The Chicken-hearted Tenderfoot.

"Yah! Call yourself a cowpuncher? And you can't even rope a yearling colt, let alone do anything else! Take my tip, kid, and get back East by the quickest route; we don't want the like of you in Montana. There's too many good men round to make us have to keep you, doing nothing for your board. Get off the ranch!" The foreman of the Cup and Spur Ranch, never a man to spare the feelings of those under him, this time surpassed himself in expressing his contempt for the youngster who had earned his displeasure. The object of his scorn, a fresh-looking lad of some eighteen years of age, returned the foreman's irate and withering glance with one full of resentment, but entirely devoid of fear.

"I told you I'd never worked on the ranges before," he said angrily, "and you took me on under that knowledge. I never said I could rope a colt, and now I've found out I can't—yet. Do you expect a man to do everything for a miserable fifteen dollars a month? Oh, all right; I'll get off the place, and be mighty glad to do so, too!" The foreman had made a threatening gesture, as though he meant to teach this stripling that his reputation as the bully of the district was not unfounded.

"So I've got the bounce, eh?" muttered Ted Macbain to his horse, as he slowly rode away from the scene. "Well, perhaps the foreman's right, and I'm no good on a ranch. Guess I'll have to get back to the old farm in Minnesota. Just at present town's the place for me to make." And he headed for Elk Creek, some twenty miles away.

"Wish I hadn't made such a fool of myself with that rope, just the same," he told himself. "How the mischief do they make the beastly thing go where they want it?" He unslung his lariat as he spoke to himself, and, shaking its coils loose, swung the noose wide above his head, fixing his eye on the stump of a tree he was passing. His horse was traveling at a brisk canter, but he measured the distance with his eye, and let the rope go on its way. It fell fair and true over the stump, but he forgot to pull the horse in. The result was that he felt a great jerk at his saddle, and the horse, shying, threw him violently to the ground. He was half stunned by his fall, and he did not open his eyes until a dim speck on the horizon was all that could be seen of the animal he had been bestriding.

To catch the brute looked impossible, but as it was heading for the town, and as it was likely it would be caught there, Ted did not feel any anxiety on its behalf. The remaining ten miles would have to be walked.

He had time to think things over for the next two or three hours. To be candid, he had not been an absolute success in Montana, the land where daredevil horsemanship and an utter disregard for human life are the main essentials. He would have been far better off to have stayed at home in Minnesota, where his father was a prosperous farmer. But the confinement of that life jarred on him to such an extent that he felt himself compelled to strike out for fresh scenes. A passionate love for horses caused him to go to the horse-ranching State, where he thought he would be able to give his passion full satisfaction. Oh, what a disillusionment! He found that to treat horses kindly on the ranges, where the animals, for the most part, had never looked on man as anything but a cruel enemy, did not serve to win their love. He could not bring himself to administer the brutal treatment he saw other cowboys deliver, and was not afraid of expressing his displeasure at their methods. This earned for him the sobriquet of "the chicken-hearted tenderfoot," which name became a byword on the plains. His most vehement denunciations of their behavior only served to create mirth among the others. The foreman of the Cup and Spur Ranch—the fifth ranch in six months on which Ted had tried his fortunes—was loudest of all in his expressions of contempt, giving the youngster the most objectionable jobs to perform out of pure malice. When he was told to throw a year-old colt that had quite won the young fellow's heart, as all colts did, he had had so little heart for the task that the scene which opens this story was the result.

"Guess ranching isn't in my line," he told himself, as he trudged along the prairie under the blazing, withering sun of an exceptionally hot August. "It's all right to raise colts by hand, but to knock 'em about as they do here goes for me too strongly."

It was very hot, as he soon began to discover, as the miles slowly passed under his feet. He grew thirsty; the alkali dust, resultant of a three weeks' drought, parched his throat until he decided that water was the only thing in his life he needed at that moment. There was no stream at hand. The only habitation near was a shack. He made for this, and as he came closer he saw a well and bucket. As is the custom, he did not trouble to inquire whether he might be allowed to partake of the well's contents, but let down the bucket, and drew himself a quantity of the cheerful, refreshing fluid, and drank his fill.

He poured the remainder of the pailful on the ground. As he did so something glittered at his feet, something that was not water. He stooped and picked it up. It was an American ten-dollar gold piece.

