The Washburn times. [volume] (Washburn, Wis.) 1896-1976, 1919-03-06
Brad Merre1l,
Guardian
o<D
(Copyright.)
BY HERBERT II. GOODWIN

There was vituperation loud and
deep on Turkey Greek. The owner of
the ranch, himself temporarily brought
low by a refractory cayuse, was ex-
pecting a visitor from the East-his
niece-and Brad Merrell had been told
off to act as her guide, if not philoso-
pher and friend.
Brad was the steadiest man on the
ranch. This fact was enough for his
employer. He was also the worst
woman-hater. This fact made it too
much for Brad.
"Why couldn't it hev been Paper
Collar Joe?" he demanded collectively
and fiercely of the men, as they
loitered outside the clubhouse. He'd
hev been like a high-stepper with a
new harness on. He'd sooner talk soft
to a woman than rope the liveliest
steer that ever bellered. But me! l
won't hev nothin' to do with her. I'll
take my time in the lnornin', I'll light
out overnight--Ill burn down the
whole ranch p
''Now, Brad" wheedled Tom Mason,
affectiOnately known as Old Soft Soap,
by reason of his peacemaking procliv-
ities-"Iow, Brad, jest stop an think.
we've yer own nice little place up on
Turkey creek, where We kin look after
it handy, an all plans made fer the
summer. Whut would We do with the
rest of the season eff We take yer time
now? Yer place is rented, it's too late
to get taken on anywhere else, an
ye'd only lope Ground an spend yer
wad. This tenderfoot gal I'll only stay
a few weeks, an it'll be rest fer
ye-''
"Rest!" beloved Brad. "Restl It'll
wreck every nerve in my carcass.
Old Soft Soap prevailed, however,
in the end. Next morning Brad start
ed for the railroad, as lamb begins
it's journey to the shambles, yet with
a most unlamblike mien and accouter-
ment, for his pistol-belt and dirk, his
leathern "chaps" and rakish sombrero,
proclaimed him 'bad man." indeed.
The Overland Limited was late, and
the engine seemed to puff and whistle
its disgust at being stopped at the lit
tie station that raised itself above the
surrounding sea of grass. With much
complaining and creaking it halted for
moment, and then it's rafting links
climbed slowly up the rise.
Brad looked for q mass Of furbelows
and Saratoga trunk, but the platform
was vacant except for an ample fe-
male, standing beside bullying carpet
bag, heap of boxes and bundles, and
a shrouded bird cage.
'She amt come" muttered Brad,
his skies Frightening.
The ample figure bore down upon
him like ship under sail. 1t was sur
mounted by pleasant face of florid
complexion, beneath a broad hat and a
veil of grass green.
,'Can you tell ,me if Turkey Creek
ranch is anywhere near here?" she
asked.
''Yes, ma'am," answered Brad, awk-
wardly pulling at his hatbrim; "it's
only about twenty-five miles over east.
Was We wantin' to go there?"
"That's what / came for" she re-
piled promptly. 'Tm Orphelia Gordon,
an I've come to visit my uncle, John
Taylor"
"Ye're Orph--Miss Gordon!' ex-
claimed Brad. "Why, 1 thought" he
obaolyad b;,ncoJf cuddanlv
"Yes, l spose you did think was
young GIRL" she retorted. "No harm
done. was once, an if I amt so
good-looking as was then, know q
heap more. If you've come for me,
don't let's lose any time, but help me
get my baggage loaded, an we'll be
startin'."
The cage cover fell apart, and
brilliant red and green head appeared.
1t cooked itself impertinently on one
side, one beady eye looked Brad over
from head to foot, and high-pitched,
energetic voice calculated:
"You be blamedw
For the first time the bewildered
look on the mans face relaxed, and
grin spread over his bronzed features.
The woman's floridity deepened, and
finally she, too, laughed.
She turned, and for the first time
scrutinized her companion.
Land" she said reassuringly.
you're all right for cowboy, away
out on the frontier this way. You
look like man, any way, and not like
some af them perfumed little counter
jumpers back in Harmon Center"
Brad Strengthened his slouching
shoulders and walked across after the
last piece Of luggage with a swagger
that set his spurs jingling. Just as he
stopped to pick it up Miss Gordon
checked him sharply.
leave that basket alone! That's
Jeremy Taylor, and he's the TOUGHEST
Maltese that ever spit. 1t hurts his
feelin's enough to be shut up that
way, and if a stranger handled him
he'd have a fit. I'll hold him in my