[Illustration: Randerson watches the newcomers [Page 2]]

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 THE RANGE BOSS

 BY CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER

 AUTHOR OF THE BOSS OF THE LAZY Y, ETC. 

 ILLUSTRATED BY FRANK E. SCHOONOVER

 NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1916 ------ Published September, 1916 ------ Copyrighted in Great Britain

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 CONTENTS

 CHAPTER PAGE I At Calamity Crossing 1 II The Sympathetic Rescuer 12 III At the Flying W 33 IV A Memory of the Rider 42 V Love vs. Business 56 VI A Man and His Job 65 VII How an Insult Was Avenged 78 VIII What Uncle Jepson Heard 97 IX "Somethin's Gone Out of Them" 104 X The Law of the Primitive 111 XI Hagar's Eyes 130 XII The Rustlers 143 XIII The Fight 160 XIV The Rock and the Moonlight 166 XV The Runaway Comes Home 184 XVI Two Are Taught Lessons 188 XVII The Target 202 XVIII The Gunfighter 217 XIX Ready Gun and Clean Heart 233 XX The Bubble--Dreams 245 XXI One Too Many 254 XXII Into Which a Girl's Trouble Comes 265 XXIII Banishing a Shadow 278 XXIV Realizing a Passion 291 XXV A Man Is Born Again 313 XXVI A Dream Comes True 328

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ILLUSTRATIONS

 PAGE

 Randerson watches the newcomers Frontispiece

 "I am Ruth Harkness, the new owner of the Flying W" 64

 The twilight was split by a red streak 96

 The grim, relentless figure behind him grew grotesque and gigantic in his thoughts 320

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 THE RANGE BOSS CHAPTER I

 AT CALAMITY CROSSING

Getting up the shoulder of the mesa was no easy job, but judging from theactions and appearance of wiry pony and rider it was a job that would beaccomplished. For part of the distance, it is true, the man thought itbest to dismount, drive the pony ahead of him, and follow on foot. Atlength, however, they reached the top of the mesa, and after a breathingspell the man mounted and rode across the table-land. 

A short lope brought pony and rider to a point where the mesa sloped downagain to meet a plain that stretched for miles, to merge into somefoothills. A faint trail came from somewhere through the foothills, woundover the plain, and followed a slope that descended to a river below therider, crossed the stream, led over a level, up another slope, to anotherplain, and so away into the distance. 

Up and down the river the water ran deeply in a canyon, the paintedbuttes that flanked it lending an appearance of constriction to itscourse, but at the crossing it broadened formidably and swirledsplashingly around numerous rocks that littered its course. 

The man's gaze rested briefly on the river and the crossing. 

"She's travelin' some, this mornin', " he said aloud, mentally referringto the water. "I reckon that mud over there must be hub deep on abuckboard, " he added, looking at the level on the opposite side of thecrossing. "I'd say, if anybody was to ask me, that last night's rain hasmade Calamity some risky this mornin'--for a buckboard. " He drew out asilver timepiece and consulted it with grave deliberation. "It's eleven. They'd be due about now--if the Eight O'clock was on time--which she'snever been knowed to be. " He returned the timepiece to the pocket androde along the edge of the mesa away from the river, his gazeconcentrated at the point where the trail on the plains below himvanished into the distant foothills. A little later he again halted thepony, swung crossways in the saddle and rolled a cigarette, and whilesmoking and watching drew out two pistols, took out the cylinders, replaced them, and wiped and polished the metal until the guns glitteredbrightly in the swimming sunlight. He considered them long beforerestoring them to their places, doubt in his gaze. "I reckon she's beenraised a lot different, " was his mental conclusion. 

"But anyway, I reckon there ain't nothin' in Poughkeepsie's name to giveanyone comin' from there any right to put on airs. " He tossed the butt ofthe cigarette away and frowned, continuing his soliloquy: "The Flyin' Wain't no place for a lady. Jim Pickett an' Tom Chavis ain't fit for nolady to look at--let alone talkin' to them. There's others, too. Now, ifshe was comin' to the Diamond H--why, shucks! Mebbe she wouldn't thinkI'm any better than Pickett an' Chavis! If she looks anything like herpicture, though, she's got sense. An'--"

He saw the pony flick its ears erect, and he followed its gaze to see onthe plain's trail, far over near where it melted into the foothills, amoving speck crawling toward him. 

He swung back into the saddle and smilingly patted the pony's neck. 

"You was expectin' them too, wasn't you, Patches? I reckon you're a rightknowin' horse!"

He wheeled the pony and urged it slowly back over the mesa, riding alongnear the edge until he reached a point behind a heavy post-oak thicket, where he pulled the pony to a halt. From here he would not be observedfrom the trail on the plains, and he again twisted in the saddle, saggingagainst the high pommel and drawing the wide brim of his hat well overhis eyes, shading them as he peered intently at the moving speck. 

He watched for half an hour, while the speck grew larger in his vision, finally assuming definite shape. He recognized the buckboard and theblacks that were pulling it; they had been inseparable during the pasttwo years--for Bill Harkness, the Flying W owner, would drive no othersafter his last sickness had seized him, the sickness which had finallyfinished him some months before. The blacks were coming rapidly, shortening the distance with the tireless lope that the plains' animaluses so effectively, and as they neared the point on the mesa where therider had stationed himself, the latter parted the branches of thethicket and peered between them, his eyes agleam, the color deepening inhis face. 

"There's four of them in the buckboard, " he said aloud, astonished, asthe vehicle came nearer; "an' Wes Vickers ain't with them! Now, what doyou think of that! Wes told me there'd be only the girl an' her aunt an'uncle. It's a man, too, an' he's doin' the drivin'! I reckon Wes gotdrunk an' they left him behind. " He reflected a moment, watching withnarrowed eyes, his brows in a frown. "That guy doin' the drivin' is astranger, Patches, " he said. "Why, it's mighty plain. Four in thebuckboard, with them bags an' trunks an' things, makes a full house, an'there wasn't no room for Wes!" He grinned. 

The buckboard swung close to the foot of the slope below him, and heeagerly scrutinized the occupants, his gaze lingering long on the girl onthe seat beside the driver. She had looked for one flashing instanttoward him, her attention drawn, no doubt, by the fringing green of themesa, and he had caught a good glimpse of her face. It was just like thepicture that Wes Vickers had surreptitiously brought to him one day someweeks before, after Harkness' death, when, in talking with Wes about theniece who was now the sole owner of the Flying W, and who was coming soonto manage her property, he had evinced curiosity. He had kept thepicture, in spite of Vickers' remonstrances, and had studied it manytimes. He studied it now, after the passage of the buckboard, and wassupremely pleased, for the likeness did not flatter her. 

Displeasure came into his eyes, though, when he thought of the driver. Hewas strangely disturbed over the thought that the driver had accompaniedher from the East. He knew the driver was an Easterner, for no Westernerwould ever rig himself out in such an absurd fashion--the cream-coloredStetson with the high pointed crown, extra wide brim with nickel spanglesaround the band, a white shirt with a broad turndown collar and a flowingcolored tie--blue; a cartridge belt that fitted snugly around his waist, yellow with newness, so that the man on the mesa almost imagined he couldhear it creak when its owner moved; corduroy riding-breeches, tight atthe knees, and glistening boots with stiff tops. And--here the observer'seyes gleamed with derision--as the buckboard passed, he had caught aglimpse of a nickeled spur, with long rowels, on one of the ridiculousboots. 

He chuckled, his face wreathing in smiles as he urged the pony along theedge of the mesa, following the buckboard. He drew up presently at apoint just above the buckboard, keeping discreetly behind some brush thathe might not be seen, and gravely considered the vehicle and itsoccupants. The buckboard had stopped at the edge of the water, and theblacks were drinking. The girl was talking; the watcher heard her voicedistinctly. 

"What a rough, grim country!" she said. "It is beautiful, though. "

"She's a knowin' girl, " mused the rider, strangely pleased that sheshould like the world he lived in. For it was his world; he had been bornhere. 

"Don't you think so, Willard?" added the girl. 

