Chapter 17

AN ACCIDENT

It was not until later that Frances was disturbed by the thought that Pratt was suspected by her father of having a strong curiosity regarding the Spanish treasure chest.

"And here he has forced his company upon me," thought the girl. "What would father say, if he knew about it?"

But fortunately Captain Rugley was not at hand with his suspicions. Frances wished to believe the young man from Amarillo truly her friend; and on this ride toward Peckham's they became better acquainted than before.

That is, the girl of the ranges learned to know Pratt better. The young fellow talked more freely of himself, his mother, his circumstances.

"Just because I'm in a bank--the Merchants' and Drovers'--in Amarillo doesn't mean that I'm wealthy," laughed Pratt Sanderson. "They don't give me any great salary, and I couldn't afford this vacation if it wasn't for the extra work I did through the cattle-shipping season and the kindness of our president.

"Mother and I are all alone; and we haven't much money," pursued the young man, frankly. "Mother has a relative somewhere whom she suspects may be rich. He was a gold miner once. But I tell her there's no use thinking about rich relatives. They never seem to remember their poor kin. And I'm sure one can't blame them much.

"We have no reason to expect her half-brother to do anything for me. Guess I'll live and die a poor bank clerk. For, you know, if you haven't money to invest in bank stock yourself, or influential friends in the bank, one doesn't get very high in the clerical department of such an institution."

Frances listened to him with deeper interest than she was willing to show in her countenance. They rode along pleasantly together, and nothing marred the journey for a time.

Ratty had not followed them--as she was quite sure he would have done had not Pratt elected to become her escort. And as for the strange teamster who had turned into the trail ahead of them, his outfit had long since disappeared.

Once when Frances rode to the front of the covered wagon to speak to Mack, she saw that Pratt Sanderson lifted a corner of the canvas at the back and took a swift glance at what was within.

Why this curiosity? There was nothing to be seen in the wagon but the corded chest.

Frances sighed. She could credit Pratt with natural curiosity; but if her father had seen that act he would have been quite convinced that the young man from Amarillo was concerned in the attempt to get the treasure.

It was shortly thereafter that the trail grew rough. Some heavy wagon-train must have gone this way lately. The wheels had cut deep ruts and left holes in places into which the wheels of the Bar-T wagon slumped, rocking and wrenching the vehicle like a light boat caught in a cross-sea.

The wagon being nearly empty, however, Mack drove his mules at a reckless pace. He was desirous of reaching the Peckham ranch in good season for supper, and, to tell the truth, Frances, herself, was growing very anxious to get the day's ride over.

This haste was a mistake. Down went one forward wheel into a hole and crack went the axle. It was far too tough a stick of oak to break short off; but the crack yawned, finger-wide, and with a serious visage Mack climbed down, after quieting his mules.

The teamster's remarks were vividly picturesque, to say the least. Frances, too, was troubled by the delay. The sun was now low behind them--disappearing below distant line of low, rolling hills.

Pratt got off his horse immediately and offered to help. And Mack needed his assistance.

"Lucky you was riding along with us, Mister," grumbled the teamster. "We got to jack up the old contraption, and splice the axle together. I got wire and pliers in the tool box and here's the wagon-jack."

He flung the implements out upon the ground. They set to work, Pratt removing his coat and doing his full share.

Meanwhile Frances sat on her pony quietly, occasionally riding around the stalled wagon so as to get a clear view of the plain all about. For a long time not a moving object crossed her line of vision.

"Who you looking for, Frances?" Pratt asked her, once.

"Oh, nobody," replied the girl.

"Do you expect that fellow is still trailing us?" he went on, curiously.

"No-o. I think not."

"But he's on your mind, eh?" suggested Pratt, earnestly. "Just as well I came along with you," and he laughed.

"So Mack says," returned Frances, with an answering smile.

Was she expecting an attack? Would Ratty come back? Was the man, Pete, lurking in some hollow or buffalo wallow? She scanned the horizon from time to time and wondered.

The sun sank to sleep in a bed of gold and crimson. Pink and lavender tints flecked the cloud-coverlets he tucked about him.

It was full sunset and still the party was delayed. The mules stamped and rattled their harness. They were impatient to get on to their suppers and the freedom of the corral.

"We'll sure be too late for supper at Miz' Peckham's," grumbled Mack.

"Oh, you're only troubled about your eats," joked Pratt.

At that moment Frances uttered a little cry. Both Pratt and the teamster looked up at her inquiringly.

"What's the matter, Frances?" asked the young fellow.

