Skates, Skis, and a Saphead

By

EEPLY steeped in gloom perfectly described the condition of young Nixon J. Peters. Loneliness and bitter regret pervaded his soul as he sat by himself on the rear seat of the flying sleigh and thought of what might have been. He had reason to believe that he was the best skater and ski jumper entered in the winter sports contests at Devil's Lake, on the preceding afternoon, and yet he had lost both main events by an apparent failure to look well to his equipment at the last moment. Every one had expected that he would blunder somewhere, and so no one was greatly disappointed; that is, no one except Nixon J. Peters.

Almost at the take-off of the jump, one of Nixon's skis had broken. He had taken a wild header, and landed in a snow hank with heels in the air. A big laugh had been the result Also, he had cast a skate at the critical moment of the skating race, and the other contestants had slid past him, Porter Markham in the lead. This same Porter Markham, too, had won the ski jump. Now, Porter Markham was on the front seat of the sleigh, driving blithely, and exchanging jest and small talk with Hesther Morton, who sat beside him. Truly, Nixon J. Peters' lines had fallen in hard places!

Nixon was "Nix" to those who knew him best. Often he suffered the crowning indignity of being referred to as the "Saphead." He had heard the unlovely nickname applied to him many times while digging himself out of the snow bank. It had punctuated the merriment released by his sorry mishap. Hesther Morton had joined in the riot of laughter. Nixon knew this only too well, for she was the first person he had seen after digging the snow out of his eyes. For Hesther to be amused at his expense—well, that was something that hurt.

Then, while seeking, with dogged resolution, to retrieve himself on the steel runners, a strap had broken, and a skate had shot off across the glittering ice. Peters had slipped and slammed around on the course like a crazy curling stone, finally cutting the feet out from under a fat spectator, who called him Saphead right to his face! Ah, what a wind-up for a sorry afternoon! Peters clenched his hands in his bearskin gloves and crouched down on the rear seat in a fruitless effort to efface himself.

He was nineteen, and Porter Markham was twenty. They both worked for Uncle Silas Goddard, who had a ranch in Montana, and made a business of sending range horses into North Dakota to be halter broken and sold to the settlers. Goddard was "uncle" to all his men, in the sense that gives an avuncular character to every genial, middle-aged person who looks after the welfare of younger employees.

In the early summer, Uncle Silas had sent a hundred horses into North Dakota. Business had not been good, and late fall found half the horses still on hand. These horses were being wintered at the Morton ranch, on marsh hay, cut and stacked by peters, Markham, and Reece Bailey, who had been sent by Uncle Silas to take care of the horse herd. When spring came, there was a promise of turning off every head of the stock at a good profit.

The winter, so far, had not been particularly lonely for the Montana men. The snows of December had been light, and it bad been possible for the horses to paw out considerable forage in the hills. January, however, brought in a good fall of "the beautiful," and it had been necessary to corral and shelter the animals and to go extensively into the feeding.

Reece Bailey, Uncle Si's foreman, found time to play cribbage with Lance Morton, Hesther's father; and Peters and Nixon acquired leisure for skating and skiing, popular sports at their home ranch in the Rockies. A river—it would have been a creek in a country of large streams—flowed through the Morton holdings, and its glassy surface offered a resistless invitation to the steel runners. As for the skiing, there were plain and hill for running, climbing, and glissading. While Bailey and Morton were busy at their eternal "fifteen-two, fifteen-four," Peters and Markham were skating or skiing, often with Hesther, who was fond of both sports. The girl, if appearances were to be believed, was rather fond of Markham, also, but had few smiles to waste on Peters.

In his bashful, blundering way, Peters tried to make himself agreeable to Hesther. He was big and awkward, however, and had tow-colored hair, a slow wit, and few graces of speech or manner. His efforts to impress Hesther were overwhelmed by the never-failing persiflage and the rakish dress and carriage of handsome Porter Markham. Markham possessed a confidence in himself that was sublime, a confidence that shone brilliantly in contrast with the clumsy ineffectiveness of Nixon J. Peters.

Peters realized this, and nourished a bitter grudge against his physical and mental shortcomings. He used to dream of a fire at the ranch, in which he posed as a hero, and bore the fair Hesther to safety from the ranch house, through a furnace of flames. Then, in his visions, he pictured the girl as taking his hand and humbly asking his forgiveness for her failure to perceive his sterling qualities from the first. During such moments of illusion the Saphead was almost happy. But the ranch house never took fire, and the chance to prove himself a hero by rescuing Hesther Morton was denied by fate.

In mid-January, however, an opportunity presented itself, through the winter sports at Devil's Lake. Markham and Peters entered themselves in the ski-jumping contest and skating race. They drove the fifty miles which separated Morton's from the lake, and Hesther went with them, to see the "carnival of sports" and to spend a night or two with relatives in Devil's Lake City. Again Peters had dreams; but now, on the homeward drive, every hope was shattered, and he longed for a period of blank obscurity and complete retirement.