The rider strained his ears for the answer. It came, grumblingly:

"I suppose it's well enough--for the clodhoppers that live here. "

The girl laughed tolerantly; the rider on the mesa smiled. "I reckon Iain't goin' to like Willard a heap, Patches, " he said to the pony; "he'srunnin' down our country. " He considered the girl and the driver gravely, and again spoke to the pony. "Do you reckon he's her brother, Patches? Iexpect it ain't possible--they're so different. "

"Do you think it is quite safe?" The girl's voice reached him again; shewas looking at the water of the crossing. 

"Vickers said it was, " the driver replied. "He ought to know. " His tonewas irritable. 

"He's her brother, I reckon, " reflected the man on the mesa; "no loverwould talk that way to his girl. " There was relief in his voice, for hehad been hoping that the man was a brother. 

"Vickers said to swing sharply to the left after passing the middle, "declared the driver sonorously, "but I don't see any wagon tracks--thatmiserable rain last night must have obliterated them. "

"I reckon the rain has _obliterated_ them, " grinned the rider, laboringwith the word, "if that means wipin' them out. Leastways, they ain'tthere any more. "

"I feel quite sure that Mr. Vickers said to turn to the right afterpassing the middle, Willard, " came the girl's voice. 

"I certainly ought to be able to remember that, Ruth!" said the driver, gruffly. "I heard him distinctly!"

"Well, " returned the girl with a nervous little laugh, "perhaps I wasmistaken, after all. " She placed a hand lightly on the driver's arm. Andthe words she spoke then were not audible to the rider, so softly werethey uttered. And the driver laughed with satisfaction. "You've said it!"he declared. "I'm certainly able to pilot this ship to safety!" He pulledon the reins and spoke sharply to the blacks. They responded with a jerkthat threw the occupants of the buckboard against the backs of the seats. 

The rider's eyes gleamed. "Hush!" he said, addressing no one inparticular. "Calamity's goin' to claim another victim!" He raised onehand to his lips, making a funnel of it. He was about to shout at thedriver, but thought better of the idea and let the hand drop. "Shucks, "he said, "I reckon there ain't any real danger. But I expect the bossgasser of the outfit will be gettin' his'n pretty quick now. " He leanedforward and watched the buckboard, his lean under jaw thrown forward, agrim smile on his lips. He noted with satisfaction that the elderlycouple in the rear seat, and the girl in the front one, were holding ontightly, and that the driver, busy with the reins, was swaying from oneside to the other as the wagon bumped over the impeding stones of theriver bed. 

The blacks reached the middle of the stream safely and were crowding oftheir own accord to the right, when the driver threw his weight on theleft rein and swung them sharply in that direction. For a few feet theytraveled evenly enough but when they were still some distance from thebank, the horse on the left sank quickly to his shoulders, lunged, stoodon his hind legs and pawed the air impotently, and then settled back, snorting and trembling. 

Too late the driver saw his error. As the left horse sank he threw hisweight on the right rein as though to remedy the accident. This movementthrew him off his balance, and he slipped off the seat, clawing andscrambling; at the instant the front of the buckboard dipped and sank, disappearing with a splash into the muddy water. It had gone down awry, the girl's side high out of the water, the girl herself clinging to theedge of the seat, out of the water's reach, the elderly couple in therear also safe and dry, but plainly frightened. 

The girl did not scream; the rider on the mesa noted this withsatisfaction. She was talking, though, to the driver, who at first haddisappeared, only to reappear an instant later, blowing and cursing, hishead and shoulders out of the water, his ridiculous hat floating serenelydown stream, the reins still in his hands. 

"I reckon he's discovered that Vickers told him to swing to the right, "grinned the rider from his elevation. He watched the driver until hegained the bank and stood there, dripping, gesticulating, impotent rageconsuming him. The buckboard could not be moved without endangering thecomfort of the remaining occupants, and without assistance they mustinevitably stay where they were. And so the rider on the mesa wheeled hispony and sent it toward the edge of the mesa where a gentle slope sweptdownward to the plains. 

"I reckon I've sure got to rescue her, " he said, grinning with someembarrassment, "though I'm mighty sorry that Willard had to get his newclothes wet. "

He spoke coaxingly to the pony; it stepped gingerly over the edge of themesa and began the descent, sending stones and sand helter-skelter beforeit, the rider sitting tall and loose in the saddle, the reins hanging, hetrusting entirely to the pony's wisdom. 

 CHAPTER II

 THE SYMPATHETIC RESCUER

Halfway down the slope, the rider turned and saw that Willard and theoccupants of the buckboard were watching him. The color in his cheeksgrew deeper and his embarrassment increased, for he noted that the girlhad faced squarely around toward him, had forgotten her precariousposition; her hands were clasped as though she were praying for hissafety. The aunt and uncle, too, were twisted in their seat, leaningtoward him in rigid attitudes, and Willard, safe on his bank, wasstanding with clenched hands. 

"Do you reckon we're goin' to break our necks, you piebald outlaw, " therider said to the pony. "Well, " as the animal whinnied gently at thesound of his voice, "there's some people that do, an' if you've got anyrespect for them you'll be mighty careful. "

The descent was accomplished in a brief time, and then Patches and hisrider went forward toward the mired buckboard and its occupants, the ponyunconcernedly, its rider, having conquered his embarrassment, serene, steady of eye, inwardly amused. 

When he reached the water's edge he halted Patches. Sitting motionless inthe saddle, he quietly contemplated the occupants of the buckboard. Hehad come to help them, but he was not going to proffer his services untilhe was sure they would be welcomed. He had heard stories of thesnobbishness and independence of some Easterners. 

And so he sat there long, for the occupants of the buckboard, knowingnothing of his intentions, were in their turn awaiting some word fromhim. 

No word came. He looked down, interestedly watching Patches drink. Then, when the pony had finished, he looked up, straight at the girl. She wassitting very erect--as erect as she could in the circumstances, tryinghard to repress her anger over his inaction. She could see that he wasdeliberately delaying. And she met his gaze coldly. 

He looked from the girl to Willard. The Easterner was examining a smallpistol that he had drawn from a yellow holster at his waist, so high onhis waist that he had been compelled to bend his elbow in an acute angleto get it out. His hands were trembling, whether from the wetting he hadreceived or from doubt as to the rider's intentions, was a question thatthe rider did not bother with. He looked again at the girl. Doubt hadcome into her eyes; she was looking half fearfully at him, and he sawthat she half suspected him of being a desperado, intent on doing harm. He grinned, moved to mirth. 

She was reassured; that smile had done it. She returned it, a littleruefully. And she felt that, in view of the circumstances, she mightdispense with formalities and get right down to business. For her seatwas uncomfortable, and Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson were anxious, to saynothing of Willard, who had placed his pistol behind him, determined, ifthe man turned out to be a highwayman, to defend his party to the last. 

But still the rider did not move. There was no hurry; only Willard seemedto be really suffering, for the winter's chill had not yet gone out ofthe air. But then, Willard had earned his ducking. 

The girl cleared her throat. "We have had an accident, " she informed therider, her voice a little husky. 

At this word he swept his hat from his head and bowed to her. "Why, Ireckon you have, ma'am, " he said. "Didn't you have no driver?"

"Why, yes, " returned the girl hesitatingly, for she thought she detectedsarcasm in his voice, and she had to look twice at him to make sure--andthen she couldn't have told. "The gentleman on the bank, there, is ourdriver. "

"The gentleman on the bank, eh?" drawled the rider. And now for the firsttime he seemed to become aware of Willard's presence, for he lookednarrowly at him. "Why, he's all wet!" he exclaimed. "I expect he comepretty near drownin', didn't he, ma'am?" He looked again at the girl, astonishment in his eyes. "An' so he drove you into that suck-hole, an'he got throwed out! Wasn't there no one to tell him that Calamity ain'tto be trusted?"

"Mr. Vickers told us to keep to the right after reaching the middle, "said the girl. 

"I distinctly understood him to say the left, Ruth, " growled Willard. 

The rider watched the girl's face, saw the color come into it, and hislips twitched with some inward emotion. "I reckon your brother's right, ma'am. Vickers wanted to drownd you-all. "

"Mr. Masten isn't my brother, " denied the girl. The color in her faceheightened. 

