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Grizzly Weber and Budd Hankinson would stay near the cattle for an indefinite time, and he was debating whether to join them or to ride on to the ranch of Dick Hawkridge, a number of miles to the northeast, when his meditations were broken in upon in the most startling manner.
It was doubtless due to this discovery that her visiting cards had been engraved to read "Mrs. H. Judson-Terwilliger," the hyphen presumably being a typographical error, for which the engraver was responsible. "Matter enough," growled Hankinson. "I have reason to believe that that jackass of a ghost is on duty to-night."
"I wish it was; but a couple of hours ago, Hankinson, who had ridden a considerable distance beyond the grazing grounds, came in with the report that a large body of men were camped in a valley a mile or so further on. There must be fifty at least." Capt. Asbury emitted a low whistle. "Rustlers again! By and by we'll have all there are in Wyoming swarming about this house."
Hugh Whitney's herd of cattle numbered several thousand, and, on the day when we take up the eventful history of the family, they were grazing on the open ranges along the spurs of the Big Horn Mountains. The two cowmen engaged by Whitney to assist him in the duty of looking after his property were Budd Hankinson and Grizzly Weber. They were veterans in the business, brave and true and tried.
Accordingly, a halt was made while yet a considerable way off, and Budd Hankinson went forward on foot to reconnoitre. Upon his report must depend the action of the stockmen. The fellow was gone more than three-quarters of an hour, and when he came back he brought astounding news. Not a solitary rustler was to be found anywhere near the ranch.
Now the spectre hasn't birth, we can't get any living duke to marry her, dead dukes are hard to find, so there's nothing to do but to buy her a title." "But where?" "In Italy. You can get 'em by the dozen. Every hand-organ grinder in America grinds away in the hope of going back to Italy and purchasing a title. Why can't you do the same?" "Me? Me grind a hand-organ in America?" cried Hankinson.
He looked the angry man full in the eye, and the half-raised fist of the commander fell again. "Then if I'm captain, I'm going to be obeyed!" came next. "I order you below, Jepson. You're no longer mate of this craft. You're deposed! Hen Lacomb, I hereby appoint you first mate until my regular one recovers, and you, Hankinson, you're second mate. Lively now.
They were driving a lot of mavericks toward their ranch down the river, when Budd Hankinson saw a steer among them with our brand. You know it a sort of cross with father's initials. Without asking for its return, Budd called them a gang of thieves, cut out the steer and drove him toward our range.
"No; I have business elsewhere," was the curt answer, as the fellow wheeled and spurred off on a gallop. Budd Hankinson and Grizzly Weber, the two hired men, were absent, looking after the cattle, for the rustler is a night hawk who often gets in the best part of his work between the set and rise of sun. Mrs. Whitney was sitting in the gloom, alone in her sorrow.
They were with the party not far off, and, aside from the call for help of the imperilled stockmen, the prospect of capturing those fellows was sufficient warrant for a prompt movement. Within half an hour after Jennie Whitney's meeting with Budd Hankinson the party of half a hundred were galloping westward, she riding at the head, with Maj.
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