"Shut your mouth, ye crazy thing!" exclaimed the man, and he leaped toward her. Frances threw herself back upon the ground. She heard the clatter of hoofbeats approaching. They could be mistaken for no other sound. "Daddy! Daddy! Help! Help!" Her voice was piercing. The cry for her father was involuntary, for she believed him too ill to leave the ranch-house. But the answering shout that came down the wind was unmistakable. "Daddy! Daddy!" Frances cried again, eagerly, loudly. Pete was about to strike her; but he darted back and stood erect. The horses were plunging madly down the hillside through the brush. The party of rescue was already upon the camp. The scoundrelly Pete leaped away to reach his own horse. He must have found the creature quickly in the darkness; for before the men from the Bar-T pulled in their horses before the smouldering campfire, Frances heard the rush of Pete's old pony as it dashed away down the stream. "Daddy!" cried Frances for a third time. "We're here--Pratt and I. Look out for Pratt; he's hurt. I'm all right." "Somebody throw some brush on that fire!" commanded the old ranchman. "Let's see what's been doing here." "Sam, take a couple of the boys and go after that fellow. You can follow that horse by sound." He climbed stiffly out of his own saddle, and when the firelight flashed up revealing the little glade to better purpose, it was Captain Dan Rugley who lifted Frances to her feet and cut her bonds. CHAPTER XXVI FRANCES IN SOFTER MOOD It was the next day but one and the _hacienda_ and compound lay bathed in the hot sun of noon-day. Captain Dan Rugley was leaning back in his usual hard chair and in his usual attitude on the veranda, fairly soaking up the rays of the orb of day. "Beats all the medicine for rheumatism in the doctor's shop!" he was wont to declare. Since his night ride to rescue his daughter he had become more like his old self than he had been for weeks. The excitement seemed to have chased away the last twinges of pain for the time being, and he was without fever. Now he was watching a swift pony-rider coming his way along the trail and listening to the patter of light footsteps coming down the broad stairway behind him. "Here comes Sam, Frances," the ranchman said, in a low voice. "I reckon he'll have some news." The girl came to the door. She had discarded her riding habit and was dressed in a soft, clinging house gown, cut low at the throat and giving her arms freedom to the elbow. She wore pretty stockings and pretty slippers on her feet. Instead of a quirt she carried a fan in her hand and there was a handkerchief tucked into her belt. The chrysalis of the cowgirl had burst and this butterfly had emerged. Of late it was not often that Frances had "dolled up," as the old Captain called it. Now he said, enthusiastically: "My! you do look sweet! What's all the dolling up for? Me? The Chinks? Or maybe that boy upstairs, eh?"