He could have declared that one of his skis had been tampered with, and that one of his skate straps had been all but cut through with the point of a knife. Examination made him sure of both facts, yet it had not occurred to him to "sob." He had blundered in not making certain of his skis and skates beforehand, so he could not see how any one but himself was at fault. As he crouched in the back seat of the sleigh he considered requesting Uncle Silas Goddard to recall him to the Montana headquarters. There, at least, he would be rid of Markham, and cut off forever from the demoralizing and disdainful eyes of Hesther.

Yes, he would go back to the home ranch, and he would do this in spite of something which he knew, and which was very important to his future. It was common knowledge that a place of preferment was to be given by Uncle Silas either to Peters or to Markham—a foremanship at a newer ranch, with a chance to acquire an interest in the horses and cattle. Reece Bailey was watching Peters and Markham, and on his report Uncle Silas would act. To retire from the North Dakota venture of the ranchowner now would cut Peters off entirely from promotion, and drop the plum in Porter Markham's hand. But Peters, in the bitterness of his heart, was allowing nothing aside from his own peace of mind to influence him. Yes, he would ask Uncle Silas to recall him to Montana.

"You still there, Nix?" Markham suddenly asked, turning to look rearward.

Peters grunted.

"You're so blamed quiet," went on Markham, with a laugh, "that I reckoned you might have taken another header into the snow, back a ways on the trail."

Hesther joined in the laugh, and, in spirit, poor Peters writhed.

The short day was closing, and the sun went down beyond the white horizon in cold glory. They were five miles from Morton's, and Markham had driven the horses so hard that they were nearly fagged. They breathed wheezingly, and frost coated their heaving sides. The pace dragged, in spite of Markham's relentless use of the whip.

"Anyhow," spoke up Peters suddenly, "you might think of the team a little. Porter. They're near tuckered."

"Who's doing this driving?" cried Markham. "I never yet had to ask a saphead for advice in handling horses." And again the whip fell on the straining flanks.

Peters clenched his fists in the bearskin gloves. It occurred to him that he could lift Markham bodily out of the front seat, take his place, and do the driving himself; but he did not.

The horses struggled on, and in the falling dark the travelers topped a "rise" that gave them a dim view of the buildings of Morton's ranch. A light showed in one of the ranch-house windows like a star, and toward it Markham drove, and presently halted at the door.

"Now that I've handled the reins all the way from Devil's Lake, Nix," remarked Markham, as he jumped out, and helped Hesther to alight, "I allow it's up to you to take care of the team. Cold, Essie?"

"Not a bit," the girl answered, and hurried toward the door. Markham followed her, and Peter drove on to the stable.

As he unhitched and brought the horses into the shelter, he was a little surprised to discover that there were no other animals in the place. The team was Morton's, but Bailey's cow horse, together with those of Peters and Markham, should have been in the stable; unless Bailey was out at the corral and shelter sheds, looking after the fifty range horses that were kept there.

Peters lighted a lantern, removed the harness from the horses, and, after putting hay in the mangers, began rubbing the animals down with an old gunny sack. He was hard at this when a call reached his ears from the house: "Peters! This way—on the jump!"

It was Markham's voice, and there was a note of alarm in it that startled Peters. Lantern in hand, he hurried out of the stable and made his way to the house. Flinging the door wide, he crossed the threshold into the ranch-house sitting room.

"What's wrong, Porter?" he asked.

The "cannon-ball" stove glowed with heat. That, and the bright oil lamp, dazzled Peters' eyes for the moment, and he could not see what was going on in the room.

"Bailey has been hurt," came the voice of Markham. "Every horse in the herd has been driven off by thieves—and they even took Bailey's mount with the rest. Biggest outrage that ever happened in these parts! I'd like to know what the blamed country is coming to!"

The blur lifted from before Peters' eyes. He saw Bailey, his face twisted with pain, lying on a couch. Mrs. Morton bent over him, bathing a wounded shoulder from a basin of hot water. Her husband was walking up and down, fuming and sputtering. Markham stood beside the couch, looking down at the foreman with a queer expression on his face. Hesther, all excited, was removing her wraps with shaking hands.

"Horses stolen!" gasped Peters, dazed by the weird calamity. "How could it happen? Is Bailey badly hurt?"

"Don't stand there gawping!" fussed Morton. "Something has got to be done, and it's up to you and Markham to do it. A gang of scoundrels from across the line made off with the stock; and it's been no more than three hours since it happened. Take my team and get to Roscommon. The sheriff's got to be notified. Bailey says the thieves are making for the north, and if you and Markham are quick a posse can get between the gang and the boundary line. For heaven's sake, Peters, wake up!"

Peters shook himself, put down the lantern, and came to the side of the couch.

