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Updated: June 16, 2025
They were comparing ambitions two young men unusually alike in features but very different in temperament and will-power. John Rivière, the elder of the two, was dreaming of fame in the paths of science he had worked his way through M'Gill University and was hoping for a demonstratorship to keep him in living expenses.
"That fellow asleep on the wagon-seat? Lots of good he is as an escort," laughed Pratt. "But I don't really need you," said the girl, weakly. "Oh! don't be so offish!" cried the young man, more seriously. "Don't you suppose I'd be glad of the chance to ride with you for a way?" "But your friends " "You're a friend of mine," said Pratt, seriously. "I don't like the look of that Ratty M'Gill.
Another mile and the collectors were announcing as brazenly as if they challenged the few "Spigs" on board to correct them, "Peter M'Gill! Peter M'Gill!" We were already moving on again before I had guessed that by this noise they designated none other than the famous Pedro Miguel. The sun rose suddenly as we swung sharply to the left and rumbled across a girderless bridge.
He wore a stubble of beard that did not disguise the sneering mouth, or the wickedly leering expression of his eyes. "Well, I done my part, old fellow," drawled the man in the seat of the buckboard, just as Frances came within earshot. "'Tain't my fault you bungled it." Frances stopped instead of going on. It was Ratty M'Gill!
"That's the kind of a spirit I like to see you show, Frances," he declared, patting her hand. "If those punchers don't do what you tell 'em, bounce 'em! They've got to learn what you say goes just as though I spoke myself. And Ratty M'Gill never was worth the powder to blow him to Halifax," concluded the ranchman, vigorously. Frances was glad her father approved of her action.
Frances grew restive under his leering smile and forced gaiety. She searched M'Gill sharply with her look. "You didn't gallop out of your way to tell me this," she said. "What do you want of me?" "Oh, just to say how-de-do!" declared the fellow, still with his leering smile. "And to wish you a good journey." "What do you know about my journey?" asked Frances, quickly.
Ratty M'Gill was the culprit, of course; nor did he hear Frances' cry as she arrived at the corral. He had bestridden the nervous pinto and Molly was "acting up." Ratty had his rope around her neck and a loop around her lower jaw, as Indians guide their half-wild steeds. At every bound the puncher jerked the pony's jaw downward and raked her flanks with his cruel spurs.
The Staff-College Colonel was no doubt formidable; the Commander-in-Chief, who had hitherto allowed himself to be much talked to on the subject of young Warkworth's claims by several men in high place General M'Gill among them well known in Lady Henry's drawing-room, was perhaps inclining to the new suggestion, which was strongly supported by important people in Egypt; he had one or two recent appointments on his conscience not quite of the highest order, and the Staff-College man, in addition to a fine military record, was virtue, poverty, and industry embodied; was nobody's cousin, and would, altogether, produce a good effect.
Several of the Black-and-Whites, who had heard about the proposed "meeting," had a secret consultation with Ned M'Gill and Davie Merricks, who, it was whispered, had taken the friendly job of "seconds," and the whole affair was "adjusted." With swords this was impossible, and they resolved to resort to the respectable and honourable weapon, the revolver.
Although Molly stood shaking and quivering, the girl slipped the bit between her jaws and buckled the straps in a moment. She held the pony, but did not attempt to lead her toward the saddling shed. "M'Gill," Frances said, sharply, "you go to Silent Sam and get your time and come to the house this noon for your pay. You'll never bestride another pony on this ranch. Do you hear me?"
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