"I--I thought I saw a light, away over there where the sun is going down."

"Plenty of light there, I should say," laughed Pratt. "The sun has left a field of glory behind him. Come on, now, Mr. Mack! Ready for this other wire?"

"Glory to Jehoshaphat!" grunted the teamster. "The world was made in a shorter time than it takes to bungle this mean, ornery job! I got a holler in me like the Cave of Winds."

"Hadn't we better take a bite here?" Frances demanded. "It will be bedtime when we reach the Peckhams."

"Wal, if you say so, Miss," said the teamster. "I kin eat as soon as you kin cook the stuff, sure! But I did hone for a mess of Miz' Peckham's flapjacks."

Frances, well used to campwork, became immediately very busy. She ran for greasewood and such other fuel as could be found in the immediate vicinity, and started her fire.

It smoked and she got the strong smell of it in her nostrils, and it made her weep. Pratt, tugging and perspiring under the wagon-body, coughed over the smoke, too.

"Seems to me, Frances," he called, "you're filling the entire circumambient air with smoke--ker-_chow_!"

"Why! the wind isn't your way," said Frances, and she stood up to look curiously about again.

There seemed to be a lot of smoke. It was rolling in from the westward across the almost level plain. There was a deep rose glow behind it--a threatening illumination.

"Wow!" yelled Pratt.

He had just crawled out from beneath the wagon and was rising to his feet. An object flew by him in the half-dusk, about shoulder-high, and so swiftly that he was startled. He stepped back into a gopher-hole, tripped, and fell full length.

"What in thunder was that?" he yelled, highly excited.

"A jack-rabbit," growled Mack. "And going some. Something scare't that critter, sure's you're bawn!"

"Didn't you ever see a jack before, Pratt?" asked Frances, her tone a little queer, he thought.

"Not so close to," admitted the young fellow, as he scrambled to his feet. "Gracious! if he had hit me he'd have gone clear through me like a cannon-ball."

It was only Frances who had realized the unexpected peril. She had tried to keep her voice from shaking; but Mack noticed her tone.

"What's up, Miss?" he asked, getting to his legs, too.

"Fire!" gasped the range girl, clutching suddenly at Pratt's arm.

"You mean smoke," laughed Pratt. He saw her rubbing her eyes with her other hand.

But Mack had risen, facing the west. He uttered a funny little cluck in his throat and the laughing young fellow wheeled in wonder.

Along the horizon the glow was growing rapidly. A tongue of yellow flame shot high in the air. A long dead, thoroughly seasoned tree, standing at the forks of the trail, had caught fire and the flame flared forth from its top like a banner.

_The prairie was afire!_

"Glory to Jehoshaphat!" groaned Mack Hinkman, again. "Who done that?"

"Goodness!" gasped Pratt, quite horror-stricken.

Frances gathered up the cooking implements and flung them into the wagon. She had hobbled Molly and the grey pony; now she ran for them.

"Got that axle fixed, Mack?" she shouted over her shoulder.

"Not for no rough traveling, I tell ye sure, Miss Frances!" complained the teamster. "That was a bad crack. Have to wait to fix it proper at Peckham's." Then he added, _sotto voce_: "If we get the blamed thing there at all."

"Don't say that, man!" gasped Pratt Sanderson. "Surely there's not much danger?"

"This here spot will be scorched like an overdone flapjack in half an hour," declared Hinkman. "We got to git!"

Frances heard him, distant as she was.

"Oh, Mack! you know we can't reach the river in half an hour, even if we travel express speed."

"Well! what we goin' ter do then?" demanded the teamster. "Stay here and fry?"

Pratt was impressed suddenly with the thought that they were both leaning on the advice and leadership of the girl! He was inexperienced, himself; and the teamster seemed quite as helpless.

A pair of coyotes, too frightened by the fire to be afraid of their natural enemy, man, shot by in the dusk--two dim, grey shapes.

Frances released Molly and the grey pony from their hobbles. She leaped upon the back of the pinto and dragged the grey after by his bridle-reins. She was back at the stalled wagon in a few moments.

Already the flames could be seen along the western horizon as far as the unaided eye could see anything, leaping under the pall of rising smoke. The fire was miles away, it was true; but its ominous appearance affrighted even Pratt Sanderson, who knew so little about such peril.

Mack was fastening straps and hooking up traces; they had not dared leave the mules hitched to the wagon while they were engaged in its repair.

"Come on! get a hustle on you, Mister!" exclaimed the teamster. "We got to light out o' here right sudden!"