"Why don't Markham wake up?" he asked. "Hasn't he suggested anything yet?"

"Nothing to suggest," Markham answered, flashing a sharp look at Peters. "It's twenty miles to Roscommon, and no chance of getting there ahead of the thieves and the stolen stock. The only animals we can put our hands on are the two that brought us from Devil's Lake, and they are done up. You know that, Peters."

"What about using skates or skis?" inquired Peters. "By thunder, there is a way of getting to Roscommon in time to help the sheriff head off the stolen stock!"

There was a dominant, compelling note in the voice of Peters. It was so unexpected in its assertiveness that every one in the room was startled. His washed-out blue eyes fenced aggressively with the snapping black eyes of Markham.

"Skates or skis!" repeated Markham, his upper lip curling. "Why, it's all of thirty miles to Roscommon, if you follow the crooks o' the river! And how much would you figure it by skis, if you crossed Bear Butte instead of going around it? Talk sense, if you know how, Nix! Don't forget the fellows who rustled our stock have three hours the lead."

"How far will three hours of driving in this snow get the stolen herd?" returned Peters. "The thieves will have a tough job of it. They"

Bailey twisted his flushed face from under the ministering hands of Mrs. Morton. "The varmints are goin' north by the Long Knife Dry Wash," he said, his voice shaking with the pain of his wound. "That's only three miles west of Roscommon. If you boys could get word to the sheriff somehow, I reckon he might head off the raiders with a posse. But if you do anything, you'll have to do it quick. Porter," and his eyes swerved to Markham. "I'm lookin' to you—Uncle Si Goddard is lookin' to you. Nigh on to five thousand dollars' wuth of horses are being pushed to'rds the border, and here I'm helpless to do a thing."

"It don't seem possible to do a thing, Reece," returned Markham. "If we could round up a crowd of men in short order, and take after the thieves on fresh horses, like enough we might overhaul 'em. But where's the riding stock? Why, Morton's nearest neighbor is ten miles away!"

Peters flashed a disapproving glance at Markham, pulled off his bearskin gloves, and slumped down in a chair by the stove. From the pockets of his overcoat he took his skates, also a new strap he had secured in Devil's Lake City. Quickly he replaced the broken strap with the new one.

"You going to try and get to Roscommon by river, Nix?" Morton inquired.

"I figure the chances are better that way than going over Bear Butte on skis," Peters answered. "The river's clean of snow, and mostly the ice is like a lookin'-glass. I'm going to do my best to get word to the sheriff and to start a Roscommon doctor this way to look after Bailey."

"You're locoed!" growled Markham. "It's all right to get a doctor for Reese, here, but there ain't a chance to save the stock this side of the line. Let the raiders get it across the boundary, and then take the matter up with the Canadian Mounted Police. That's my advice."

"If you wait till the stock is out of this country," put in the rancher, "there won't be a chance."

"Not a chance on earth," agreed Bailey. "That outfit o' thieves knowed exactly what they was about. Everything was cut and dried, and somebody sure tipped 'em off regardin' the layout here. I'll bet a thousand ag'inst a chink wash ticket that them bronks will be took care of across the line so'st they can't be located by nobody. Them thieves picked a time when I was alone at the shelter sheds and Porter and Nix was to the winter sports at the lake. They dropped me out o' my saddle without any whys or wherefores, and then made off with my mount and sent a man to the stable for Peters' and Markham's ridin' horses. By the time I covered the mile back to the ranch house the stock was well on the way north. I—I"

He broke off abruptly, clenching his teeth hard as a spasm of pain ran through his body.

"I'll get another coat," remarked Peters, rising from his chair and starting for the door that led to his room. "It won't be possible to make any kind of time in a long overcoat like this." He disappeared.

Markham came to the side of the couch. "If Peters has a chance, Reece," said he, "he'll make a bobble of some kind and spoil it all. That's his way. I better go to Roscommon myself. Peters can use his skates, and take the river trail, and I'll use my skis and go over the butte. I don't think we have a ghost of a show to head off the stock, but it's up to us to see what we can do."

"That's the talk!" exclaimed Morton approvingly. "The thieves had help from this ranch," he added darkly, tossing a significant glance toward the door through which Peters had just passed, "and I haven't got a whole lot of confidence in at least one man around here."

"Peters is square," Bailey averred. "Square as a die. He jest don't seem to have the knack for puttin' his idees across. The man that saves them bronks, Porter," he added significantly, "is goin' to make the biggest kind of a hit with Goddard."

"If any one connects with the sheriff at Roscommon in time to save the bronks," Markham returned, "it will be me." He spoke with a confidence that thrilled every one in the room, and Hesther, if the red in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes were any indication, most of all. "I'll be ready," he finished, moving toward the door, "in about two shakes."

"You must have some hot coffee before you start," said Hesther, "and I'll see that it is ready for you."

