenly waking up to the situation. The noon train slid away from the little, red depot at Dry Lake and curled out of sight around a hill. The only arrival looked expectantly into the cheerless waiting room, gazed after the train, which seemed the last link between her and civilization, and walked to the edge of the platform with a distinct frown upon the bit of forehead visible under her felt hat. A fat young man threw the mail sack into a weather-beaten buggy and drove leisurely down the track to the post office. The girl watched him out of sight and sighed disconsolately. All about her stretched the rolling grass land, faintly green in the hollows, brownly barren on the hilltops. Save the water tank and depot, not a house was to be seen, and the silence and loneliness oppressed her. The agent was dragging some boxes off the platform. She turned and walked determinedly up to him, and the agent became embarrassed under her level look. âIsn't there anyone here to meet me?â she demanded, quite needlessly. âI am Miss Whitmore, and my brother owns a ranch, somewhere near here. I wrote him, two weeks ago, that I was coming, and I certainly expected him to meet me.â She tucked a wind-blown lock of brown hair under her hat crown and looked at the agent reproachfully, as if he were to blame, and the agent, feeling suddenly that somehow the fault was his, blushed guiltily and kicked at a box of oranges. âWhitmore's rig is in town,â he said, hastily. âI saw his man at dinner. The train was reported late, but she made up time.â Grasping desperately at his dignity, he swallowed an abject apology and retreated into the office. Miss Whitmore followed him a few steps, thought better of it, and paced the platform self-pityingly for ten minutes, at the end of which the Flying U rig whirled up in a cloud of dust, and the agent hurried out to help with the two trunks, and the mandolin and guitar in their canvas cases. The creams circled fearsomely up to the platform and stood quivering with eagerness to be off, their great eyes rolling nervously. Miss Whitmore took her place beside Chip with some inward trepidation mingled with her relief. When they were quite ready and the reins loosened suggestively, Pet stood upon her hind feet with delight and Polly lunged forward precipitately. The girl caught her breath, and Chip eyed her sharply from the corner of his eye. He hoped she was not going to scream--he detested screaming women. She looked young to be a doctor, he decided, after that lightning survey. He hoped to goodness she wasn't of the Sweet Young Thing order; he had no patience with that sort of woman. Truth to tell, he had no patience with ANY sort of woman. He spoke to the horses authoritatively, and they obeyed and settled to a long, swinging trot that knew no weariness, and the girl's heart returned to its normal action. Two miles were covered in swift silence, then Miss Whitmore brought herself to think of the present and realized that the young man beside her had not opened his lips except to speak once to his team. She turned her head and regarded him curiously, and Chip, feeling the scrutiny, grew inwardly defiant. Miss Whitmore decided, after a close inspection, that she rather liked his looks, though he did not strike her as a very amiable young man. Perhaps she was a bit tired of amiable young men. His face was thin, and refined, and strong--the strength of level brows, straight nose and square chin, with a pair of paradoxical lips, which were curved and womanish in their sensitiveness; the refinement was an intangible expression which belonged to no particular feature but pervaded the whole face. As to his eyes, she was left to speculate upon their color, since she had not seen them, but she reflected that many a girl would give a good deal to own his lashes. Of a sudden he turned his eyes from the trail and met her look squarely. If he meant to confuse her, he failed--for she only smiled and said to herself: âThey're hazel.â âDon't you think we ought to introduce ourselves?â she asked, composedly, when she was quite sure the eyes were not brown. âMaybe.â Chip's tone was neutrally polite. Miss Whitmore had suspected that he was painfully bashful, after the manner of country young men. She now decided that he was not; he was passively antagonistic. âOf course you know that I'm Della Whitmore,â she said. Chip carefully brushed a fly off Polly's flank with the whip. âI took it for granted. I was sent to meet a Miss Whitmore at the train, and I took the only lady in sight.â âYou took the right one--but I'm not--I haven't the faintest idea who you are.â âMy name is Claude Bennett, and I'm happy to make your acquaintance.