"Well, now, " said the rider. He bent his head and patted the pony's maneto hide his disappointment. Again, so it seemed to the girl, he wasdeliberately delaying, and she bit her lips with vexation. 

Willard also seemed to have the same thought, for he shouted angrily:"While you are talking there, my man, I am freezing. Isn't there some wayfor you to get my party and the wagon out of there?"

"Why, I expect there's a way, " drawled the rider, fixing Masten with asteady eye; "I've been wonderin' why you didn't mention it before. "

"Oh Lord!" said Masten to the girl, his disgust making his voice husky, "can you imagine such stupidity?"

But the girl did not answer; she had seen a glint in the rider's eyeswhile he had been looking at Masten which had made her draw a deepbreath. She had seen guile in his eyes, and subtlety, and much humor. Stupidity! She wondered how Masten could be so dense!

Then she became aware that the rider was splashing toward her, and thenext instant she was looking straight at him, with not more than fivefeet of space between them. His gaze was on her with frank curiosity, hislean, strong face glowing with the bloom of health; his mouth was firm, his eyes serene, virility and confidence in every movement of his body. And then he was speaking to her, his voice low, gentle, respectful, evendeferential. He seemed not to have taken offense at Willard, seemed tohave forgotten him. 

"I reckon you-all will have to ride out of here on my horse, ma'am, " hesaid, "if you reckon you'd care to. Why, yes, I expect that's right; I'dought to take the old lady an' gentleman first, ma'am, " as the girlindicated them. 

He backed his pony and smiled at Aunt Martha, who was small, gray, andsweet of face. He grinned at her--the grin of a grown boy at hisgrandmother. 

"I reckon you'll go first, Aunty, " he said to her. "I'll have you highan' dry in a jiffy. You couldn't ride there, you know, " he added, as AuntMartha essayed to climb on behind him. "This Patches of mine isconsiderable cantankerous an' ain't been educated to it. It's likely he'ddump us both, an' then we'd be freezin' too. " And he glanced sidelong atWillard. 

Aunt Martha was directed to step on the edge of the buckboard. Tremblinga little, though smiling, she was lifted bodily and placed sidewise onthe saddle in front of him, and in this manner was carried to the bank, far up on the slope out of the deep mud that spread over the level nearthe water's edge, and set down gently, voicing her thanks. 

Then the rescuer returned for Uncle Jepson. On his way to join AuntMartha, Uncle Jepson, who had watched the rider narrowly during his talkwith Willard, found time to whisper:

"I had a mule once that wasn't any stubborner than Willard Masten. "

"You don't recollect how you cured him of it?"

"Yes sir, I do. I thumped it out of him!" And Uncle Jepson's eyes glowedvindictively. 

"I reckon you've got a heap of man in you, sir, " said the rider. He setUncle Jepson down beside Aunt Martha and turned his pony back toward theriver to get his remaining passenger. Masten waved authoritatively tohim. 

"If it's just the same to you, my man, I'll assist Miss Ruth to land. Just ride over here!"

The rider halted the pony and sat loosely in the saddle, gravelycontemplating the driver across the sea of mud that separated them. 

"Why, you ain't froze yet, are you!" he said in pretended astonishment. "Your mouth is still able to work considerable smooth! An' so you want toride my horse!" He sat, regarding the Easterner in deep, feignedamazement. "Why, Willard, " he said when it seemed he had quite recovered, "Patches would sure go to sun-fishin' an' dump you off into that littleol' suck-hole ag'in!" He urged the pony on through the water to thebuckboard and drew up beside the girl. 

Her face was crimson, for she had not failed to hear Masten, and it wasplain to the rider that she had divined that jealously had impelledMasten to insist on the change of riders. Feminine perverseness, orsomething stronger, was in her eyes when the rider caught a glimpse ofthem as he brought his pony to a halt beside her. He might now have madethe mistake of referring to Masten and thus have brought from her a quickrefusal to accompany him, for he had made his excuse to Masten and tohave permitted her to know the real reason would have been to attack herloyalty. He strongly suspected that she was determined to make Mastensuffer for his obstinacy, and he rejoiced in her spirit. 

"We're ready for you now, ma'am. "

"Are you positively certain that Patches won't go to 'sunfishing' withme?" she demanded, as she poised herself on the edge of the buckboard. Heflashed a pleased grin at her, noting with a quickening pulse the deep, rich color in her cheeks, the soft white skin, her dancing eyes--allframed in the hood of the rain cloak she wore. 

He reached out his hands to her, clasped her around the waist and swungher to the place on the saddle formerly occupied by Aunt Martha. If heheld her to him a little more tightly than he had held Aunt Martha thewind might have been to blame, for it was blowing some stray wisps of herhair into his face and he felt a strange intoxication that he couldscarcely control. 

And now, when she was safe on his horse and there was no further dangerthat she would refuse to ride with him, he gave her the answer to herquestion:

"Patches wouldn't be unpolite to a lady, ma'am, " he said quietly, intoher hair; "he wouldn't throw you. "

He could not see her face--it was too close to him and his chin washigher than the top of her head. But he could not fail to catch the mirthin her voice:

"Then you lied to Willard!"

"Why, yes, ma'am; I reckon I did. You see, I didn't want to let Patchesget all muddied up, ridin' over to Willard. "

"But you are riding him into the mud now!" she declared in a strangelymuffled voice. 

"Why, so I am, ma'am, " he said gleefully; "I reckon I'm sure a box-head!"

He handed her down a minute later, beside Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha, and he lingered another moment near her, for his proximity to her had sethis blood tingling, and there was an unnamable yearning in his breast tobe near her. He had passed hours in looking upon her picture, dreaming ofthis minute, or another like it, and now that his dream had come true herealized that fulfilment was sweeter than anticipation. He was hugelypleased with her. 

"She's a lot better lookin' than her picture, " he told himself as hewatched her. She had her back to him, talking with her relatives, but shedid not need to face him to arouse his worship. "Didn't I know she waslittle, " he charged himself, estimating her height, "she won't comeanywhere near reachin' my shoulder. "

He had not forgotten Masten. And a humorous devil sported in his eye ashe wheeled his pony and fixed his gaze on that gentleman. 

"Speciments travel around most anywheres, " he reflected. "This here's aswell head with a grouch. I reckon he ain't a serious friend of hers, orshe wouldn't have stood for me rescuin' her when he offered himself thatgenerous. " The recollection convulsed him, and he bowed his head over thepony's neck to hide the laugh. When he looked up, it was to see Mastenstanding rigid, watching him, wrath on his face. 

"I suppose I'm to stand here and freeze while you sit over there andlaugh your fool head off!" shouted the Easterner. "I've got some dryclothing in my trunk on the wagon, which I might put on, if I couldinduce you to hurry a little. "

"Why, shucks. I come mighty near forgettin' you, Willard, " said therider. "An' so you've got other clothes! Only they're in your trunk onthe buckboard, an' you can't get 'em. An' you're freezin' an' I'mlaughin' at you. You've got a heap of trouble, ain't you, Willard. An'all because you was dead set on goin' to the left when you ought to havegone to the right. "

"Do hurry! Wont you, please?" said the girl's voice, close to hisstirrup. 

He looked guiltily at her, for he had been about to say some vitriolicthings to Masten, having almost lost patience with him. But at her wordshis slow good nature returned. 

"I'm sure goin' to hurry, ma'am. "

He urged the pony into the water again, rode to the buckboard, steppedoff, and kneeling in the seat reached into the water and worked with theharness. Then, walking along the wagon tongue, which was slightly out ofthe water, he again reached into the water and fumbled with the harness. Then he stepped back, slapped the blacks and urged them with his voice, and they floundered out of the water and gained the bank, where theystood shaking the water from their glistening bodies. 

He mounted his pony again and rode to the rear of the buckboard. Takingthe braided hair rope that hung from the pommel of his saddle he made ahitch around the center of the rear axle. Then he wheeled his pony untilit faced away from the buckboard, rode the length of the rope carefully, halted when it was taut, and then slowly, with his end of the ropefastened securely to the saddle horn, pulled the buckboard to a level onthe river bottom. 