Markham was back in the room before Peters had reappeared. He wore a leather coat, and the bottoms of his trousers were laced inside his high shoe tops. Trim and handsome he looked, and ready for a grueling night's work. Hesther was just placing the coffee on the table, and she lifted her eyes to flash a glance of admiration at the young ski runner.

"I'll be ready in a minute, Essie," said Markham, with a nod and a smile.

Taking his skis from a corner of the room, he sat down, laid them across his knees, and proceeded to grease them well from a can which he had brought into the room and had placed on the stove. While he worked, Peters came lumbering in.

Peters had donned a ragged sweater, whose collar came up around his ears. Over this was buttoned a faded and threadbare coat. His old-fashioned skates were under his arm. From beneath the rim of his moth-eaten fur cap his tow hair showed in a sort of fringe. The cap had ear flaps, with strings at their ends. The flaps were loose, and the strings fluttered as he moved his head. His shoes were of cowhide, strong and serviceable, but not at all ornamental. He had tied the bottoms of his trousers to his ankles with pieces of cord.

The contrast between Peters and Markham was very striking. So far as appearances went, Markham had it "on" Peters by about a hundred to one.

"I'm going, too, Nix," observed Markham, laying his skis to one side. "I'll go over the butte, and I've got a month's pay that says I beat you into Roscommon."

"Maybe you will," returned Peters, starting for the outside door.

There was more bitterness in Peters' heart. He believed he understood the situation. Markham had won the ski jump and the skating race, and now he wanted to round off his triumphs by being first to carry the news of the horse thieving to the sheriff. Markham was planning a spectacular bit of work, for Uncle Si Goddard incidentally. Mainly, he was thinking of the effect of his night's success on Hesther Morton.

"Wait, Nixon!" called Mrs. Morton. "Essie has got some hot coffee ready, and you must have a cup before you leave."

The rancher's wife was the only one who ever gave much thought to Peters. She considered him now, when the consideration and confidence of the others seemed to center wholly in Markham.

"Much obliged, Mrs. Morton," Peters answered, "but I don't reckon I'll take the time. You see," he added, as he laid a hand on the doorknob, "it's a case where every minute counts."

Before the good woman could answer, the door had closed behind Peters. Markham pulled up his shoulders in a shrug as he lifted the cup of steaming coffee.

"There's Nixon's first blunder," he remarked. "He has a habit of going it blind, and without giving any preparation to the work ahead of him."

"I hope he won't meet with any accident," murmured Mrs. Morton. "That boy's got a good heart, even if he is a little odd."

"He'll always be a blunderer and a saphead," grunted her husband. "If the stolen horses are recovered, it'll be Markham who makes it possible."

Markham did not tarry long over his coffee. Within a few moments after Peters left he was out in the nipping air. Hesther, a shawl over her head, stepped through the doorway to watch while he crossed the trampled snow around the ranch house and then knelt to thrust the toes of his shoes in the Bilgeri binding of the skis and to buckle the ankle straps. He arose presently, and, shouting a farewell to the girl, glided away over the snowy level gracefully, swiftly, with his ski stick biting into the snow and propelling him onward.

"He's doing a man's work this night,"' murmured Hesther. "and he will win—just as he won at Devil's Lake City carnival." Then she went back into the house, to describe in detail how Peters had lost and Markham had won in the winter sports' contests at the lake.

Puyallup River had many twists and turns in the thirty miles which it covered between Morton's Ranch and Roscommon. Passing within a stone's throw of the ranch house, it flowed almost due north for six miles, then, entering the rough hill country, it doubled back on its course for three miles, rounded the base of Rawson's Bluff, in a four-mile curve, came east by south around the base of Bear Butte, and then curved in a northwesterly direction for the last twelve miles that carried it through the outskirts of the county seat.

Markham, on his skis, could con a direct course to Roscommon, bisecting the river at three points, and finally climbing the butte for a long glissade into the town. That glissade, right into the edge of the settlement, measured ten miles of down grade. The slopes of Bear Butte were smooth, and directly under its crest the descent was steep. A mile of this, and then the course fell away more gently.

Markham, if he made good time to the eastern base of Bear Butte, would very likely reach that particular spot ahead of Peters, for he would have to travel only seven miles, while Peters was going sixteen. Where Markham would lose would be in climbing the butte; and where he would make up his loss would be in the long glissade down the opposite side.

At the river's edge, Peters screwed the skates into his heels, pulled the straps tight, and buckled them, then put on his bearskin gloves and struck out. He was well away toward Rawson's Bluff before Markham made his first crossing of the river, near the ranch house.

The ice was in splendid condition. A strong wind had swept it clean of loose snow, save here and there at the turns, where drifts had formed. Then a slight thaw, a few days before, had been followed by a tightening of the cold, and all rough spots had been smoothed away.