â âI don't believe it--you don't look happy,â said Miss Whitmore, inwardly amused. âThat's the proper thing to say when you've been introduced to a lady,â remarked Chip, noncommittally, though his lips twitched at the corners. Miss Whitmore, finding no ready reply to this truthful statement, remarked, after a pause, that it was windy. Chip agreed that it was, and conversation languished. Miss Whitmore sighed and took to studying the landscape, which had become a succession of sharp ridges and narrow coulees, water-worn and bleak, with a purplish line of mountains off to the left. After several miles she spoke. âWhat is that animal over there? Do dogs wander over this wilderness alone?â Chip's eyes followed her pointing finger. âThat's a coyote. I wish I could get a shot at him--they're an awful pest, out here, you know.â He looked longingly at the rifle under his feet. âIf I thought you could hold the horses a minute--â âOh, I can't! I--I'm not accustomed to horses--but I can shoot a little.â Chip gave her a quick, measuring glance. The coyote had halted and was squatting upon his haunches, his sharp nose pointed inquisitively toward them. Chip slowed the creams to a walk, raised the gun and laid it across his knees, threw a shell into position and adjusted the sight. âHere, you can try, if you like,â he said. âWhenever you're ready I'll stop. You had better stand up--I'll watch that you don't fall. Ready? Whoa, Pet!â Miss Whitmore did not much like the skepticism in his tone, but she stood up, took quick, careful aim and fired. Pet jumped her full length and reared, but Chip was watching for some such performance and had them well under control, even though he was compelled to catch Miss Whitmore from lurching backward upon her baggage behind the seat--which would have been bad for the guitar and mandolin, if not for the young woman. The coyote had sprung high in air, whirled dizzily and darted over the hill. âYou hit him,â cried Chip, forgetting his prejudice for a moment. He turned the creams from the road, filled with the spirit of the chase. Miss Whitmore will long remember that mad dash over the hilltops and into the hollows, in which she could only cling to the rifle and to the seat as best she might, and hope that the driver knew what he was about--which he certainly did. âThere he goes, sneaking down that coulee! He'll get into one of those washouts and hide, if we don't head him off. I'll drive around so you can get another shot at him,â cried Chip. He headed up the hill again until the coyote, crouching low, was fully revealed. âThat's a fine shot. Throw another shell in, quick! You better kneel on the seat, this time--the horses know what's coming. Steady, Polly, my girl!â Miss Whitmore glanced down the hill, and then, apprehensively, at the creams, who were clanking their bits, wild-eyed and quivering. Only their master's familiar voice and firm grip on the reins held them there at all. Chip saw and interpreted the glance, somewhat contemptuously. âOh, of course if you're AFRAID--â Miss Whitmore set her teeth savagely, knelt and fired, cutting the sentence short in his teeth and forcing his undivided attention to the horses, which showed a strong inclination to bolt. âI think I got him that time,â said she, nonchalantly, setting her hat straight--though Chip, with one of his quick glances, observed that she was rather white around the mouth. He brought the horses dexterously into the road and quieted them. âAren't you going to get my coyote?â she ventured to ask. âCertainly. The road swings back, down that same coulee, and we'll pass right by it. Then I'll get out and pick him up, while you hold the horses.â âYou'll hold those horses yourself,â returned Miss Whitmore, with considerable spirit. âI'd much rather pick up the coyote, thank you.â Chip said nothing to this, whatever he may have thought. He drove up to the coyote with much coaxing of Pet and Polly, who eyed the gray object askance. Miss Whitmore sprang out and seized the animal by its coarse, bushy tail. âGracious, he's heavy!â she exclaimed, after one tug. âHe's been fattening up on Flying U calves,â remarked Chip, his foot upon the brake. Miss Whitmore knelt and examined the cattle thief curiously. âLook,â she said, âhere's where I hit him the first time; the bullet took a diagonal course from the shoulder back to the other side. It must have gone within an inch of his heart, and would have finished him in a short time, without that other shot--that penetrated his brain, you see; death was instantaneous.â Chip had taken advantage of the halt to roll a cigarette, holding the reins tightly between his knees while he did so. He passed the loose edge of the paper across the tip of his tongue, eying the young woman curiously the while. âYou seem to be pretty well onto your job,â he remarked, dryly. âI ought to be,â she said, laughing a little. âI've been learning the trade ever since I was sixteen.â âYes? You began early.