Returning to the rear of the buckboard he unfastened the rope, coiled it, and rode to the bank, catching the blacks and leading them up the slopebeyond where the girl, her aunt and uncle stood. He gently asked UncleJepson to hold the blacks, for fear they might stray, and then with asmile at the girl and Aunt Martha, he returned to the buckboard. There heuncoiled his rope again and attached one end of it to the tongue of thewagon, again, as before, riding away until the rope grew taut. Then, witha word to the pony, the wagon was drawn through the water to the edge ofthe sea of mud. 

This mud looked treacherous, but it was the only way out; and so, after apause for rest, he urged the pony on again. The buckboard traveled itslength--then lurched into a rut and refused to move another foot, inspite of the straining of the pony and its rider's urgings. 

The rider paused, turned in the saddle and scratched his head inperplexity. 

"I reckon we've run ag'in a snag, Patches, " he said. He scrutinized theslopes. "I expect we'll have to try one of them, after all, " he decided. 

"You were foolish to try to draw the wagon out with that thing, in thefirst place, " loudly criticized Masten. "If you had hitched the horses tothe wagon after you had pulled it out of the hole, why--"

The rider looked at the fault-finder, his eyes narrowed. 

"Why, if it ain't Willard!" he said, amazed. "Standin' there, workin' hislittle old jaw ag'in! An' a-mournin' because I ain't goin' to get my feetwet! Well, shucks. I reckon there ain't nothin' to do now but to get theblacks an' hitch 'em onto the wagon. There's a heap of mud there, ofcourse, but I expect some mud on them right pretty boots of yourswouldn't spoil 'em. I'll lead the blacks over an' you can work your jawon 'em. "

"Thanks, " said Masten, sneering, "I've had enough wettings for one day. Ihave no doubt that you can get the wagon out, by your own crude methods. I shall not interfere, you may be sure. "

He stalked away from the water's edge and ascended the slope to a pointseveral feet in advance of the wagon. Standing there, he looked acrossthe mud at the girl and the others, as though disdaining to exchangefurther words with the rider. 

The latter gazed at him, sidelong, with humorous malice in his glance. Then he wheeled his pony, rode back toward the wagon, veered when almostto it and forced the pony to climb the slope, thus getting Masten betweenthe rope and the mud. He pulled the rope taut again, swinging wagontongue and wheels at a sharp angle toward him, drove the spurs into theflanks of the pony and headed it toward the mud level, swinging so thatthe rope described a quarter circle. It was a time-honored expedientwhich, he expected, would produce the jerk releasing the wagon. 

If he expected the action would produce other results, the rider gave noindication of it. Only the girl, watching him closely and seeing a hardgleam in his eyes, sensed that he was determined to achieve a doubleresult, and she cried out to Masten. The warning came too late. The tautrope, making its wide swing, struck Masten in the small of the back, lifted him, and bore him resistlessly out into the mud level, where helanded, face down, while the wagon, released, swished past him on its wayto freedom. 

The rider took the wagon far up the sloping trail before he brought it toa halt. Then, swinging it sideways so that it would not roll back intothe mud, he turned and looked back at Masten. The latter had got to hisfeet, mud-bespattered, furious. 

The rider looked from Masten to the girl, his expression one ofhypocritical gravity. The girl's face was flushed with indignation overthe affront offered her friend. She had punished him for his jealousy, she had taken her part in mildly ridiculing him. But it was plain to therider when he turned and saw her face, that she resented the indignityshe had just witnessed. She was rigid; her hands were clenched, her armsstiff at her sides; her voice was icy, even, though husky with suppressedpassion. 

"I suppose I must thank you for getting the wagon out, " she said. "Butthat--that despicable trick--" Her self-control deserted her. "I wish Iwere a man; you would not go unpunished!"

There was contrition in his eyes. For an infinitesimal space he regrettedthe deed, and his active mind was already framing an excuse. And then outof the tail of his eye he saw Uncle Jepson winking violent applause athim, and a broad grin suffused his face. He made some effort to suppressit, but deepening wrinkles around his eyes contradicted the gravity ofhis lips. 

"Why, I wasn't reckonin' to hurt him, ma'am, " he said. "You see, he wasright in the way, an' I reckon I was feelin' a bit wild right at thatminute, an'--" His gaze went to Masten, who was scraping mud from hisgarments with a small flat stone. The rider's eyes grew wide; morewrinkles appeared around them. 

"Why, I've spoiled his white shirt, " he said as though speaking tohimself, his voice freighted with awe. And then, as Masten shook athreatening fist at him, he suddenly yielded to the mirth that wasconsuming him and he bowed his head. 

It was Uncle Jepson's warning shout that impelled him to raise his head. He saw Masten coming toward him, clawing at the foolish holster at hiswaist, his eyes flashing murder, his teeth bared in a snarl. 

"You, Patches!" said the rider, his voice coming with a cold, quick snap. And the piebald pony, his muscles and thews alive with energy in aninstant, lunged in answer to the quick knee-press, through the mud, straight at Masten. 

So it was a grim and formidable figure that Masten looked up at before hecould get his weapon out of his holster. The lean face of the rider wasclose to his own, the rider's eyes were steady, blue, and so cold thatthey made Masten forget the chill in the air. And one of the heavypistols that the rider carried was close to Masten's head, its big muzzlegaping forebodingly at him, and the rider's voice, as he leaned from thesaddle, came tense and low. The girl could not hear:

"Listen to this gospel, you mud-wallowin' swine, " he said. "This is aman's country, an' you play a man's game or you lose out so quick it'llmake you dizzy! You been playin' kid all through this deal. You'regrumblin' an' whinin' ever since I set eyes on you from the edge of themesa, there. That little girl thinks you're all wool an' a yard wide. Youcome across, clean--you hear me! You shape up to man's size or I'll huntyou up an' tear the gizzard out of you! You jam that there cap-shooterback where it belongs or I'll take it away from you an' make you eat it!You hear me!"

The pistol went back; Masten's face was ashen beneath the mud on it. 

"Now grin, you sufferin' shorthorn!" came the rider's voice again, low asbefore. "Grin like you'd just discovered that I'm your rich uncle comefrom Frisco with a platter full of gold nuggets which I'm set on youspendin' for white shirts. Grin, or I'll salivate you!"

It was a grin that wreathed Masten's lips--a shallow, forced one. But itsufficed for the rider. He sat erect, his six-shooter disappearingmagically, and the smile on his face when he looked at the girl, hadgenuine mirth in it. 

"I've apologized to Willard, ma'am, " he said. "We ain't goin' to be crossto each other no more. I reckon you c'n forgive me, now, ma'am. I suredidn't think of bein' mean. "

The girl looked doubtfully at Masten, but because of the mud on his facecould see no expression. 

"Well, I'm glad of that, " she said, reddening with embarrassment. "Icertainly would not like to think that anyone who had been soaccommodating as you could be so mean as to deliberately upset anyone inthe mud. " She looked downward. "I'm sorry I spoke to you as I did, " sheadded. 

"Why, I'm sorry too, ma'am, " he said gravely. He urged his pony throughthe mud and brought it to a halt beside her. "If you'd shake hands onthat, ma'am, I'd be mighty tickled. "

Her hand went out to him. He took it and pressed it warmly, looking atit, marveling at it, for the glove on it could not conceal itsshapeliness or its smallness. He dropped it presently, and taking off hishat, bowed to her. 

"Thank you, ma'am, " he said; "I'll be seein' you ag'in some time. I hopeyou'll like it here. "

"I am sure I shall. "

He grinned and turned away. Her voice halted him. 

"May I know who has been so kind to us in our trouble?"

He reddened to the roots of his hair, but faced her. 

"Why, I reckon you'll know, ma'am. I'm King Randerson, foreman of theDiamond H, up the crick a ways. That is, " he added, his blush deepening, "I was christened 'King. ' But a while ago a dago professor who stayedovernight at the Diamond H tipped the boys off that 'King' was Rex inLatin lingo. An' so it's been Rex Randerson since then, though mostlythey write it '_W-r-e-c-k-s_. ' There's no accountin' for notionshereabouts, ma'am. "

"Well, I should think not!" said the lady, making mental note of theblueness of his eyes. "But I am sure the boys make a mistake in spellingyour name. Judging from your recent actions it should be spelled'_R-e-c-k-l-e-s-s_. ' Anyway, we thank you. "

"The same to you, ma'am. So long. "

He flashed a smile at Aunt Martha; it broadened as he met Uncle Jepson'seyes; it turned to a grin of derision as he looked at Masten. And then hewas splashing his pony across the river. 

