The Alarm and Preparations for Defence.  
“From what you say I should think that my friend Brooke won’t have much trouble in findin’ Traitor’s Trap,” remarked Dick Darvall, pausing in the disposal of a venison steak which had been cooked by the fair bands of Mary Jackson herself, “but I’m sorely afraid o’ the reception he’ll meet with when he gets there, if the men are such awful blackguards as you describe.”
 
“They’re the biggest hounds unhung,” growled Roaring Bull, bringing one hand down on the board by way of emphasis, while with the other he held out his plate for another steak.
 
“You’re too hard on some of them, father,” said Mary, in a voice the softness of which seemed appropriate to the beauty of her face.
 
“Always the way wi’ you wenches,” observed the father. “Some o’ the villains are good-lookin’, others are ugly; so, the first are not so bad as the second—eh, lass?”
 
Mary laughed. She was accustomed to her fathers somewhat rough but not ill-natured rebuffs.
 
“Perhaps I may be prejudiced, father,” she returned; “but apart from that, surely you would never compare Buck Tom with Jake the Flint, though they do belong to the same band.”
 
“You are right, my lass,” rejoined her father. “They do say that Buck Tom is a gentleman, and often keeps back his boys from devilry—though he can’t always manage that, an’ no wonder, for Jake the Flint is the cruellest monster ’tween this an’ Texas if all that’s said of him be true.”
 
“I wish my comrade was well out o’ their clutches,” said Dick, with a look of anxiety; “an’ it makes me feel very small to be sittin’ here enjoyin’ myself when I might be ridin’ on to help him if he should need help.”
 
“Don’t worry yourself on that score,” said the host. “You couldn’t find your way without a guide though I was to give ye the best horse in my stable—which I’d do slick off if it was of any use. There’s not one o’ my boys on the ranch just now, but there’ll be four or five of ’em in to-morrow by daylight an’ I promise you the first that comes in. They all know the country for three hundred miles around—every inch—an’ you may ride my best horse till you drop him if ye can. There, now, wash down your victuals an’ give us a yarn, or a song.”
 
“I’m quite sure,” added Mary, by way of encouragement, “that with one of the outlaws for an old friend, Mr Brooke will be quite safe among them.”
 
“But he’s not an outlaw, Miss Mary,” broke in Darvall. “Leastwise we have the best reason for believin’ that he’s detained among them against his will. Hows’ever, it’s of no use cryin’ over spilt milk. I’m bound to lay at anchor in this port till mornin’, so, as I can’t get up steam for a song in the circumstances, here goes for a yarn.”
 
The yarn to which our handsome seaman treated his audience was nothing more than an account of one of his numerous experiences on the ocean, but he had such a pleasant, earnest, truth-like, and confidential way of relating it and, withal, interlarded his speech with so many little touches of humour, that the audience became fascinated, and sat in open-eyed forgetfulness of all else. Buttercup, in particular, became so engrossed as to forget herself as well as her duties, and stood behind her master in an expectant attitude, glaring at the story-teller, with bated breath, profound sympathy, and extreme readiness to appreciate every joke whether good or bad.
 
In the midst of one of the most telling of his anecdotes the speaker was suddenly arrested by the quick tramp of a galloping horse, the rider of which, judging from the sound, seemed to be in hot haste.
 
All eyes were turned inquiringly on the master of the ranch. That cool individual, rising with quiet yet rapid action, reached down a magazine repeating rifle that hung ready loaded above the door of the room.
 
Observing this, Dick Darvall drew a revolver from his coat-pocket and followed his host to the outer door of the house. Mary accompanied them, and Buttercup retired to the back kitchen as being her appropriate stronghold.
 
They had hardly reached and flung open the door when Bluefire came foaming and smoking into the yard with Crux the cow-boy on his back.
 
“Wall, Roaring Bull,” cried Crux, leaping off his horse and coming forward as quietly as if there were nothing the matter. “I’m glad to see you OK, for the Cheyenne Reds are on the war-path, an’ makin’ tracks for your ranch. But as they’ve not got here yet, they won’t likely attack till the moon goes down. Is there any chuck goin’? I’m half starved.”
 
“Ay, Crux, lots o’ chuck here. Come in an’ let’s hear all about it. Where got ye the news?”
 
“Hunky Ben sent me. He wasn’t thinkin’ o’ you at first but when a boy came in wi’ the news that a crowd o’ the reds had gone round by Pine Hollow—just as he was fixin’ to pull out for Quester Creek to rouse up the cavalry—he asked me to come on here an’ warn you.”
 
While he was speaking the cow-boy sat down to supper with the air of a man who meant business, while the host and his sailor guest went to look after the defences of the place.
 
“I’m glad you are here, Dick Darvall,” said the former, “for it’s a bad job to be obliged to fight without help agin a crowd o’ yellin’ Reds. My boys won’t be back till sun-up, an’ by that time the game may be played out.”
 
“D’ee think the Redskins ’ll attack us to-night then?” asked the sailor as he assisted to close the gates of the yard.
 
“Ay, that they will, lad. They know the value o’ time better than most men, and, when they see their chance, are not slow to take advantage of it. As Crux said, they won’t attack while the moon shines, so we have plenty of time to git ready for them. I wish I hadn’t sent off my boys, but as bad luck would have it a bunch o’ my steers have drifted down south, an’ I can’t afford to lose them—so, you see, there’s not a man left in the place but you an’ me an’ Crux to defend poor Mary.”
 
For the first time in his life Dick Darvall felt a distinct tendency to rejoice over the fact that he was a young and powerful man! To l............