Markham, whose steel runners were the very last word in all-metal skates, excelled as a figure skater. He could cut all sorts of graceful figures on the ice, and, with Hesther Morton, would do a sort of waltz, which the girl seemed to consider rare sport. Peters, on the other hand, was not proficient at that sort of thing. He preferred straight skating, possibly because he realized that fancy capers were quite out of his line. The steel, wood, and leather with which he was shod seemed best adapted to straightaway work, anyhow.

Peters knew every foot of the river between the ranch and Roscommon. He had covered that long stretch of ice several times while getting himself in trim for the skating race at Devil's Lake. There was "white ice" under the shelter of the bluff and the butte, caused by a fall of snow while the first crystals were forming. This had been full of air bubbles, and had been treacherous up to the time the severe frost had followed the thaw. After that the liquefied snow had congealed into a sound and superlative smoothness. There was not a spot to be feared on the entire course.

With long, steady, swinging strokes, Peters swept around the first turn and came south on the stretch which Markham was to cross in order to thread a seam through Rawson's Bluff. But, although the moonlight was brilliant upon the sparkling snow crust, he could see nothing of his rival. It might be, he reasoned, that Markham had already effected his second crossing of the river, and was even then in the gash that cut through the bluff. Peters ground his teeth, and, with his runners ringing musically, passed like a gliding specter around the bluff's base. Three miles farther, and he might obtain a view of Markham as he emerged from the shallow defile and pushed over the open levels toward the butte.

He was having queer thoughts about Markham. Why had the fellow protested against any attempt to reach Roscommon and notify the sheriff? Then, in the face of his protests, why had he determined to pit his skis against Peters' skates—to accomplish the thing which he had averred could not be accomplished?

There was but one answer to this, according to Peters' conclusions. Markham could not bear to think that Peters might succeed, that he might win favorable notice from Uncle Silas, and that he might gain some credit in the eyes of Hesther Morton! Markham was not thinking of saving the horses; no, he was impressed with the idea of his own prestige and importance, and he could not take a chance of losing out to a "saphead." That was all there was to it, so Peters believed.

A determination to win that race and save the stolen stock grew stronger and stronger in Peters' breast. Here, after the miserable failures at Devil's Lake, was a most unexpected opportunity to retrieve himself. It was his business to make the most of it.

Three straight miles lay ahead of him to the westward of the bluff. Coming down the stretch like the wind, he surveyed the shadowy opening of the swale, in the hope of catching a glimpse of Markham. But the ski runner was not in sight. In the distance, the sparkling crest of Bear Butte could be vaguely determined; yet, between the bluff and the butte no dusky figure could be seen toiling on the skis.

"He hasn't cleared the bluff yet," thought Peters exultantly. "I'm leading him, by ginger!"

The river, at the end of the three-mile stretch, described a curve like a gigantic horseshoe. In its first beginning, the stream had attempted to run west by south; meeting the rough country, its course had been deflected toward the northwest; then, striking the wide-spreading base of Bear Butte, it had followed northeast and east on its way around the huge uplift. On clearing the butte, the Puyallup struck off due northwest, and so, in a dozen miles, came to Roscommon.

Peters, although he had not timed himself, knew he had been making excellent speed. He was seventeen miles from the ranch, and coming rapidly under the shadow of the butte. Markham could scarcely climb the massive "rise" and glissade into Roscommon ahead of him. So far as he had been able to discover, Markhani was not yet anywhere near Bear Butte, nor

"Peters! I say, Peters!"

Peters was amazed. Above his ringing steel a sharp cry echoed in the frosty air. It was Markham's voice, and calling his name. Peters dug into the ice with the heels of his runners and came to a quick halt.

"That you, Porter?" he called.

"Yes, Nix. I'm in hard luck. Stop a minute, will you?"

The voice came from a shadowy overhang at the butte's foot. Peters skated toward the black cavity, and was met by the dusky figure of Markham, limping out of the darkness and across the ice. Markham had his skis under his arm.

"By George!" cried Peters. "You got here in a hurry! What's wrong?"

"I fell from a six-foot bank, as I was crossing the river, and splintered one of my skis," was the answer, "and I can't go on with the wood runners. I reckon I'll take your skates," Markham added coolly.

Peters caught his breath. "I reckon you won't," he returned, with spirit. "I'm going on to Roscommon, start the sheriff and a posse for the dry wash, and get a doctor for Bailey. What do you take me for?"

"A saphead—just a plain, everyday saphead," said Markham. "Down on the ice, Peters, and off with those skates! Pronto is the word! There's no time to lose!"

Markham had dropped the skis, and stripped a glove from his right hand. The bare hand was in the pocket of his leather coat. Suddenly, as the two stood facing each other, the hand emerged from the pocket with a short, ugly-looking bulldog revolver. Markham leveled the weapon, and the moonlight glinted frostily on the barrel.