They watched him as he rode up the slope on the opposite side; they heldtheir breath as pony and rider climbed the steeper slope to the mesa. They saw him halt when he reached the mesa, saw him wave his hat to them. But they did not see him halt the pony after he had ridden a little way, and kiss the palm of the hand that had held hers. 

 CHAPTER III

 AT THE FLYING W

It fell to Uncle Jepson to hitch the blacks to the buckboard--in a frigidsilence Masten had found his trunk, opened it and drawn out some verynecessary dry clothing; then marching behind a thick clump of alder, heproceeded to make the change. After this he climbed down to the river andwashed the mud from visible portions of his body. Then he returned to thebuckboard, to find the others waiting for him. In a strained silence heclimbed up to the seat beside Ruth, took up the reins, and sent theblacks forward. 

It was ten miles to the Flying W ranchhouse, and during the ride thesilence was broken only once. That was when, at about the fifth mile, Ruth placed a hand on Masten's arm and smiled at him. 

"I really think Mr. Randerson _was_ sorry that he upset you in the mud, Willard, " she said gently. "I don't think he did it to be mean. And itwas so manly of him to apologize to you. " She laughed, thinking that timehad already removed the sting. "And you really _did_ look funny, Willard, with the mud all over you. I--I could have laughed, myself, if I hadn'tfelt so indignant. "

"I'll thank you to not refer to it again, Ruth, " he said crossly. 

She flushed and looked straight ahead of her at the unfolding vistas thattheir passage revealed: at the undulating plains, green with bunch-grassthat the rain of the night before had washed and reinvigorated; intogullies where weeds grew thick; peering into arroyos--visible memories ofwashouts and cloudbursts; glimpsing barrancas as they flashed by;wondering at the depth of draws through which the trail led; shivering atthe cacti--a brilliant green after the rain--for somehow they seemed tosymbolize the spirit of the country--they looked so grim, hardy, andmysterious with their ugly thorns that seemed to threaten and mock. Sheshrank, too, when the buckboard passed the skeleton of a steer, itsbleached bones ghastly in the sunlight, but she smiled when she saw a seaof soap-weed with yellow blossoms already unfolding, and she looked longat a mile-wide section of mesquite, dark and inviting in the distance. She saw a rattler cross the trail in front of the buckboard and draw itsloathsome length into a coil at the base of some crabbed yucca, andthereafter she made grimaces at each of the ugly plants they passed. Itwas new to her, and wonderful. Everything, weird or ugly, possessed astrange fascination for her, and when they lurched over the crest of ahill and she saw, looming somberly in the distance in front of her, agreat cottonwood grove, with some mountains behind it, their peaksgleaming in the shimmering sunlight, thrusting above some fleecy whiteclouds against a background of deep-blue sky, her eyes glistened and shesat very erect, thrilled. It was in such a country that she had longed tolive all the days of her life. 

Somehow, it gave her a different viewpoint. The man who had accommodatedthem back at the river seemed to fit very well here. The spirit of theyoung, unfettered country was in his eyes, in his serene manner; he wasas hardy and rugged as this land from which he had sprung. 

 * * * * *

When the buckboard came to a halt in the Flying W ranchhouse yard, RuthHarkness' first emotion was one of a great happiness that the Harknesseshad always been thrifty and neat, and also that Uncle William hadpersisted in these habits. She had greatly feared, for during the lastday of her ride on the train she had passed many ranchhouses and she hadbeen appalled and depressed by the dilapidated appearance of theirexteriors, and by the general atmosphere of disorder and shiftlessnessthat seemed to surround them. So many of them had reminded her of thedwelling places of careless farmers on her own familiar countryside, andshe had assured herself that if the Flying W were anything like thoseothers she would immediately try to find a buyer, much as she wished tostay. 

But the first glance at the Flying W convinced her that her fears hadbeen groundless. The ranchhouse was a big two-story structure built ofheavy timber, with porches in front and rear, and wide cornices, allpainted white and set on a solid foundation of stone. It looked spaciousand comfortable. The other buildings--stables, bunkhouse, messhouse, blacksmith shop, and several others--did not discredit the ranchhouse. They all were in good repair. She had already noted that the fences werewell kept; she had seen chickens and pigs, flowers and a small garden;and behind the stable, in an enclosure of barbed wire, she had observedsome cows--milkers, she was certain. 

The ranchhouse was well sheltered by timber. The great cottonwood grovethat she had seen from the plains was close to the house on the south; itextended east and west for perhaps half a mile, and a grove of firs roseto the north, back of the pasture fence. The general character of theland surrounding the house was a sort of rolling level. The foothillsbelonging to the mountains that she had seen while approaching theranchhouse were behind the cottonwood grove. She had seen, too, that theriver they had crossed at the ford which Wes Vickers had called"Calamity" was not more than a mile from the house, and therefore sheconcluded that it doubled widely. Later, she learned from Vickers thather conclusion was correct, and that the river was called "Rabbit Ear. "Why it was called that she was never able to discover. 

When the buckboard came to a halt, two men who had been seated in thedoorway of one of the buildings--she discovered, later, that it was thebunkhouse--got up, lazily, and approached the buckboard. Ruth felt apulse of trepidation as they sauntered close to the wagon. Vickers hadtold her nothing directly concerning the character of the men at theranch, but during their conversation at Red Rock that morning he hadmentioned that the "boys are a good lot, taken together, but they's somethat don't measure up. " And she wondered whether these two came underthat final vague, though significant classification. 

Their appearance was against them. The one in advance, a man of mediumheight, looked positively villainous with his long, drooping blackmustache and heavy-thatched eyebrows. He eyed the occupants of thebuckboard with an insolent half-smile, which the girl thought hetried--in vain--to make welcoming. 

The other was a man of about thirty; tall, slender, lithe, swarthy, withthin, expressive lips that were twisted upward at one corner in aninsincere smirk. This taller man came close to the wagon and paused in anattitude of quiet impudence. 

"I reckon you're Ruth Harkness--the ol' man's niece?" he said. 

"Yes, " returned the girl, smiling. Perhaps she had misjudged these men. 

"Well, " said the man, looking at her with a bold glance that made herpulse skip a beat, "you're a stunner for looks, anyway. " He reached outhis hand. She took it, feeling that it was the proper thing to do, although with the action she heard a grumble from Masten. 

"You're welcome to the Flyin' W, " said the man, breaking an awkwardsilence. "Tom Chavis is special glad to see a pretty woman around theseparts. "

She felt, in his eyes more than his words, a veiled significance. Shereddened a little, but met his gaze fairly, her eyes unwavering. 

"Who is Tom Chavis?" she asked. 

"I'm reckonin' to be Tom Chavis, " he said, studying her. He waved a handtoward the other man, not looking at him. "This is my friend Jim Pickett. We was foreman an' straw boss, respective, under Bill Harkness. "

She could not help wishing that her uncle had discharged the two menbefore his death. She was wondering a little at Masten's silence; itseemed to her that he must see her embarrassment, and that he mightrelieve her of the burden of this conversation. She looked quickly athim; he appeared to be unconcernedly inspecting the ranchhouse. Perhaps, after all, there was nothing wrong with these men. Certainly, being a manhimself, Masten should be able to tell. 

And so she felt a little more at ease. 

"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Chavis, " she said. "Your friend Mr. Picketttoo. " She indicated Masten with a nod of her head toward him. "This isMr. Willard Masten, a very dear friend of mine. " The color in her facedeepened with the words. 

Chavis had looked twice at Masten before Ruth spoke. He looked again now, meeting the Easterner's eyes. Chavis had been ready to sneer at Mastenbecause of his garments--they were duplicates of those he had worn beforethe ducking, and quite as immaculate--but something in the Easterner'seyes kept the sneer back; his own eyes gleamed with a quick, comprehensive fire, and he smiled. In the buckboard, fresh from thatcivilization which Chavis was ready to scorn, he had recognized a kindredspirit. There was exultation in his voice when he spoke, and he reachedover Ruth to grasp Masten's hand. 