â âMy Uncle John is a doctor. I helped him in the office till he got me into the medical school. I was brought up in an atmosphere of antiseptics and learned all the bones in Uncle John's 'Boneparte'--the skeleton, you know--before I knew all my letters.â She dragged the coyote close to the wheel. âLet me get hold of the tail.â Chip carefully pinched out the blaze of his match and threw it away before he leaned over to help. With a quick lift he landed the animal, limp and bloody, squarely upon the top of Miss Whitmore's largest trunk. The pointed nose hung down the side, the white fangs exposed in a sinister grin. The girl gazed upon him proudly at first, then in dismay. âOh, he's dripping blood all over my mandolin case--and I just know it won't come out!â She tugged frantically at the instrument. â'Out, damned spot!'â quoted Chip in a sepulchral tone before he turned to assist her. Miss Whitmore let go the mandolin and stared blankly up at him, and Chip, offended at her frank surprise that he should quote Shakespeare, shut his lips tightly and relapsed into silence. CHAPTER II. -- Over the âHog's Back.â âThat's Flying U ranch,â volunteered Chip, as they turned sharply to the right and began to descend a long grade built into the side of a steep, rocky bluff. Below them lay the ranch in a long, narrow coulee. Nearest them sprawled the house, low, white and roomy, with broad porches and wide windows; further down the coulee, at the base of a gentle slope, were the sheds, the high, round corrals and the haystacks. Great, board gates were distributed in seemingly useless profusion, while barbed wire fences stretched away in all directions. A small creek, bordered with cottonwoods and scraggly willows, wound aimlessly away down the coulee. âJ. G. doesn't seem to have much method,â remarked Miss Whitmore, after a critical survey. âWhat are all those log cabins scattered down the hill for? They look as though J. G. had a handful that he didn't want, and just threw them down toward the stable and left them lying where they happened to fall.â âIt does, all right,â conceded Chip. âThey're the bunk house--where us fellows sleep--and the mess house, where we eat, and then come the blacksmith shop and a shack we keep all kinds of truck in, and--â âWhat--in--the world--â A chorus of shouts and shots arose from below. A scurrying group of horsemen burst over the hill behind the house, dashed half down the slope, and surrounded the bunk house with blood-curdling yells. Chip held the creams to a walk and furtively watched his companion. Miss Whitmore's eyes were very wide open; plainly, she was astonished beyond measure at the uproar. Whether she was also frightened, Chip could not determine. The menacing yells increased in volume till the very hills seemed to cower in fear. Miss Whitmore gasped when a limp form was dragged from the cabin and lifted to the back of a snorting pony. âThey've got a rope around that man's neck,â she breathed, in a horrified half whisper. âAre--they--going to HANG him?â âIt kinda looks that way, from here,â said Chip, inwardly ashamed. All at once it struck him as mean and cowardly to frighten a lady who had traveled far among strangers and who had that tired droop to her mouth. It wasn't a fair game; it was cheating. Only for his promise to the boys, he would have told her the truth then and there. Miss Whitmore was not a stupid young woman; his very indifference told her all that she needed to know. She tore her eyes from the confused jumble of gesticulating men and restive steeds to look sharply at Chip. He met her eyes squarely for an instant, and the horror oozed from her and left only amused chagrin that they should try to trick her so. âHurry up,â she commanded, âso I can be in at the death. Remember, I'm a doctor. They're tying him to his horse--he looks half dead with fright.â Inwardly she added: âHe overacts the part dreadfully.â The little cavalcade in the coulee fired a spectacular volley into the air and swept down the slope like a dry-weather whirlwind across a patch of alkali ground. Through the big gate and up the road past the stables they thundered, the prisoner bound and helpless in their midst. Then something happened. A wide-open River Press, flapping impotently in the embrace of a willow, caught the eye of Banjo, a little blaze--faced bay who bore the captive. He squatted, ducked backward so suddenly that his reins slipped from Slim's fingers and lowered his head between his white front feet. His rider seemed stupid beyond any that Banjo had ever known--and he had known many. Snorting and pitching, he was away before the valiant band realized what was happening in their midst. The prisoner swayed drunkenly in the saddle. At the third jump his hat flew off, disclosing the jagged end of a two-by-four. The Happy Family groaned as one man and gave chase. Banjo, with almost human maliciousness, was heading up the road straight toward Chip and the woman doctor--and she must be a poor doctor indeed, and a badly frightened one, withal, if she failed to observe a peculiarity in the horse thief's cranium. Cal Emmett dug his spurs into his horse and shot by Slim like a locomotive, shouting profanity as he went. âHead him into the creek,â yelled Happy Jack, and leaned low over the neck of his sorrel. Weary Willie stood up in his stirrups and fanned Glory with his hat. âYip, yee--e-e! Go to it, Banjo, old boy! Watch his nibs ride, would yuh? He's a broncho buster from away back.