Chip, of the Flying U | Page 9

COYOTE?"
"HER coyote?"

"What the devil was she doing with a COYOTE?"
The Happy Family stood transfixed, and Chip's eyes were seen to
laugh.
"HER COYOTE. Did any of you fellows happen to see a dead coyote
up on the grade? Because if you did, it's the doctor's."
Weary Willie walked deliberately over and seized Chip by the
shoulders, bringing him to his feet with one powerful yank.
"Don't you try throwing any loads into THIS crowd, young man.
Answer me truly-s'help yuh. How did that old maid come by a
coyote--a dead one?"
Chip squirmed loose and reached for his cigarette book. "She shot it,"
he said, calmly, but with twitching lips.
"Shot it!" Five voices made up the incredulous echo.
"What with?" demanded Weary when he got his breath.
"With my rifle. I brought it out from town today. Bert Rogers had left it
at the barber shop for me."
"Gee whiz! And them creams hating a gun like poison! She didn't shoot
from the rig, did she?"
"Yes," said Chip, "she did. The first time she didn't know any better--
and the second time she was hot at me for hinting she was scared. She's
a spunky little devil, all right. She's busy hating me right now for
running the grade--thinks I did it to scare her, I guess. That's all some
fool women know."
"She's a howling sport, then!" groaned Cal, who much preferred the
Sweet Young Things.
"No--I sized her up as a maverick."

"What does she look like?"
"How old is she?"
"I never asked her age," replied Chip, his face lighting briefly in a smile.
"As to her looks, she isn't cross-eyed, and she isn't four-eyed. That's as
much as I noticed." After this bald lie he became busy with his cigarette.
"Give me that magazine, Cal. I didn't finish cutting the leaves."
CHAPTER III.
Silver.

Miss Della Whitmore gazed meditatively down the hill at the bunk
house. The boys were all at work, she knew. She had heard J. G. tell
two of them to "ride the sheep coulee fence," and had been consumed
with amazed curiosity at the order. Wherefore should two sturdy young
men be commanded to ride a fence, when there were horses that
assuredly needed exercise--judging by their antics--and needed it badly?
She resolved to ask J. G. at the first opportunity.
The others were down at the corrals, branding a few calves which
belonged on the home ranch. She had announced her intention of going
to look on, and her brother, knowing how the boys would regard her
presence, had told her plainly that they did not want her. He said it was
no place for girls, anyway. Then he had put on a very dirty pair of
overalls and hurried down to help for he was not above lending a hand
when there was extra work to be done.
Miss Della Whitmore tidied the kitchen and dusted the sitting room,
and then, having a pair of mischievously idle hands and a very
feminine curiosity, conceived an irrepressible desire to inspect the bunk
house.
J. G. would tell her that, also, was no place for girls, she supposed, but
J. G. was not present, so his opinion did not concern her. She had been

at the Flying U ranch a whole week, and was beginning to feel that its
resources for entertainment--aside from the masculine contingent,
which held some promising material--were about exhausted. She had
climbed the bluffs which hemmed the coulee on either side, had
selected her own private saddle horse, a little sorrel named Concho, and
had made friends with Patsy, the cook. She had dazzled Cal Emmett
with her wiles and had found occasion to show Chip how little she
thought of him; a highly unsatisfactory achievement, since Chip calmly
over-looked her whenever common politeness permitted him.
There yet remained the unexplored mystery of that little cabin down the
slope, from which sounded so much boylike laughter of an evening.
She watched and waited till she was positive the coast was clear, then
clapped an old hat of J. G.'s upon her head and ran lightly down the
hill.
With her hand upon the knob, she ran her eye critically along the outer
wall and decided that it had, at some remote date, been treated to a coat
of whitewash; gave the knob a sudden twist, with a backward glance
like a child stealing cookies, stepped in and came near falling headlong.
She had not expected that remoteness of floor common to cabins built
on a side hill.
"Well!" She pulled herself together and looked curiously about her.
What struck her at first was the total absence of bunks. There were a
couple of plain, iron bedsteads and two wooden ones made of rough
planks. There