Frances of the Ranges: or, The Old Ranchman's Treasure. Marlowe Amy Bell

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СКАЧАТЬ he would first of all try to get at the treasure chest.

      There were plenty of valuable things scattered about the house, but they were bulky–hard for a thief to remove. Although Frances did not know just what her father’s treasure consisted of, she believed it must be of such a nature that it could be removed by a thief.

      Frances, her eyes now well used to the gloom, hurried along in the wake of the drifting shadow, without sound. She came to the first window opening into her father’s sleeping apartment. Like a wraith she glided in, believing at last that her duty was to awaken her father.

      But when she reached his bed she found it undisturbed. It seemed his pillow had not been lain upon that night. She felt swiftly over the smooth bed, and with growing alarm–not for herself, but alarm for the missing man.

      Where could he have gone? What had happened here since the lights went out and that mysterious marauder had come in over the ranch-house roof?

      CHAPTER VI

      A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION

      Frances knew her way about her father’s room in the dark as well as she did about her own. She knew where every piece of furniture stood. She knew where the chair was on which he carelessly threw his outer clothing at night.

      Like most men who for years have slept in the open, Captain Rugley did not remove all his clothing when he went to bed. He usually lay between blankets on the outside of his bed, with his boots and trousers ready to jump into at a moment’s notice. Of some of the practices of his life on the plains, with the dome of heaven for a roof-tree, he could not be broken.

      She fumbled for the chair, and found it empty. She reached for the belt and holster which he usually hung on a hook at the head of the bed. They, too, were gone, and Frances felt relieved.

      She did not withdraw from the room through either of the long windows. Instead, she crept through her father’s office and out of the door of that room into the great, main hall.

      Along this a little way was the door of the room to which Pratt Sanderson had been assigned, and that of the treasure room as well.

      Frances scarcely gave Pratt a thought. She presumed him far in the land of dreams. She did not take into consideration the fact that about now the scratches of the mountain lion would become painful, and Pratt correspondingly restless. Frances was mainly troubled by her father’s absence from his room. Had he, too, seen the mysterious shadow in the court? Was he on the watch for a possible marauder?

      By feeling rather than eyesight she knew the door to the treasure room was closed. Was her father there?

      She doubled her fist and raised it to knock upon the panel. Then she hesitated. The slightest sound would ring through the silent house like an alarm of fire.

      Inclining her ear to the door, she listened. But the oak planking was thick and there was no crevice, now the portal was closed, through which any slight sound could penetrate. She could not have even distinguished the heavy breathing of a sleeping man behind the door.

      Uncertain, wondering, yet quite mistress of herself again, Frances went on along the corridor. Here was an open door before her into the court. Had that shadow she had seen come this way? she wondered.

      The hiss of a voice, almost in her ear, did startle her:

      “My goodness! is it you, Miss Frances?”

      A clammy hand clutched her wrist. She knew that Pratt Sanderson must have been horribly wrought up and nervous, for he was trembling.

      “What is the matter? Why are you out of your bed, Pratt?” she asked, quite calmly.

      “I couldn’t sleep. Fever in those scratches, I s’pose,” said the young man. “I got up and went outside to get a drink at the fountain–and to bathe my face and wrists. Isn’t it hot?”

      “You are feverish,” whispered Frances, cautiously. “Have you seen daddy?”

      “The Captain?” returned Pratt, wonderingly. “Oh, no. He isn’t up, is he?”

      “He’s not in his room – ”

      “And you’re not in yours,” said Pratt, with a nervous laugh. “We all seem to be out of our beds at the hour when graveyards yawn, eh?”

      Frances had a reassuring laugh ready.

      “I think you would better go to bed again, Pratt,” she said. “You–you saw nothing in the court?”

      “No. But I thought I heard a big bird overhead when I was splashing the water about out there. Imagination, of course,” he added. “There are no big night-flying birds out here on the plains?”

      “Not that I know of,” returned she.

      “I made some noise. I didn’t know what it was I scared up. Seemed to be on the roof of the house.”

      Frances thought of the mysterious man and his rope ladder. But she did not mention them to Pratt.

      “Put some more of father’s salve on those scratches,” she advised. “It’s an Indian salve and very healing. He was taught by an old Indian medicine man to make it.”

      “All right. Good-night, Miss Frances,” said Pratt, and withdrew into his room, from which he had appeared so suddenly to accost her.

      Pratt’s mention of “the bird on the roof” disturbed Frances a good deal. She turned to run back upstairs and learn if the ladder was still hanging from the eaves. But as she started to do so she realized that the door of the treasure room had been silently opened.

      “Frances!”

      “Oh, Dad!”

      “What are you running about the house for at this time o’ night?” he demanded.

      She laughed rather hysterically. “Why are you out of your bed, sir–with your rheumatism?” she retorted.

      “Good reason. Thought I heard something,” growled the Captain.

      “Good reason. Thought I saw something,” mocked Frances, seizing his arm.

      She stepped inside the room with him. He flashed an electric torch for a moment about the place. She saw he had a cot arranged at one side, and had evidently gone to bed here, beside the treasure chest.

      “Why is this, sir?” she demanded, with pretty seriousness.

      “Reckon the old man’s getting nervous,” said Captain Rugley. “Can’t sleep in my reg’lar bed when there are strangers in the house.”

      Frances started. “What do you mean?” she cried.

      “Well, there’s that young man.”

      “Why, Pratt is all right,” declared Frances, confidently.

      “I don’t know anything for him–and do know one thing against him,” growled the old ranchman. “He’s been up and about all night, so far. Weren’t you just talking to him?”

      “Oh, yes, Dad! But Pratt is all right.”

      “That’s СКАЧАТЬ