â Weary Willie was the only man of them all who appeared to find any enjoyment in the situation. âIf Chip only had the sense to slow up and give us a chance--or spill that old maid over the bank!â groaned Jack Bates, and plied whip and spur to overtake the runaway. Now the captive was riding dizzily, head downward, frightening Banjo half out of his senses. What he had started as a grim jest, he now continued in deadly earnest; what was this uncanny semblance of a cow-puncher which he could not unseat, yet which clung so precariously to the saddle? He had no thought now of bucking in pure devilment--he was galloping madly, his eyes wild and staring. Of a sudden, Chip saw danger lurking beneath the fun of it. He leaned forward a little, got a fresh grip on the reins and took the whip. âHang tight, now--I'm going to beat that horse to the Hog's Back.â Miss Whitmore, laughing till the tears stood in her eyes, braced herself mechanically. Chip had been laughing also--but that was before Banjo struck into the hill road in his wild flight from the terror that rode in the saddle. A smart flick of the whip upon their glossy backs, and the creams sprang forward at a run. The buggy was new and strong, and if they kept the road all would be well--unless they met Banjo upon the narrow ridge between two broad-topped knolls, known as the Hog's Back. Another tap, and the creams ran like deer. One wheel struck a cobble stone, and the buggy lurched horribly. âStop! There goes my coyote!â cried Miss Whitmore, as a gray object slid down under the hind wheel. âHang on or you'll go next,â was all the comfort she got, as Chip braced himself for the struggle before him. The Hog's Back was reached, but Banjo was pounding up the hill beyond, his nostrils red and flaring, his sides reeking with perspiration. Behind him tore the Flying U boys in a vain effort to head him back into the coulee before mischief was done. Chip drew his breath sharply when the creams swerved out upon the broad hilltop, just as Banjo thundered past with nothing left of his rider but the legs, and with them shorn of their plumpness as the hay dribbled out upon the road. A fresh danger straightway forced itself upon Chip's consciousness. The creams, maddened by the excitement, were running away. He held them sternly to the road and left the stopping of them to Providence, inwardly thanking the Lord that Miss Whitmore did not seem to be the screaming kind of woman. The âvigilantesâ drew hastily out of the road and scudded out of sight down a gully as the creams lunged down the steep grade and across the shallow creek bed. Fortunately the great gate by the stable swung wide open and they galloped through and up the long slope to the house, coming more under control at every leap, till, by a supreme effort, Chip brought them, panting, to a stand before the porch where the Old Man stood boiling over with anxiety and excitement. James G. Whitmore was not a man who took things calmly; had he been a woman he would have been called fussy. âWhat in--what was you making a race track out of the grade for,â he demanded, after he had bestowed a hasty kiss beside the nose of his sister. Chip dropped a heavy trunk upon the porch and reached for the guitar before he answered. âI was just trying those new springs on the buggy.â âIt was very exciting,â commented Miss Whitmore, airily. âI shot a coyote, J. G., but we lost it coming down the hill. Your men were playing a funny game--hare and hounds, it looked like. Or were they breaking a new horse?â The Old Man looked at Chip, intelligence dawning in his face. There was something back of it all, he knew. He had been asleep when the uproar began, and had reached the door only in time to see the creams come down the grade like a daylight shooting star. âI guess they was breaking a bronk,â he said, carelessly; âyou've got enough baggage for a trip round the world, Dell. I hope it ain't all dope for us poor devils. Tell Shorty I want t' see him, Chip.â Chip took the reins from the Old Man's hands, sprang in and drove back down the hill to the stables. The âreception committee,â as Chip sarcastically christened them, rounded up the runaway and sneaked back to the ranch by the coulee trail. With much unseemly language, they stripped the saddle and a flapping pair of overalls off poor, disgraced Banjo, and kicked him out of the corral. âThat's the way Jack's schemes always pan out,â grumbled Slim. âBy golly, yuh don't get me into another jackpot like that!