Chafe and fret and rage internally as Bully Bill might, no word came forth from the ranch house, where for more than a month the Chess Champion of Western Canada and the potential challenger of the world had been closeted each night with Cheerio. When the third man left the service of O Bar O, Bully Bill hearkened to the suggestion of his assistant and accompanied by him paid a visit to the ranch house, where he requested Chum Lee to ask Miss Hilda to come to the front door.
Hilda, in the living-room, intently watching every move upon the board, looked up surprised at the whispered message of the Chinaman. Glad to escape from what she clearly perceived was practically the end of another game, the girl joined the foreman and his assistant upon the verandah.
“Miss Hilda,” began Bully Bill, “Ho and I are here tonight to ask you what’re we goin’ to do about the cattle? We can’t afford to wait no longer.”
Hilda debated the matter, hand on chin. She was looking off quite absently and suddenly she said to Bully Bill:
“Look here, Bill, if Dad had only moved his Knight instead of his Castle, he could have checked his King from both ends of the board and the jig would have been up. But Dad’s losing his nerve. He’s been beat too often lately. I can just see him fairly breaking. It’s telling on him. He’s an old man, my Dad is, and it’s terrible at his age to lose confidence. So long as Dad knew he was the best player in the West, he was just as cocky and spunky as a two-year-old, but you ought to see him now. Bunched up in his chair, his old eyes dim, and the eyebrows sticking out and his lip bulged. You’d hardly know him. Oh! if he had only moved his Knight! I could just have slapped him when he lifted that darned Castle. I tell you, Bill, Dad has simply got to beat him. He’s got to win at least one game. He’d never survive a permanent defeat, and apart from Dad’s feelings, neither would I!”
“But, look-a-here, Miss Hilda, what’re we all agoin’ to do till then? We can’t allow them cattle to be out till end of November. Why, them cattle—”
“Oh, the cattle! The cattle! You give me a pain! Can’t you think of anything but cattle, cattle, cattle? I guess there’s people in the world as well as cattle, cattle!”
“So there are, miss, but at this time of year we got to think of the cattle first, or they’ll get thinking with their own feet and first thing we know they’ll wander off somewheres where you ain’t goin’ to see them no more. Just let ’em get awandering up in them hills near Broken Nose Lake, and I betchu that’ll be the last of ’em. Besides, I heered down in Cochrane that there’s a sight of rustlers prowlin’ around this year, and the Indians ain’t any too scrupilous and when they’re hungry, they ain’t depising no handy beef. Why, Jim Lame-Leg’s doin’ time now for as slick a trick as ever I heerd of. Drive a cow over a canyon, and then git the job of haulin’ her out, and when she’s out she’s got her leg broke and she dies on his hand, and the owner pays for the haulin’ of the cow out with the dead carcass. Lee caught ’im breakin’ a leg of one of the Lazy L’s stock and the boss told him to go ahead and shoot her and keep the carcass, till someone put him wise, and he had the Mounty down from the Reserve and Jim Lame-Leg’s doin’ time now. If we don’t look out there’ll be others just as smart as Jim and when we come to countin’ up stock, I betchu we’ll be out a dozen head and more.”
“Well, it’s pretty bad, I know, but I won’t have Dad bothered about cattle. He’s got enough on his mind right now. Anyway, I believe the cattle are all right. What’s the matter with the herders, anyway? They’re still out, aren’t they?”
“Herders! My foot! Excuse my cussing, miss, but when you talk of herders—my gosh! Herders ain’t a bit of good when the cold snap comes. They keep in their tents and holler for the riders and that’s what the riders is for.”
“But then, look at the weather this year. The cattle’ll get along for a month yet, I do believe. Last year we had soft weather clear up till Christmas. You know that and lots of cattle people were sorry they hadn’t taken advantage of the weather and left the cattle on the range. Anyway, they’ll come trailing home gradually themselves. Have all the gates down.”
“Some’ll come home, sure enough, but we got a lot of new stuff and they ain’t broke to this range. We threw some of the best stock you ever set eyes on over to the north of Loon Lake. If a storm comes up—”
Holy Smoke, plaiting a long cowhide bullwhip had taken no part in the conversation, but his ears were pricked up and his crafty eyes scarcely left the girl’s face.
“I tell you what you’d better do,” suggested Hilda, “get your men together and start on off. Dad won’t mind, and it’s the only thing to do.”
“He won’t mind! He threw a million fits last year when I just gathered in the lighter stuff before he said the word—stuff that was right at the gate, at that. Orders is flat, nothing doing till he says the word. He’s God Almighty on the O Bar O—begging your pardon, Miss Hilda—and he wants every Son-of-a-Gun on the place to know it.”
“I’ll say so!” declared P. D.’s daughter with pride. “Go along in, then, and put your cards on