Again Peters caught his breath. He was dazed, bewildered. To be threatened in that manner by one whom he had believed to be a friend—or, if not a friend, at least a fellow employee of Uncle Silas Goddard, with interests in common—was a decided shock.

"You crazy, Porter?" demanded Peters, when he could find his tongue.

"Hardly," was the reply, with a husky, ill-omened laugh. "It will be a long time before you reach Rosmommon, my laddybuck. Take off those skates, I tell you! I mean business, Peters!"

There was that in Markham's words and manner which left no doubt of the fact that he meant business. Peters was wild with indignation and anger, but he was also helpless.

"What'll Reece Bailey say to this, when I tell him?" he asked, dropping to the ice and working at the skate straps.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," was the response. "Throw the skates over here when you get 'em off. You had to butt into this deal with the fool suggestion of getting word to the sheriff, now, blame you, take your medicine!"

"You're bound to win," grunted Peters, "if you have to do it with a gun! You ain't square, Markham. I may be a good deal of a saphead, but I found, when it was too late, that one of my skis and one of my skate straps had been tampered with at Devil's Lake. You did that!"

"Why didn't you tell Hesther about it?" jeered Markham; "or the judges of the contests? Didn't you have nerve enough to put up a holler?" Peters gave the skates a shove across the ice.

Ten feet away, Markham sat down to screw the skates to his heels and adjust the straps. The revolver lay at his side, and he watched Peters sharply as he worked.

Peters, a desperate purpose forming in his mind, was awaiting the moment when he could spring to the attack. He was not to be conquered in that way. There was plenty of fight in him, and Markham would discover it to his cost.

Markham worked rapidly. The skates were on, and snugly buckled, and he was just rising when Peters went after him, with a short run and a slide. But if Peters was quick, Markham was a shade quicker.

Crack!

The revolver exploded in the air, and Peters' left arm seemed suddenly to have been scorched with a hot iron. The shock caused him to lose his footing, and he fell in a sprawl on the slippery surface of the river.

"You would have it!" shouted Markham fiercely. "That's something more for you to tell Bailey!"

The last words faded in mellow ring of sliding steel. Peters, sitting up on the ice, and clasping his numbed arm with his right hand, watched Markham slip from sight around the curve at the foot of Bear Butte.

Peters was thinking less of the pain in his arm than he was of the rascally work of Peter Markham. The fellow must be mad, to make such an attack! He had planned the whole thing, of course, and had armed himself before leaving Morton's. Reaching the butte ahead of Peters, he had gone into hiding against the moment Peters should come skating down the river. Then, by way of making his treachery more contemptible, he had called to Peters for help, only to threaten him with a revolver and steal his skates.

"You bet I'll tell Bailey!" muttered Peters. "I reckon this'll cook your goose with Goddard, even if you do get to Roscommon in time to have the sheriff head off the bronks! What can a fellow make of a man like him, acting thataway?"

With difficulty, Peters removed his coat and shoved up the shirt and sweater sleeves. The wound was in the forearm, and was bleeding profusely. With a bandanna handkerchief he bound up the injury tightly, knotting the handkerchief corners with his fingers and his teeth; then, getting into his coat again, he began considering his next move.

It was twelve miles by river to Roscommon, and eighteen miles back to the ranch. Even if it was now useless for him to get to the town, in order to carry the news of the horse stealing to the sheriff, returning to Morton's would have been a fierce pull on his strength, and he dared not attempt it. He would make his way to Roscommon. If he could reach the settlement before Markham left it, he would lodge a complaint against the treacherous scoundrel, and have him held in the town jail. Peters was burning for revenge. Yes, that is what he would do.

He got up, feeling a little dizzy and faint, and started down the river. His feet struck against Markham's skis, and another idea came to him. Perhaps he could tinker up the splintered ski and use the runners. After the accident that had lost him the jump at Devil's Lake, Peters had bought a little fine wire for the mending of his own broken runner. That wire was still in his trousers pocket, and it might be that he could use it in fixing Markham's splintered ski.

Picking up both runners, and holding the damaged one between his knees, he struck a match and made a careful examination. The stout ash had been cracked under the binding mechanism. A few wraps of fine wire might yet make the runner serve. With his jackknife, Peters dug a shallow groove across the ski's bottom, and in this he imbedded the half dozen coils of wire that he wove over and over and made fast on the upper surface.

For himself, he had never fancied that Bilgeri binding. Although light, and well made, it was not nearly so strong or dependable as the Lilienfield binding, with which Peters' own skis were equipped.

Peters' work had been done at a tremendous disadvantage. He could work with one hand only, and in lieu of his other hand he made shift to use his teeth. The moon, although brilliant, left much to be desired in the matter of light for such fine and exacting labor, and sense of touch had to help him where that of sight failed. In the main, however, he did very well, all things considered, and when he had secured his feet in the bindings he arose on the ash runners with a feeling of exultation in his breast. Where was the stick? His search for it carried him to the overhang, and there he found, not only the ski stick, but two strips of gunny sacking, each heavily knotted in the middle.