â âYou might explain why you let thatâ (several kinds of) âcayuse get away from you!â retorted Jack, fretfully. âIf you'd been onto your job, things would have been smooth as silk.â âWonder what the old maid thought,â broke in Weary, bent on preserving peace in the Happy Family. âI'll bet she never saw us at all!â laughed Cal. âOld Splinter gave her all she wanted to do, hanging to the rig. The way he came down that grade wasn't slow. He just missed running into Banjo on the Hog's Back by the skin of the teeth. If he had, it'd be good-by, doctor--and Chip, too. Gee, that was a close shave!â âWell,â said Happy Jack, mournfully, âif we don't all get the bounce for this, I miss my guess. It's a little the worst we've done yet.â âExcept that time we tin-canned that stray steer, last winter,â amended Weary, chuckling over the remembrance as he fastened the big gate behind them. âYes, that was another of Jack's fool schemes,â put in Slim. âGo and tin-can a four-year-old steer and let him take after the Old Man and put him on the calf shed, first pass he made. Old Man was sure hot about that--by golly, it didn't help his rheumatism none.â âHe'll sure go straight in the air over this,â reiterated Happy Jack, with mournful conviction. âThere's old Splinter at the bunk house--drawing our pictures, I'll bet a dollar. Hey, Chip! How you vas, already yet?â sung out Weary, whose sunny temper no calamity could sour. Chip glanced at them and went on cutting the leaves of a late magazine which he had purloined from the Dry Lake barber. Cal Emmett strode up and grabbed the limp, gray hat from his head and began using it for a football. âHere! Give that back!â commanded Chip, laughing. âDON'T make a dish rag of my new John B. Stetson, Cal. It won't be fit for the dance.â âGee! It don't lack much of being a dish rag, now, if I'm any judge. Now! Great Scott!â He held it at arm's length and regarded it derisively. âWell, it was new two years ago,â explained Chip, making an ineffectual grab at it. Cal threw it to him and came and sat down upon his heels to peer over Chip's arm at the magazine. âHow's the old maid doctor?â asked Jack Bates, leaning against the door while he rolled a cigarette. âScared plum to death. I left the remains in the Old Man's arms.â âWas she scared, honest?â Cal left off studying the âTypes of Fair Women.â âWhat did she say when we broke loose?â Jack drew a match sharply along a log. âNothing. Well, yes, she said 'Are they going to H-A-N-G that man?'â Chip's voice quavered the words in a shrill falsetto. âThe deuce she did!â Jack indulged in a gratified laugh. âWhat did she say when you put the creams under the whip, up there? I don't suppose the old girl is wise to the fact that you saved her neck right then--but you sure did. You done yourself proud, Splinter.â Cal patted Chip's knee approvingly. Chip blushed under the praise and hastily answered the question. âShe hollered out: 'Stop! There goes my COYOTE!'â âHer COYOTE?â âHER coyote?â âWhat the devil was she doing with a COYOTE?â The Happy Family stood transfixed, and Chip's eyes were seen to laugh. âHER COYOTE. Did any of you fellows happen to see a dead coyote up on the grade? Because if you did, it's the doctor's.â Weary Willie walked deliberately over and seized Chip by the shoulders, bringing him to his feet with one powerful yank. âDon't you try throwing any loads into THIS crowd, young man. Answer me truly-s'help yuh. How did that old maid come by a coyote--a dead one?â Chip squirmed loose and reached for his cigarette book. âShe shot it,â he said, calmly, but with twitching lips. âShot it!â Five voices made up the incredulous echo. âWhat with?â demanded Weary when he got his breath. âWith my rifle. I brought it out from town today. Bert Rogers had left it at the barber shop for me.â âGee whiz! And them creams hating a gun like poison! She didn't shoot from the rig, did she?â âYes,â said Chip, âshe did. The first time she didn't know any better--and the second time she was hot at me for hinting she was scared. She's a spunky little devil, all right. She's busy hating me right now for running the grade--thinks I did it to scare her, I guess. That's all some fool women know.â âShe's a howling sport, then!â groaned Cal, who much preferred the Sweet Young Things. âNo--I sized her up as a maverick.â âWhat does she look like?â âHow old is she?â âI never asked her age,â replied Chip, his face lighting briefly in a smile. âAs to her looks, she isn't cross-eyed, and she isn't four-eyed. That's as much as I noticed.â After this bald lie he became busy with his cigarette. âGive me that magazine, Cal. I didn't finish cutting the leaves.