Perhaps it was none of his business, and perhaps he should have been content to take the coin to the house and leave it there, so that the owner would see it. But something recurred to him; he remembered that he had felt a slight jerk as he hauled up the bucket, and his curiosity was aroused. He glanced down the well; he saw that a ladder was set there. He climbed down until he was close to the surface of the water. There, set in a hole that had evidently been purposely cut out for the purpose, was a bag full of coins similar to the one that he had hauled up to the top. A slight rent in one corner, through which a coin was peeping, showed him how his bucket had caused one to drop in. He banished all further idea of considering himself inquisitive.

"There's something rocky about this," he said. "No one would hide gold down a well if there wasn't something up. There's a bank at Elk Creek; why wasn't it put there?"

He climbed to the surface of the ground again. That there was no one around was apparent; the noise he had made would have been sure to attract any one who had been in the house. His curiosity was now fully aroused. He thought nothing of entering the shack, and of examining its contents. He turned everything upside down in his search, but nothing that would go to confirm any of his half-aroused suspicions could he see. He was on the point of resuming his journey when a loose board in the floor creaked under his foot. He lifted it, to expose a small cavity, down which he felt with his hand. Something cold and hard met his fingers, which he withdrew. It was a branding iron. That would not have struck him as being at all out of the way if a casual glance had not shown him that the iron bore a cup and spur—the brand of the ranch from which he had just been discharged. He was puzzled. He knew that all the irons that belonged to that ranch were in the charge of the foreman, being delivered to the branders at each round-up. No man was allowed to carry one except on these occasions, and the next round-up would not take place for more than a month.

"Can't make head or tail of it," muttered the lad. "Is it that—— By thunder, I have it! There are horse thieves around here! They must have started their work since last round-up, and it hasn't been found out yet. They've been stealing unbranded colts, and been putting a mark on 'em. But why should they use the cup and spur? It gets me, sure."

And that was as far as he could get to a solution of the problem.

"I don't know whether there's anything in it, but I found this iron in a shack about five miles north of here," said Ted. "Seems to me there's something fishy about it, though I might be mistaken."

He was speaking to the sheriff at Elk Creek, who took the iron and examined it closely. No light of understanding dawned on that worthy's face for the moment.

"Guess it must be an old one that's been thrown away," was all he could suggest.

"It doesn't look too old," returned the lad. "It's new enough to make a pretty good brand yet, anyway. Looks to me as though it wasn't being used fairly. Hobson, the foreman of the Cup and Spur, should have all these locked up at this time of the year. Have there been any horses shipped away from this district lately?"

"Why, yes; the Cup and Spur outfit sent a bunch of spring colts East only six weeks ago. Struck me as they were rather young to go, but I didn't trouble about it. 'Twas none of my business."

"But Mr. Knowles, the boss of that ranch, doesn't believe in shipping away so soon."

The sheriff began to understand.

"I see what you're driving at now, kid," he said, "and I'm beginning to agree with you. Those colts that were shipped away weren't Cup and Spur stock at all! They were rustled and branded with that mark, so's suspicion wouldn't fall on any one. No one would believe Knowles capable of stealing, and no questions would be asked."

"Well, that point's pretty well settled," went on Ted. "Next thing is, who's rustling 'em?"

"Got me again," said the sheriff laconically.

"Well, what do you say if we do a little work? I've got an idea that may be worth something. Let's go back to the Cup and Spur Ranch and make inquiries."

The sheriff complied with him. Together they rode southward, Ted having found his horse when he arrived at Elk Creek. The first man they met on their arrival at their destination was Hobson.

"What?" shouted the foreman. "Back again already? Didn't I tell you to get out?"

"You did," said Ted coolly. "Also, you said something about my being no good on a ranch. What do you say to a foreman who leaves branding irons lying about when they ought to be safely put away?"

Hobson started.

"What are you getting at?" he asked with a grin, but with an uneasy glance at Sheriff Walton. "Who's leaving irons about?"

Ted produced the article.

"This should be in your care," he said, showing it. Hobson held out his hand eagerly. Ted drew the iron out of reach.

"No," he said; "I think we'll keep it now. The sheriff wants it for evidence should anything crop up. It's my belief that next round-up'll show a few things in the way of colts being missed."

