She was off again. This time a race across a wide pasture and into the hills to the west, turning at the end of a long, wooded climb up an almost perpendicular slope, to come out upon the top of one hill, to climb still higher to another, into a wide, open space, and again to a higher hill, till, suddenly, she seemed to be on the very top of the world.
Below her, nestling like a small city, the white and green buildings of the ranch showed. Very near it seemed, and yet in fact a distance of two or three miles. From this highest point, the girl on horse paused to cast a long, lingering look over the surrounding country that lay spread below her.
To the north were dim woods, thick and dark. An eagle soaring overhead.
To the east, the wide-spreading pastures and the long, trailing road to Banff. Dim forms of cattle and horse observable in the still lingering light, moving specks upon the gracious meadows.
To the south, the lower chain of hills and the sheep lands. A coyote’s wild moaning call. A hawk circling toward the ranch house.
Shining like a jewel in the mellow glow, the long, sinuous body of the Bow River, rushing swiftly to make its junction with the more leisurely flowing Ghost, upon whose surface the logs from the Eaue Claire Lumber Camp were being borne by the hundreds upon the first lap of their journey to Calgary.
In the West, hill upon hill and still farther hill upon hill, and beyond all, the snow crowned, inescapable immortal range of Rocky Mountains, a dream, a miracle, emblematic of eternity and peace.
It was hard indeed to tear her gaze from the last lingering gleams of that marvellous sunset. There was that about it that uplifted and comforted the aching heart. Hilda sighed and at last her long gaze was reluctantly withdrawn, dropped lower over the hill tops, the woods, and came to rest, alertly and still, upon a moving shadow that slipped in and out of the bush in a direct line with the barbed wire fencing.
She rode slowly, leisurely, but her reins were now in her hands. In all her young life, Hilda McPherson had known not the meaning of the word fear. Anger, pain, pity and now love, had shaken her soul, but of fear she knew nothing. That anyone should wish to harm her, was beyond her comprehension. So she rode forward quietly, almost indifferently. Nevertheless, Hilda knew that someone was trailing her. An O Bar O “hand” or a neighbour would have come out into the open. Whoever was following her was keeping purposely under the shadow of the bush. Nor could it be an Indian. Hilda knew the Stoneys well. An Indian does not molest a white woman.
She pondered over the purpose of the man who was following her. What did he want? Why did he not come out into the open? Thieves and rustlers would not have ventured as near to the ranch house as this. Their work was upon the range.
Hilda’s horse was now climbing down the other side of the hill slope, directly toward the ranch. O Bar O was fenced and cross-fenced with four wires, every field being laid out for especial stock. In a country like Alberta, where ranching is done on a large scale, stock are seldom penned in barn or stable. They are loose upon the range. Between each field, antiquated barbed wire gates were kept tightly closed. These were difficult to open. They consisted of three or four strands of barbed wire nailed to light willow fence posts at a space of about a foot apart. These swung clear from the ground and when closed fastened by a loop of the wire to the stout post at the end of the fencing. They were nasty things to open, even for the toughened hands of the cowboy. Hilda seldom used these gates. She would go around by the paths that opened to the main trails where were the great gates that swung from their own weights and were made of posts ten feet long. These, however, were not as desirable for dividing fields, since they swung too easily and were a temptation to leave open. The old type were preferred by the ranchers. They kept the cattle more securely separated.
This evening, Hilda came over the hill by the shorter trail, and now she was before the first of the wire gates.
The days were getting shorter and already, though it was scarcely six o’clock, the shadows were closing in deeply. The rosy skies were dimming and the pressing shadows crept imperceptibly over the gilded sky.
Quite suddenly darkness fell. The trail, however, was close to the gate and her horse knew the way. Hilda did not dismount. Leaning from her horse, she grasped the post and tugged at the tightly wedged ring of wire.
Her first knowledge of the near presence of the man who had followed her came when something thudded down at her horse’s feet. In the half light of the fading day Hilda saw that uncoiled rope.
The lariat!
Now she understood and a gasp of rage escaped her. The man had attempted to rope her. The lariat had fallen short! She, Hilda McPherson, daughter of O Bar O, to be lariated like a head of stock!
As she watched the rope slowly being coiled in, the sickening thought rushed upon her that presently it would be thrown again, and that second throw might fall true. Instantly she was off her horse, had grasped the end of the lariat, whipped it about the gate post, tied a tight knot, ducked under the wire of the fence, and secure in the knowledge that her pursuer would be held back by the closed gate, unless he dismounted and took her own means of passing through, Hilda ran like the wind straight along the trail