Those strips of sacking rather puzzled Peters. Markham had brought them as an aid in getting up the steep eastern slope of the butte. But why had he prepared himself with them if his object was to waylay Peters and secure the skates?

"Markham always figures a matter out both ways," Peters reflected. "He brought the gun to help corral the skates, but, if I happened to beat him to the butte, then he'd have to keep right on over the rise. If he couldn't do one thing, then he was ready to do the other. What's more, he splintered that ski a-purpose, and he didn't do it until he knew I was behind him at the overhang. He didn't want me to have a chance to use the ski, that's all. It never occurred to him that I'd have something along to use in patchin' up the runner. That's once, anyhow, that a saphead fooled him."

Peters shuffled his way to a point beyond the overhang, then paused to tie the strips of cloth around the skis, knot side down. This maneuver would help to keep him from sliding backward.

He flashed an upward look at the difficult grade he was to negotiate. If his heart failed him for a moment, because of his useless arm and the shock his whole body had suffered because of the wound, it only resulted in letting him get a firmer grip on his resolution and strength. The wound was nothing serious, being merely a clean gash through the fleshy part of the forearm. He would not allow it to endanger the success of his night's exploit. Markham must be made to suffer for his lawlessness, and it was up to Peters to see that he did not escape.

The first easy slopes of the butte were taken just as one might travel over level ground—a forward movement, in long, gliding steps. The skis were merely advanced, never lifted. As the ascent stiffened, Peters turned out the ends of the runners slightly, in what is known as the "half fishbone step." There was a trick in this, and Peters had long since acquired it. Steeper and steeper became the course as the snowy slope was climbed, and the full fishbone step was gradually brought into requisition.

For such a long ascent the work was extremely tiring, and Peters was forced to do a number of "serpentines," tacking back and forth, and executing the difficult "about face" at each turn.

A good deal of time was required in making the climb, but Peters' handicap of awkwardness had taught him how to be patient and doggedly resolute in carrying out his aims. He kept unflinchingly to his tiresome task, and in due course was rewarded by finding himself on the flat crest of Bear Butte, ready for the long glissade. By this time his sporting blood was aroused, and he looked forward with keen enjoyment to the breathlessly swift glide that lay ahead of him.

He rested a few moments, tucked the hand of his injured arm into the front of his coat, removed the knotted strips from the runners, took firm hold of the ski stick, and then let himself over the butte's crest.

With skis so close together that they touched, the point of one leading the other by a foot, body not bent, but inclined forward, Peters was off down the steep slope like a bullet out of a gun.

He was at a disadvantage in not having both hands for use with the stick. Where it was necessary to brake, and avoid a small crevasse or a bowlder, Peters did it entirely with the skis, by executing the "telemark swing." It was not often that he was confronted by such an emergency, but he was proficient in that method of dodging possible disaster, and unhesitatingly availed himself of it.

At lightning speed he shot down the butte, the air humming in his ears and snowy particles stinging his face. His exhilaration mounted higher and higher. In his delight over the coasting he forgot the stolen horses, the treachery of Markham, and the reprisal he was counting upon when he should reach Roscommon. His every faculty was called into play, and busied itself with the flying skis to the exclusion of everything else.

The slope flattened, and Peters' speed lessened perceptibly, although he was still going at a rate comparable to that of a limited express train. On and on, mile after mile, his sensation was that of one falling through space. He scarcely realized that he had any connection whatever with the white-clad earth beneath him.

At last, in the distance, he saw a twinkling light, and a confused blur of buildings. Roscommon! The town jumped toward him as though crazily bent on fouling his course. He gave rather more attention to Roscommon than to the slope ahead of him, and suddenly he pitched into the air as the runners hit an obstacle. He fell with the skis braided around his neck, fell, hard upon the cleared tracks of the Roscommon railroad yards, and so suddenly that he had no time to realize he had gone over the embankment at the side of the network of rails.

Instinctively he tried to lift himself, only to drop in an awkward huddle, with a blaze of shooting stars crisscrossing before his eyes. Then the bright lights faded, and Nixon J. Peters quietly went to sleep.

When Peters awoke, he found himself on a bench in the railroad station. A local train was expected, and there had been men on the station platform when Peters shot over the railroad embankment and hit the tracks. Three or four of the men went forward to investigate the strange phenomenon, and they were the ones who had brought Peters into the waiting room. They had no more than laid him down, and stripped off his skis, when he opened his eyes.

"Sheriff gone to the dry wash yet?" he inquired faintly.

A man bent over him. "I'm Jordan, the sheriff," said he. "What dry wash do you mean? Why should I go there?"

"Has—hasn't Markham reached town?" went on Peters.