Hobson paled, his face working nervously.

"Give it to me," he shouted, with a poor attempt at anger. Ted's lips curled scornfully.

"It's not mine to give," he said. "Ask Walton here; perhaps he will, though I don't think so. By the way, he says a carload of colts were shipped off lately, bearing the brand of this ranch. Know anything about them?"

A sound like a snarl burst from the foreman's lips. He whipped his hand to his belt, but Ted had him covered with his own revolver first.

"Don't get mad like that," he said. "I only asked you a question. Come, now! Put your hand away from your belt! You're not my boss now, I'll have you know!"

Hobson complied, and allowed Walton to relieve him of his weapon.

"We won't do anything over this," said Ted, as he prepared to take his departure. "But we'll watch things a bit for the next few weeks. Perhaps you'll see that the chicken-hearted tenderfoot isn't such a fool as you take him for." He could not resist the temptation of dealing this thrust.

For the next few days a careful watch was kept on Jake Hobson. The sheriff had come to share Ted's suspicions, which were briefly that the foreman had more than a little to do with horse thieving. But no proof could be brought forward; the only thing to do was to wait for another haul to be made, catch the thief or thieves, and drag them before a judge.

A visit was paid to the lonely shack where Ted had found the gold on the occasion of his dismissal. No search could discover any evidence, and, though the money was seized by Walton, they had to return baffled.

In spite of Ted's suspicions, the sheriff soon began to lose faith in the idea that Hobson was the culprit, and, as nothing showed itself, Ted found himself wondering if he were not mistaken, after all.

Inquiries told him, at the very commencement of the fall round-up, that several mares that were known to have had colts in the earlier part of the spring, were now without. It was discovered that the Cup and Spur Ranch had not lost any; a further proof, in Ted's mind, that Hobson knew more than he would tell.

But there was something else, of which Ted never dreamed. A plot was in the making for a wholesale theft and stampede of colts and horses.

It was by mere chance that Ted and Walton paid a visit to the Cup and Spur one evening, when all the stock of that ranch were rounded up and safe in the corrals. Walton found out that Knowles was away at Butte, seeing about the sale of a bunch of four-year olds. This gave Ted an idea that something might happen, and, though they took pains to show that they had left the ranch, they took good care not to let Hobson see that they had returned on their tracks. They waited in the shelter of a bluff until evening fell—waited for they hardly knew what.

They did not wait long after dark. Soon they heard the rumble of hoofs coming from the ranch.

"By gosh! He's done it, after all!" yelled the sheriff delightedly. "Bully for you, kid! You've got brains!"

"But what are we going to do about it?" asked the lad, who, afire as he was with the excitement, had thought nothing of the difficulty that faced him. "Can we stop 'em?"

"We'll have a try, you bet," replied Walton, drawing his revolver, and twisting the cylinder to see that it was fully loaded.

The sound of the stampede was drawing nearer and nearer. The two in the bluff mounted their horses, and rode straight for it. There was only one man driving the herd. Ted easily recognized him as the foreman of the ranch. Every suspicion he had formed was fully founded.

Walton, as soon as the stampede came abreast, fired three shots from his revolver, hoping to check them. They half served the purpose, but there was a man urging them on who was worth more than a mere consideration. As soon as Hobson saw that his plan was known to others, bullets began to whistle round Ted's and the sheriff's heads at an alarming rate. One bullet caught the hindquarters of the boy's horse, inflicting a maddening, scorching wound that made the brute grip the bit fiercely in its teeth, swerve to the right, and bolt headlong, in spite of the lad's frantic efforts to check its flight. Another shot struck the leader of the herd of bronchos, not seriously wounding it, but driving it crazy with rage, pain, and fear. It, too, wheeled half about, and followed close on the lad's tracks, the whole herd stampeding after it. Shrill neighs filled the air, making it hideous with the tumult. More shots were fired between the sheriff and the foreman. Ted could not notice any of the events that were occurring near him. His whole attention was centred on his efforts to hold his animal in and maintain his seat.