â CHAPTER III. -- Silver. Miss Della Whitmore gazed meditatively down the hill at the bunk house. The boys were all at work, she knew. She had heard J. G. tell two of them to âride the sheep coulee fence,â and had been consumed with amazed curiosity at the order. Wherefore should two sturdy young men be commanded to ride a fence, when there were horses that assuredly needed exercise--judging by their antics--and needed it badly? She resolved to ask J. G. at the first opportunity. The others were down at the corrals, branding a few calves which belonged on the home ranch. She had announced her intention of going to look on, and her brother, knowing how the boys would regard her presence, had told her plainly that they did not want her. He said it was no place for girls, anyway. Then he had put on a very dirty pair of overalls and hurried down to help for he was not above lending a hand when there was extra work to be done. Miss Della Whitmore tidied the kitchen and dusted the sitting room, and then, having a pair of mischievously idle hands and a very feminine curiosity, conceived an irrepressible desire to inspect the bunk house. J. G. would tell her that, also, was no place for girls, she supposed, but J. G. was not present, so his opinion did not concern her. She had been at the Flying U ranch a whole week, and was beginning to feel that its resources for entertainment--aside from the masculine contingent, which held some promising material--were about exhausted. She had climbed the bluffs which hemmed the coulee on either side, had selected her own private saddle horse, a little sorrel named Concho, and had made friends with Patsy, the cook. She had dazzled Cal Emmett with her wiles and had found occasion to show Chip how little she thought of him; a highly unsatisfactory achievement, since Chip calmly over-looked her whenever common politeness permitted him. There yet remained the unexplored mystery of that little cabin down the slope, from which sounded so much boylike laughter of an evening. She watched and waited till she was positive the coast was clear, then clapped an old hat of J. G.'s upon her head and ran lightly down the hill. With her hand upon the knob, she ran her eye critically along the outer wall and decided that it had, at some remote date, been treated to a coat of whitewash; gave the knob a sudden twist, with a backward glance like a child stealing cookies, stepped in and came near falling headlong. She had not expected that remoteness of floor common to cabins built on a side hill. âWell!â She pulled herself together and looked curiously about her. What struck her at first was the total absence of bunks. There were a couple of plain, iron bedsteads and two wooden ones made of rough planks. There was a funny-looking table made of an inverted coffee box with legs of two-by-four, and littered with a characteristic collection of bachelor trinkets. There was a glass lamp with a badly smoked chimney, a pack of cards, a sack of smoking tobacco and a box of matches. There was a tin box with spools of very coarse thread, some equally coarse needles and a pair of scissors. There was also--and Miss Whitmore gasped when she saw it--a pile of much-read magazines with the latest number of her favorite upon the top. She went closer and examined them, and glanced around the room with doubting eyes. There were spurs, quirts, chaps and queer-looking bits upon the walls; there were cigarette stubs and burned matches innumerable upon the rough, board floor, and here in her hand--she turned the pages of her favorite abstractedly and a paper fluttered out and fell, face upward, on the floor. She stooped and recovered it, glanced and gasped. âWell!â It was only a pencil sketch done on cheap, unruled tablet paper, but her mind dissolved into a chaos of interrogation marks and exclamation points--with the latter predominating more and more the longer she looked. It showed blunt-topped hills and a shallow coulee which she remembered perfectly. In the foreground a young woman in a smart tailored costume, the accuracy of which was something amazing, stood proudly surveying a dead coyote at her feet. In a corner of the picture stood a weather-beaten stump with a long, thin splinter beside it on the ground. Underneath was written in characters beautifully symmetrical: âThe old maid's credential card.â There was no gainsaying the likeness; even the rakish tilt of the jaunty felt hat, caused by the wind and that wild dash across country, was painstakingly reproduced. And the fanciful tucks on the sleeve of the gown--âand I didn't suppose he had deigned so much as a glance!