"An' so this is Willard, a very dear friend of yourn, eh? Well, now, I'msure glad, an' I reckon him an' me will get on. " He urged Pickett forwardand introduced him, and Pickett gave Masten one quick, appraising glance. Then he, too, grinned. 

Ruth was gratified. These men were rough, but they had been quick torecognize and appreciate Masten's good qualities. They had gone more thanhalf way in welcoming him. Of course, there was Chavis' bold allusion toa "pretty woman, " but the very uncouthness of the men must be theexplanation for that breach of etiquette. She was much relieved. 

Masten was suave and solicitous. He jumped out of the buckboard andhelped her down, performing a like service for Aunt Martha. Uncle Jepsongot out himself. Then, as Ruth hesitated an instant, Masten bent overher. 

"You must be tired, dear. Go in and explore the house. Get somerefreshment and take a rest. I'll attend to the baggage and the horses. "

He gave her a gentle pressure of the hand, and, followed by Uncle Jepsonand Aunt Martha, she went indoors. 

 CHAPTER IV

 A MEMORY OF THE RIDER

A quiet satisfaction shone from Ruth's eyes when, accompanied by AuntMartha and Uncle Jepson, she completed her inspection of the ranchhouse. 

"It isn't all that could be desired, " she told Aunt Martha, "but it isbetter than I expected. "

"It's comfortable, dearie, " mildly smiled Aunt Martha. 

"An' big enough for a feller to stretch his legs in, " added Uncle Jepson. He was sitting in a big chair at one of the front windows of thesitting-room, having already adjusted himself to his new surroundings, and was smoking a short briar pipe and looking out of the window at thebunkhouse, in front of which stood Pickett, Chavis, and Masten, talkingand laughing. 

While Ruth and her relatives had been inspecting one of the upstairsrooms, she had heard the men bringing the baggage in, had heard themclumping up the stairs and setting the trunks down. Then they went out, and a little later, peering from one of the windows upstairs, Ruth hadseen Masten and the other two walking toward the stable. They weretalking pleasantly; their liking for each other seemed to be mutual. Ruthwas delighted, but Uncle Jepson had frowned several times when looking atthem. 

"I cal'late them two critters'll bear a heap of watchin', " he said now. "They don't look honest. "

"Jep, " said Aunt Martha before Ruth could speak, "you're alwayscriticising folks. "

"It's in their faces drat 'em, " insisted Uncle Jepson. He turned avindictive eye on his niece. "If I'd have been fifty year younger I'dhave give that Chavis a durn good thrashin' for sayin' what he did to youabout pretty gals. Durn his hide, anyhow! That there Wil--"

"I felt that way myself, at first, " smiled Ruth. "Afterwards, though, Ifelt differently. I suppose they were glad to see the new owner. Perhapsthey haven't seen a lady in a long time. "

"There's ways of showin' gladness, " contended Uncle Jepson. "I cal'lateif I wanted to compliment a girl, I wouldn't look at her like I wanted tocarry her off to the mountains. "

"Jep, they're only cowboys--they don't know any different, " remonstratedAunt Martha. 

"They don't, eh?" sniffed Uncle Jepson. "I cal'late that feller, RexRanderson, is some different, ain't he? There's a gentleman, Ruth. Youdidn't see him makin' no ox-eyes. An' I'll bet you wouldn't ketch himgettin' thick with them two plug-uglies out there!"

Ruth turned away, smiling tolerantly, after having caught a glimpse ofAunt Martha's brows, uplifted in resignation. She was as fully aware ofUncle Jepson's dislike of Willard Masten as she was of Uncle Jepson'stestiness and of his habit of speaking his thoughts without reservation. 

Also, she had always avoided opposing him. It did not seem to be worthwhile. He had been left destitute, except for the little farm back nearPoughkeepsie which he had sold at her request to accompany her here, andshe felt that habits of thought and speech are firmly fixed atsixty-nine, and argument cannot shake them. 

That first day at the ranchhouse was the beginning of a new existence forRuth. Bound for years by the narrow restrictions and conventionality ofthe Poughkeepsie countryside, she found the spaciousness and newness ofthis life inviting and satisfying. Here there seemed to be no limit, either to the space or to the flights that one's soul might take, and inthe solemn grandeur of the open she felt the omnipotence of God and thespell of nature. 

She had plenty of time after the first day to hold communion with theCreator. Masten was rarely near her. His acquaintance with Pickett andChavis seemed destined to develop into friendship. He rode much withthem--"looking over the range, " he told her--and only in the evening didhe find time to devote to her. 

Wes Vickers returned from Red Rock on the morning following Ruth'sarrival. Apparently, in spite of Randerson's prediction, Vickers did notget drunk in town. Through him Ruth learned much about the Flying W. Hegave her the fruit of his experience, and he had been with the Flying Was range boss for nearly five years. 

Vickers was forty. His hair was gray at the temples; he was slightlystoop-shouldered from years in the saddle, and his legs were bowed fromthe same cause. He was the driving force of the Flying W. Ruth's unclehad written her to that effect the year before during his illness, stating that without Vickers' help he would be compelled to sell theranch. The truth of this statement dawned upon Ruth very soon after heracquaintance with Vickers. He was argus-eyed, omnipresent. It seemed thathe never slept. Mornings when she would arise with the dawn she wouldfind Vickers gone to visit some distant part of the range. She was seldomawake at night when he returned. 

He had said little to her regarding the men. "They 'tend to business, "was his invariable response when she sought to question him. "It's apretty wild life, " he told her when one day about two weeks after hercoming she had pressed him; "an' the boys just can't help kickin' overthe traces once in a while. "

"Chavis and Pickett good men?" she asked. 

"You saw anything to show you they ain't?" he said, with a queer look ather. 

"Why, no, " she returned. But her cheeks reddened. 

He looked at her with a peculiar squint. "Seems like Masten runnin' withthem shows that they ain't nothin' wrong with them, " he said. 

She had no reply to make to this, but she was vaguely disturbed over theexpression in Vickers' eyes; that look seemed to indicate that her ownfirst impression of the two men, and Uncle Jepson's later condemnation ofthem, might be correct. However, they did not bother her, and she feltcertain that Masten could care for himself. 

With Masten absent with Chavis and Pickett nearly every day, Ruth hadmuch time to herself. The river attracted her, and she rode to it manytimes, on a slant-eyed pony that Vickers had selected for her, and whichhad been gentled by a young cowpuncher brought in from an outlying campsolely for that purpose by the range boss. The young puncher had beenreluctant to come, and he was equally reluctant to go. 

"This here cayuse, " he said to Vickers, when the latter instructed him toreturn to his outfit, saying that Miss Ruth thought she could now ridethe pony without trouble, "is got a heap of devilment in him, yet--whichought to come out. "

"Miss Ruth's got a fellow, " said the range boss, in seeming irrelevance. But the young puncher sneered a malignant denial and rode away to hiscamp. 

There were fourteen other men employed by the Flying W. Ruth met them atvarious times. Invariably they were looking for strays. They seemed--someof them--content to look at her; others, bolder, manufactured ingenuouspretexts to talk; but--all were gentlemen. 

She arose one morning during the third week of her stay at the ranch, tobe greeted by one of those perfect days that late spring brings. It hadbeen dry for a week, with a hint of receding chill in the air, and thecomfort of a wrap was still felt. But on this morning the sun was showinghis power, and a balmy south breeze that entered her window was burdenedwith the aroma of sage, strong and delicious. She got out of bed andlooked out of the window. It was a changed world. Summer had comeovernight. No morning in the East had ever made her feel quite like this. 

Out on the front porch later in the morning, with Chavis and Pickettstanding near, she asked Masten to ride with her. 

He seemed annoyed, but spoke persuasively. 

"Put it off a day, won't you, Ruth? There's a good girl. I've promised togo to Lazette with the boys this morning, and I don't want to disappointthem. " Then, seeing the disappointment in her eyes, he added: "Where didyou want to ride?"