Ted's horse was quite unmanageable. Straight ahead, never swerving, with a hundred more pounding behind him, man and horse rushed. It soon became apparent that it was more than a runaway for Ted; it was a race for life. Those fear-consumed, mad, unreasoning brutes behind him were heedless of the fact that a man was in front. Without heed of the direction in which he was going, the lad spurred his horse, hoping to keep safely ahead—not trying now to check its career. He knew that to turn aside was impossible. All he cared for was to keep ahead. And, in spite of the extra burden his beast was carrying, the pursuers gained nothing on him.

Fear filled the lad's heart. If it had been an ordinary death that threatened him, he would have faced it bravely enough; but the thought of being ground to death beneath the hoofs of those equine fiends behind him terrorized him until he almost lost sense of everything but his desire to escape.

It would have frightened any man. The weird shrieks, the bellows-like breathing of his own and of the other horses, the hollow, muffled, pounding of hoofs on the hard, sun-baked prairie, the whistle of the wind about his ears, all combined to make his brain reel. He thought nothing of what was ahead, until it was nearly too late.

Nearly—not quite!

He had a dim recollection of a feeling, a foreboding that all was not right in front. The pale glimmer of the moon made the earth appear as though it suddenly dropped away into nothingness. Like a flash it came home to him that he was close to the edge of Rushing Cañon, a great cleft, dropping to a depth of five hundred feet, sheer to the bottom, where a roaring torrent raged.

Something like a moan passed his lips. He felt himself wondering which would be the better death: to have the life stamped out of him, or to be dashed to pieces below.

He had only a hundred yards to go—seventy-five—fifty! Thirty! The stampede was not a hundred feet behind him. Another minute, and he would be falling. He tugged once again at the reins, but he might as well have pulled at a stump. Another moan broke from him; he kicked his feet free from the stirrups, gave a mad spring outward, and fell headlong to the ground. His horse made a struggle to stop itself, failed, and went hurtling through space.

Ted scrambled to his feet. Five yards ahead of him was the cañon; ten yards behind him the stampede. He would die by the former!

He ran, ran like the wind, toward the drop.

He never could tell what happened in the next few moments. A horrid din filled his ears. He felt himself falling, and mechanically threw out his hands. He caught something—he knew not what—and hung, suspended between heaven and earth. Some dark shapes seemed to hurtle past his head, overhead, all around him. Terrified, shrill snorts and neighs were all that he could hear, save the queer buzzing that was in his head. But he gripped the support that had saved him, and hung on, half unconsciously, his nerves and sinews strained nigh to breaking point.

Then all was quiet overhead. He looked up, wondering dully that he was still alive, and not, as he had expected to be, a smashed, battered mass, on the rocks five hundred feet below.

Painfully, gaspingly, he drew himself upward. Though he thought he had fallen a long distance before he saved himself, he really had not dropped more than his own length. What he had caught and held was nothing more nor less than a sturdy weed, growing on the extreme edge of the cañon. He pulled himself to earth and safety again. His feet felt solid ground. Then his head swam, his limbs tottered, he reeled, and fell heavily, his arms hanging over the edge, unconscious. The reaction had set in, and he had fainted.

He was found half an hour later by Sheriff Walton, who, partly guided by the sound of the stampede, and partly through knowledge of the country, came close to the figure of the prostrate lad. He set about bringing him back to life, and his efforts were rewarded by seeing Ted's eyes open. The lad stared, and then recollection came back to him, for he shuddered violently, and pointed shakingly to the awful depths below.

"They went over there!" he gasped, "and I nearly did so, too. I don't know what saved me."

"But you are saved," was the reply, "and that's the main thing."

"And about Hobson?" asked the lad, when his brain had sufficiently cleared to think of other things beyond his own awful narrow escape from a double danger.

"Hobson won't steal any more horses," said the sheriff grimly.

"Is he dead?"

Walton nodded, but said nothing.

"Did you kill him?" Ted shuddered at the thought. To take human life was terrible to him.

"It was a fair fight, lad," said the sheriff. "If I hadn't done so, he'd have nailed me. In fact, I don't know how he missed me. I emptied my gun, and then closed with him. In the struggle his own gun went off, and the bullet went through his heart. A bad end for a bad man; but only justice."

It was discovered later that Walton needed an assistant. And so Ted did not go back to Minnesota after all. He might not have been much good as a cowboy, but Walton now thinks he cannot do without him to help in his work of keeping law and order in the district.