â was her first coherent thought. Miss Whitmore's soul burned with resentment. No woman, even at twenty-three, loves to be called âthe old maidâ--especially by a keen-witted young man with square chin and lips with a pronounced curve to them. And whoever supposed the fellow could draw like that--and notice every tiny little detail without really looking once? Of course, she knew her hat was crooked, with the wind blowing one's head off, almost, but he had no business: âThe old maid's credential card!â--âOld maid,â indeed! âThe audacity of him!â âBeg pardon?â Miss Whitmore wheeled quickly, her heart in the upper part of her throat, judging by the feel of it. Chip himself stood just inside the door, eying her coldly. âI was not speaking,â said Miss Whitmore, haughtily, in futile denial. To this surprising statement Chip had nothing to say. He went to one of the iron beds, stooped and drew out a bundle which, had Miss Whitmore asked him what it was, he would probably have called his âwar sack.â She did not ask; she stood and watched him, though her conscience assured her it was a dreadfully rude thing to do, and that her place was up at the house. Miss Whitmore was frequently at odds with her conscience; at this time she stood her ground, backed by her pride, which was her chiefest ally in such emergencies. When he drew a huge, murderous-looking revolver from its scabbard and proceeded calmly to insert cartridge after cartridge, Miss Whitmore was constrained to speech. âAre you--going to--SHOOT something?â The question struck them both as particularly inane, in view of his actions. âI am,â replied he, without looking up. He whirled the cylinder into place, pushed the bundle back under the bed and rose, polishing the barrel of the gun with a silk handkerchief. Miss Whitmore hoped he wasn't going to murder anyone; he looked keyed up to almost any desperate deed. âWho--what are you going to shoot?â Really, the question asked itself. Chip raised his eyes for a fleeting glance which took in the pencil sketch in her hand. Miss Whitmore observed that his eyes were much darker than hazel; they were almost black. And there was, strangely enough, not a particle of curve to his lips; they were thin, and straight, and stern. âSilver. He broke his leg.â âOh!â There was real horror in her tone. Miss Whitmore knew all about Silver from garrulous Patsy. Chip had rescued a pretty, brown colt from starving on the range, had bought him of the owner, petted and cared for him until he was now one of the best saddle horses on the ranch. He was a dark chestnut, with beautiful white, crinkly mane and tail and white feet. Miss Whitmore had seen Chip riding him down the coulee trail only yesterday, and now--Her heart ached with the pity of it. âHow did it happen?â âI don't know. He was in the little pasture. Got kicked, maybe.â Chip jerked open the door with a force greatly in excess of the need of it. Miss Whitmore started impulsively toward him. Her eyes were not quite clear. âDon't--not yet! Let me go. If it's a straight break I can set the bone and save him.â Chip, savage in his misery, regarded her over one square shoulder. âAre you a veterinary surgeon, may I ask?â Miss Whitmore felt her cheeks grow hot, but she stood her ground. âI am not. But a broken bone is a broken bone, whether it belongs to a man--or some OTHER beast!â âY--e-s?â Chip's way of saying yes was one of his chief weapons of annihilation. He had a peculiar, taunting inflection which he could give to it, upon occasion, which caused prickles of flesh upon the victim. To say that Miss Whitmore was not utterly quenched argues well for her courage. She only gasped, as though treated to an unexpected dash of cold water, and went on. âI'm sure I might save him if you'd let me try. Or are you really eager to shoot him?â Chip's muscles shrank. Eager to shoot him--Silver, the only thing that loved and understood him? âYou may come and look at him, if you like,â he said, after a breath or two. Miss Whitmore overlooked the tolerance of the tone and stepped to his side, mechanically clutching the sketch in her fingers. It was Chip, looking down at her from his extra foot of height, who called her attention to it. âAre you thinking of using that for a plaster?â Miss Whitmore started and blushed, then, with an uptilt of chin: âIf I need a strong irritant, yes!â She calmly rolled the paper into a tiny tube and thrust it into the front of her pink shirt-waist for want of a pocket--and Chip, watching her surreptitiously, felt a queer grip in his chest, which he thought it best to set down as anger. Silently they hurried down where Silver lay, his beautiful, gleaming mane brushing the tender green of the young grass blades. He lifted his head when he heard Chip's step, and neighed wistfully. Chip bent over him, black agony in his eyes. Miss Whitmore, looking on, realized for the first time that the suffering of the horse was a mere trifle compared to that of his master. Her eyes wandered to the loaded
{'title': 'Chip, of the Flying U by B. M. Bower', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}