"Haven't seen a thing of Markham. Oh!" Jordan exclaimed. "I know you now. You are Bailey's man, Peters, from the Morton Ranch. Why were you sliding into town, at this time o' night, on a pair of skis? Thunder! It was as much as your life was worth! You"

"A gang of horse thieves ran off our horses—more'n fifty of 'em," cut in Peters wildly. "It happened early in the evening. Get a posse, Jordan, and head off the gang at Long Knife Dry Wash. When Markham shows up, leave somebody in town to arrest him. He shot me in the arm. And send a doctor to Morton's to look after Bailey. He's wounded, too! I"

Then Peters went to sleep again. When he next came to himself, and picked up the chain of events, he was in a bed in a room at the Roscommon House. Broad day looked in at the room windows, and Peters could gaze dreamily out at roofs covered with snow, and sparkling under the sun's rays as though covered with diamonds. Hours had passed since he had had the brief awakening in the railroad station. Now he was in a comfortable bed, his left arm neatly bandaged, and Toynbee, the proprietor of the hotel, was sitting beside him.

"Did they get Markham, Toynbee?" asked Peters.

The landlord was reading a newspaper. He jumped in his chair as the unexpected words reached him from the bed.

"Oh, you're back, eh?" said he. "You've been a long time on the road, although the doctor said we needn't to mind. Get Markham? Well, I guess!" And Toynbee chuckled. "Jordan got him, and four others, along with the stolen horses. They were pushing through the dry wash when the sheriff and his party arrived there. You bet they got him, Peters, and red-handed at that. Big surprise to everybody. Why, Markham had put the whole thing up! He was back of the entire scheme! It has all come out. Markham won't talk, but the rest of the gang feel different. Across the line there were men waiting to take the horses and rush 'em off where they'd never be found. Say! I guess you ought to have a medal for what you did last night! How are you feeling, anyhow?"

Peters was stunned. Porter Markham one of the horse thieves! Could Peters believe his ears? Markham had had a reason for driving the horses off their feet on the return from Devil's Lake. With all the other stock taken from Morton's, it had been Markham's plan to make the sleigh team useless, so far as a drive of twenty miles to Roscommon, with news for the sheriff, was concerned; and Markham had protested against Peters' plan of using skates in carrying an alarm to Roscommon; but when the method had been put into effect, in spite of him, Markham had taken to the skis and had waylaid Peters at the eastern foot of Bear Butte. In the light of recent events, the motive for that attack could be seen at an even more treacherous angle. Markham's scheme was not to beat Peters to Roscommon with news for the sheriff, but to keep all knowledge of the robbery from the authorities until the stolen horses had been delivered across the line. Instead of making for the town, after securing Peters' skates, Markham had followed the river bends beyond the town, to a point where he could join his rascally confederates with the horse herd.

"How do you feel, Peters?" repeated Toynbee, after waiting a long time for a reply.

"Mighty nigh locoed," said Peters.

"No wonder! Say, you hit the railroad iron with your head when you went over the embankment. Any other head but yours would probably have been cracked."

"You can't crack a saphead," commented Peters, but not in bitterness.

Next day, when Peters was thinking of getting out of his bed and helping drive the horses back to the ranch, no less a person than Uncle Silas Goddard walked into his room. Uncle Silas was an iron-gray man, big and broad, and with a regular heart under his ribs. He had received a telegram, signed Reece Bailey, per Morton, and had come to North Dakota by first train.

There were greetings, not those of a pleased employer for a worthy employee, but more in line with what one's next of kin might say in circumstances altogether creditable. Bailey was "coming fine," and would be on the job again in two or three weeks; and Peters, the doctor said, would be fit as a fiddle in seven days, at the outside. The horses were on the way back to Morton's.

"What about Markham?" queried Peters.

Uncle Silas Goddard's cheery face grew troubled. Well, Markham was only a boy, and a very foolish one. He had had a hard lesson. No stock had been lost, and Uncle Silas felt that he ought not to be too hard on Markham. He was going to let Markham go, on a promise to leave the country and make something of himself in other parts. Any one at all acquainted with Uncle Silas might have known he would do that very thing.

"As for you, Nixon," the big ranch-owner went on, "there's a job waiting in Montana for a chap of your heft and disposition. But do you want to return to the home ranch?" he asked quizzically. "Miss Hesther Morton sends a very kindly message to you by me. She is sorry for a lot of things, she says, and hopes to see you right soon."

But Nixon J. Peters had seen another light. He recalled his saphead dreams of rescuing Hesther from a burning house, and the shamed red stained his cheeks to the tow-colored hair.

"Miss Morton, all at once, is wasting her consideration on the wrong party, Uncle Silas," said Peters. "I'm for Montana as soon as you want me there."

"Good!" exclaimed Uncle Silas, and clasped Peters' hand with a fervor that suggested not only good will but hearty congratulations.