At many places on the prairie the
haymakers were loading the great wagons; here and there a fallow field
was burning; yonder a house was building; cattle were being rounded up;
and far off, like moving specks, ranchmen were climbing the hills where
the wild bronchos were, for a day of the toughest, most thrilling sport
which the world knows.
Night fell, and found Orlando making for the trail between what was known
as the Company's Ranch and Tralee. To reach his own ranch, he had to
cross it at an angle near the Tralee homestead. It was dark, with no
moon, but the stars were bright.
As he crossed the Tralee trail, he suddenly heard a cry for help. Between
him and where the sound came from was a fire burning. It was the
camp-fire of some prairie pioneer making for a new settlement in the
North; and beside it was a tent whose owner was absent in Askatoon.
Orlando dug heels into his horse and rode for the point from which the
cry for help had come. Something was undoubtedly wrong. The voice was
that of one in real trouble--a hoarse, strangled sort of voice.
As he galloped through the light of the camp-fire, a pistol-shot rang
out, and he felt a sharp, stinging pain in his side. Still urging his
horse, he cleared the little circle of light and presently saw a man
rapidly mounting a horse, while two others struggled on the ground.
He dashed forward. As he did so, one of the men on the ground freed
himself, sprang to his feet, mounted his horse, and was away into the
night with his companion.
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