"Why, " she said, hoping that, after all, he might change his mind, "I'monly going to the box canyon, down the river. There's such a prettystretch of timber there. "

He smiled indulgently. "I'll try to meet you there, this afternoon aboutthree, if I can make it. But don't wait longer. " He turned his back toher and presently went away with Chavis and Pickett. 

She stood for a little time, watching them as they mounted down near thecorral gate and rode away, and then she turned and observed Uncle Jepsonstanding near a corner of the house, smoking, and watching her. Sheforced a smile and went into the house. 

A little after noon she saddled her pony and rode away toward the river. She had decided that perhaps Masten might keep his appointment in spiteof the obvious insincerity that had been expressed on his face duringtheir talk. 

It was fully five miles to the grove at the head of the box canyon, andshe made a leisurely ride of it, so that it must have been nearly twoo'clock when she dismounted and hitched the pony to a tree. Seatingherself on a flat rock near the canyon edge, she settled herself to wait. 

It seemed a long time. Twice after half-past two she looked at her watch, impatiently. At three she looked again; and, disappointed, she was aboutto rise to go to her pony, when she heard the rapid drumming of hoofsnear her. 

With leaping heart and flushed face she turned her back to the directionfrom which the sounds seemed to come and waited listening, trying toappear unconcerned. She would make him believe she had not heard him. Hedid care, after all, enough to part with his companions--for her sake. She had misjudged him, and she was sincerely repentant. And when sheheard his pony come to a halt near her she had to clench her hands tokeep from turning to face him. 

She heard him dismount, heard the rustle and crackling of twigs under hisfeet as he approached, and then, feeling that it would be futile todissemble further, she turned, a smile on her lips. 

Standing within five feet of her, grinning with amusement, was TomChavis. Curiously enough, despite her former fear of the man she did notfear him now, and after the first shock of surprise she looked at himcomposedly, for she half suspected that Masten had sent him, fearing thatshe _would_ wait in spite of his admonition not to do so. She got up andfaced Chavis. 

"Mr. Masten couldn't come, I suppose?" she said. 

"That's right, " he said, looking at her oddly; "he couldn't come. Yousee, he's sort of taken a shine to a biscuit shooter in Crogan's, over inLazette, an' he couldn't very well break away. "

"A biscuit shooter!" she said, uncomprehendingly. 

"Sure. I reckon that back East you'd call her a waitress, or somethin'. Iain't admirin' his taste none. She ain't nowheres near as good-lookin' asyou. "

Her first emotion was one of sickening, maddening jealousy. It made herphysically weak, and she trembled as she fought it down. But thesensation passed and, though she felt that her face was hot and flushed, the cold calm of righteous resentment was slowly seizing her. 

"Did Mr. Masten send you here to tell me this?" she asked icily. 

"Why, no. I did it on my own hook. I knowed you'd be waitin'--I heard youmakin' the date with Willard, this mornin'. An' I figgered that what wasfair for one was fair for another. So I sneaked away from Willard an'come here. I've taken quite a shine to you, ma'am; you've sure got mesome flustered. An' I reckon--" here he took a step toward her andgrinned significantly "that I'll make a rattlin' good substitute forWillard. "

She struck at him, blindly, savagely. She felt her open hand strike hischeek, heard him curse, and then, in a daze she was running toward herpony. She did not turn, but furiously raced the animal across the plainstoward the ranchhouse. 

She was calmer when she reached the house, but went directly to her room, where she changed her clothes and sat for a long time at one of thewindows, looking toward the river--and toward Lazette. 

Downstairs, Uncle Jepson, who from a window of the bunkhouse had seen hercome in, had followed her into the house, to remark grumblingly to AuntMartha:

"Willard didn't meet her, drat him!"

Ruth passed a miserable night, thinking over Chavis' words. The man mighthave been lying. Obviously, common fairness demanded that she tell Mastenof the circumstance. On one thing she was determined: that Chavis shouldleave the ranch, whether he had lied to her or not. She would haveinstructed Vickers to attend to that, but Vickers had gone again to RedRock on business, and would not return for two or three days. She wouldwait until Vickers returned to discharge Chavis, but she must tell Mastenof the insult, for she yearned to see Chavis punished. 

She waited until after breakfast the following morning, and then sheinduced Masten to walk with her, under pretext of examining the flowerbeds. Reaching them, she faced him fairly. 

"Willard, " she said, her lips white and stiff, "there must be nodouble-dealing between you and me. Tom Chavis told me yesterday that youare interested in a waitress in Lazette. Is that true?"

He started, flushed darkly, and then smiled blandly. 

"Tom Chavis is romancing, my dear. If there is a waitress in Lazette Ihave not seen her. " He seized her by the shoulders and spoke earnestly. "I am interested in Ruth Harkness, my dear. You surely don't believe sucha story, do you, Ruth?"

He looked at her so frankly that her jealousy took wings, and she blushedand lowered her eyes. She raised them again, almost instantly, however;they were glowing vindictively. 

"Tom Chavis came to the box canyon at three yesterday afternoon, " shesaid firmly. "He insulted me. I want you to discharge him; Vickers is nothere to do it. And I do not want to see him again. "

He pressed his lips together and avoided her gaze, and a slow red stoleinto his face. Then he laughed mirthlessly. 

"Tom Chavis is a valuable man here, Ruth, " he said. "If the insult wasone that can be overlooked, you would do well to let the matter rest. Butbe assured that I shall have a talk with Chavis, and you may believe thathe will not repeat the offense. " He patted her shoulder. "In themeantime, " he said, with a hurt expression in his eyes, "do have somefaith in me. "

Reassured, convinced that she had done him an injustice in believing Chavis, she passed the remainder of the day in comparative light-heartedness. But when the awesome darkness of the West settled over the country, anddeep, stirring thoughts came to her on her pillow, she found herselfthinking of the rider of the river. He grew very vivid in her thoughts, and she found herself wondering, --remembering the stern manliness of hisface, --whether he, listening to the story of Chavis' insult from her lips, would have sought to find excuses for her insulter. 

 CHAPTER V

 LOVE VS. BUSINESS

On Sunday afternoon Ruth, Masten, Aunt Martha, and Uncle Jepson weresitting on the front porch of the Flying W ranchhouse. Ruth was readingand thinking--thinking most of the time, the book lying open in her lap. Masten was smoking a cigar--one of the many that he had brought withhim--and which he selfishly kept exclusively for his own use. Mastenseemed to be doing a great deal of thinking, too, for he was silentduring long periods, reclining easily in a big rocker, well-groomed andimmaculate as usual, looking decidedly out of place in this country, where extravagant personal adornment was considered an indication ofeffeminacy. 

Yet it was this immaculateness that had attracted Ruth to Masten in thefirst place when a year and a half before she had met him at a party inPoughkeepsie. Fresh from a big city near by, he had outshone the countrygallants at the party as he had outshone the cowboys that Ruth had seensince coming to the Flying W. His courtship had been gallant, too; he hadquite captivated her, and after their engagement--which had been a rathermatter-of-fact affair--she had not found it possible to refuse himpermission to accompany her to the West. 

"Have you visited your neighbor yet, Ruth?" Masten inquired at last. 

"Neighbor!" Ruth showed astonishment by letting her book close and losingher place. "Why, I didn't know we had a neighbor nearer than the DiamondH!"

Masten's lips curled. Her reference to the Diamond H recalled unpleasantmemories. 

"A nester, " he said, and then added after a pause--"and his daughter. Only two miles from here, across the river. There's a trail, through abreak in the canyon, leading to their ranch on the other side of theriver. The man's name is Catherson--Abe Catherson. Chavis tells me he wassomething of a bother to your uncle, because of his propensity to stealFlying W cattle. He's an old savage. "

"And the daughter?" inquired Ruth, her eyes alight with interest. 

"Half wild, bare-footed, ragged. She's pretty, though. "

"How old is she, Willard?"

"A mere child. Fifteen, I should judge. "

"I shall visit them tomorrow, " declared Ruth. 

"Sakes alive! Half wild? I should think she would be--living in thatwilderness!" said Aunt Martha, looking up from her knitting, over thetops of her glasses. 

