The Complete Flying U Series – 24 Westerns in One Edition. B. M. Bower

before—thank you,” said the Little Doctor, lightly, and hurried away to put on her blue riding habit with its cunning little jockey cap which she found the only headgear that would stay upon her head in the teeth of Montana wind, and which made her look-well, kissable. She was standing on the porch drawing on her gauntlets when Chip returned, leading Concho by the bridle.

      “Let me help you,” begged Dunk, at her elbow, hoping till the last that she would invite him to go with them.

      The Little Doctor, not averse to hiding the bitter of her medicine under a coating of sugar, smiled sweetly upon him, to the delectation of Dunk and the added bitterness of Chip, who was rapidly nearing that state of mind which is locally described as being “strictly on the fight.”

      “I expect she thinks I’ll amuse her some more!” he thought, savagely, as they galloped away through the quivering sunlight.

      For the first two miles the road was level, and Chip set the pace—which was, as he intended it should be, too swift for much speech. After that the trail climbed abruptly out of Flying U coulee, and the horses were compelled to walk. Then it was that Chip’s native chivalry and self-mastery were put to test.

      He was hungry for a solitary ride such as had, before now, drawn much of the lonely ache out of his heart and keyed him up to the life which he must live and which chafed his spirit more than even he realized. Instead of such slender comfort, he was forced to ride beside the girl who had hurt him—so close that his knee sometimes brushed her horse—and to listen to her friendly chatter and make answer, at times, with at least some show of civility.

      She was talking reminiscently of the dance.

      “J. G. showed splendid judgment in his choice of musicians, didn’t he?”

      Chip looked straight ahead. This was touching a sore place in his memory. A vision of Dick Brown’s vapid smile and curled up mustache rose before him.

      “I’d tell a man,” he said, with faint irony.

      The Little Doctor gave him a quick, surprised look and went on.

      “I liked their playing so much. Mr. Brown was especially good upon the guitar.”

      “Y—e-s?”

      “Yes, of course. You know yourself, he plays beautifully.”

      “Cow-punchers aren’t expected to know all these things.” Chip hated himself for replying so, but the temptation mastered him.

      “Aren’t they? I can’t see why not.”

      Chip closed his lips tightly to keep in something impolite.

      The Little Doctor, puzzled as well as piqued, went straight to the point.

      “Why didn’t you like Mr. Brown’s playing?”

      “Did I say I didn’t like it?”

      “Well, you—not exactly, but you implied that you did not.”

      “Y—e-s?”

      The Little Doctor gave the reins an impatient twitch.

      “Yes, yes—YES!”

      No answer from Chip. He could think of nothing to say that was not more or less profane.

      “I think he’s a very nice, amiable young man”—strong emphasis upon the second adjective. “I like amiable young men.”

      Silence.

      “He’s going to come down here hunting next fall. J. G. invited him.”

      “Yes? What does he expect to find?”

      “Why, whatever there is to hunt. Chickens and—er—deer—”

      “Exactly.”

      By this they reached the level and the horses broke, of their own accord, into a gallop which somewhat relieved the strain upon the mental atmosphere. At the next hill the Little Doctor looked her companion over critically.

      “Mr. Bennett, you look positively bilious. Shall I prescribe for you?”

      “I can’t see how that would add to your amusement.”

      “I’m not trying to add to my amusement.”

      “No?”

      “If I were, there’s no material at hand. Bad-tempered young men are never amusing, to me. I like—”

      “Amiable young men. Such as Dick Brown.”

      “I think you need a change of air, Mr. Bennett.”

      “Yes? I’ve felt, lately, that Eastern airs don’t agree with my constitution.”

      Miss Whitmore grew red as to cheeks and bright as to eyes.

      “I think a few small doses of Eastern manners would improve you very much,” she said, pointedly.

      “Y—e-s? They’d have to be small, because the supply is very limited.”

      The Little Doctor grew white around the mouth. She held Concho’s rein so tight he almost stopped.

      “If you didn’t want me to come, why in the world didn’t you have the courage to say so at the start? I must say I don’t admire people whose tempers—and manners—are so unstable. I’m sorry I forced my presence upon you, and I promise you it won’t occur again.” She hesitated, and then fired a parting shot which certainly was spiteful in the extreme. “There’s one good thing about it,” she smiled, tartly, “I shall have something interesting to write to Dr. Cecil.”

      With that she turned astonished Concho short around in the trail—and as Chip gave Blazes a vicious jab with his spurs at the same instant, the distance between them widened rapidly.

      As Chip raced away over the prairie, he discovered a new and puzzling kink in his temper. He had been angry with the Little Doctor for coming, but it was nothing to the rage he felt when she turned back! He did not own to himself that he wanted her beside him to taunt and to hurt with his rudeness, but it was a fact, for all that. And it was a very surly young man who rode into the Denson corral and threw a loop over the head of the runaway.

Chapter IX. Before the Round-up

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      “The Little Doctor wants us all to come up t’ the White House this evening and have some music,” announced Cal, bursting into the bunk house where the boys were sorting and packing their belongings ready to start with the round-up wagon in the morning.

      Jack Bates hurriedly stuffed a miscellaneous collection of socks and handkerchiefs into his war bag and made for the wash basin.

      “I’ll just call her bluff,” he said, determinedly.

      “It ain’t any bluff; she wants us t’ come, er you bet she wouldn’t say so. I’ve learned that much about her. Say, you’d a died to seen old Dunk look down his nose! I’ll bet money she done it just t’ rasp his feelin’s—and she sure succeeded. I’d go anyway, now, just t’ watch him squirm.”

      “I notice it grinds him consider’ble to see the Little Doctor treat us fellows like white folks. He’s workin’ for a stand-in there himself. I bet he gets throwed down good and hard,” commented Weary, cheerfully.

      “It’s a cinch he don’t know about that pill-thrower back in Ohio,” added Cal. “Any of you fellows going to take her bid? I’ll go alone, in a minute.”

      “I don’t think you’ll go alone,” asserted Jack Bates, grabbing his hat.

      Slim made a few hasty passes at his hair and said he was ready. Shorty, who had just come in from riding, unbuckled his spurs and kicked them under his bed.

      “It’ll be many a day b’fore we listen t’ the Little