"Everything is wild in this country, " said Masten, a slight sneer in hisvoice. "The people are repulsive, in dress, manner, and speech. " Hedelicately flecked some cigar ash from a coat sleeve. 

Uncle Jepson wrinkled his nose belligerently. He sniffed in eloquentpreparation for speech, but Aunt Martha averted the imminent clash bysaying sharply:

"Jep, you hop in there and get that ball of yarn off the dining-roomtable!"

So potent is habit that Uncle Jepson started to obey automatically, Ruthinterjected a word, speaking to Masten, and Uncle Jepson's opportunitywas lost. 

Silence reigned again until Ruth, who was facing the Calamity Trail, suddenly exclaimed:

"Some one is coming!"

During the silence she had again been thinking of Rex Randerson, andseeing the figure on the trail she had leaped to the conclusion that itwas he. Her face had flushed. Masten noticed it, for he looked narrowlyat her and, though he said nothing, there was that in his eyes which toldhe had divined what was in her mind. 

It was not Randerson, however, but Vickers, who was coming. They allrecognized him when he came closer, and they watched him with thatpeculiar concertedness which seizes upon an expectant company, until hedismounted at the corral gates and came toward them. 

Plainly there was something on Vickers' mind, for he smiled mechanicallyas he stepped upon the porch and looked at them. 

"Well, I'm back, " he said. He looked at Ruth. "There's somethin' I'd liketo say to you. It's business. If you'd rather hear it private--"

"I think there is nothing--" she began. 

"Well, " he said, "I've got to leave here. "

Ruth's face grew long. Uncle Jepson gagged on a mouthful of smoke. AuntMartha ceased knitting. Masten alone seemed unmoved, but an elated gleamwas in his eyes. 

"Isn't that a rather sudden decision, Mr. Vickers?" questioned Ruth aftera silence. 

"Well, mebbe it is, to you, " said Vickers, with some embarrassment. "Butthe fact is, I've been thinkin' of goin' for a long time--about a year tobe exact. I was goin' before your uncle died, but I kept holdin' onbecause he wanted me to. You see, ma'am, I've got a mother back East. She's been poorly for quite a while now, an' has been wantin' me to come. I've been puttin' it off, but it's got to the point where it can't be putoff any longer. I got a letter from her doctor the other day, an' he saysthat she can't last a heap longer. So--I'm goin'. "

"That's too bad, " sympathized Ruth. "You ought to go, and go quickly. "

"I'm aimin' to, ma'am. But I've got to tell you somethin' before I go. Mean' your uncle was pretty thick; he trusted me a heap. "

"Yes, " said Ruth; "he told me that he liked and trusted you. "

"Well, you'll understand then. A couple of months before he cashed in, wewas talkin' of him goin'. He knowed it, ma'am. We was talkin' about theranch. He knowed I wanted to leave. 'What'll I do for a range boss whenyou're gone?' he asked me. 'I won't go till you ain't here any more, ' Itells him. An' he grinned. 'I'm goin' to leave the Flyin' W to my niece, Ruth Harkness of Poughkeepsie, ' he says. 'I'd like her to stay an' runit--if she likes it here. You'll be gone then, an' who in Sam Hill willbe range boss then?' I told him I didn't have no thoughts on the subject, an' he continues: 'Rex Randerson, Vickers--he'll be range boss. Do youunderstand? If you was to pull your freight right now, Rex Randersonwould be range boss as soon as I could get word over to him. An' ifyou've got any say-so after I'm gone, an' Ruth wants to keep the ranch, you tell her that--that Bill Harkness wants Rex Randerson to be rangeboss after Wes Vickers don't want it any more. ' That's what he said, ma'am; them's his very words. "

Ruth looked at Masten. He was staring stonily out into the plains. Ruth'scheeks reddened, for she felt that she knew his thoughts. But still, Randerson hadn't really used him ill at the river, and besides, he hadapologized, and it seemed to her that that should end the incident. Also, she still felt rather resentful toward Masten for his attitude toward TomChavis after she had complained. And also, lurking deep in herunsophisticated mind was a most feminine impulse to sting Masten tojealousy. She looked up to meet Vickers' gaze, fixed curiously upon her. 

"Could you recommend this man--Randerson?" she asked. 

"Why, ma'am, he's got the best reputation of any man in these parts!"

"But is he efficient?"

"Meanin' does he know his business? Well, I reckon. He's got the besthead for range work of any man in the country! He's square, ma'am. An'there ain't no man monkeyin' with him. I've knowed him for five years, an' I ain't ever knowed him to do a crooked trick, exceptin'"--and herehe scratched his head and grinned reminiscently--"when he gets the devilin him which he does occasionally, ma'am--an' goes to jokin', ma'am. Butthey're mostly harmless jokes, ma'am; he's never hurt nobody, bad. But hegot a level head--a heap leveler than a lot of folks that--"

"I think Tom Chavis would make a good range boss, Ruth, " said Masten. Hedid not look at her, and his words were expressionless. 

"Mister man, " said Vickers evenly, "what do you know about Tom Chavis?"

Masten looked quickly at Vickers, and as quickly looked away, his faceslowly reddening. 

"He's foreman now, isn't he?" he said. "It seems that Harkness trustedhim that much. "

"There's a first time for every man to go wrong, Mister, " said Vickers. 

Masten's voice was almost a sneer. 

"Why don't you tell Chavis that?"

"I've told him, Mister--to his face. " Vickers' own face was growing darkwith wrath. 

"You were range boss after Harkness' death, " persisted Masten. "Whydidn't you discharge Chavis?"

"I'm askin' the new boss for permission to do it now, " declared Vickers. "It'll be a good wind-up for my stay here. "

"We shall keep Chavis for the present, " said Ruth. "However, " she addedfirmly, "he shall not be range boss. I do not like him. "

Vickers grinned silent applause. And again Uncle Jepson had trouble withhis pipe. Aunt Martha worked her knitting needles a little faster. Masten's face paled, and the hand that held the cigar quickly clenched, so that smoking embers fell to the porch floor. Whatever his feelings, however, he retained his self-control. 

"Of course, it is your affair, Ruth, " he said. "I beg your pardon foroffering the suggestion. "

But he left them shortly afterward, lighting a fresh cigar and walkingtoward the bunkhouse, which was deserted, for Chavis and Pickett had goneto a distant part of the range. 

Thus Masten did not see Vickers, when a little later he came out on theporch with his war-bag. He said good-bye to Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson, and then he took Ruth's hand and held it long. 

"You'll never go a heap wrong when you use your own judgment, girl, " hesaid. "I'm ridin' over to the Diamond H to tell Randerson about his newjob. Don't make no mistake, girl. Rex Randerson is square. An' if anytrouble comes sneakin' around you, take it to Rex; he'll stick on theright side till hell freezes over. "

[Illustration: "I am Ruth Harkness, the new owner of the Flying W"]

 CHAPTER VI

 A MAN AND HIS JOB

Just what Ruth's sensations were the next morning she could not havetold. She could correctly analyze one emotion: it was eager anticipation. Also, she could account for it--she wanted to see Randerson. But herreason for wanting to see him was a mystery that she could not fathom, though between the time of arising and the moment when she got downstairsshe devoted much thought to it. She knew she did not like Randerson wellenough to wish to see him merely on that account--that was ridiculous, inspite of the vivid recollection of him that still lingered with her, forshe had met him only once, and she assured herself that she was toopractical-minded to fall in love with anyone at first sight. Yet byafternoon Ruth had tired of waiting; she had no special reason forcertainty that Randerson would arrive that day, and so she went riding. She went alone, for Masten seemed to have hidden himself--at least, shecould not find him. She rode to the break in the wall of the canyon thathe had told her about, found it, sent her pony through it and over ashallow crossing, emerging at length in a tangle of undergrowth in a woodthrough which wound a narrow bridle path. She followed this for somedistance, and after a while came to a clearing. A little adobe housestood near the center of the clearing. Ruth halted her pony, and wasdebating whether to call out or to ride boldly up, when a dog came out ofthe door of the cabin, growling, its hair bristling belligerently. Thedog was big, black, and undoubtedly savage, for the pony instantlywheeled, and when the dog came closer, lashed out with both hind hoofs atit. 

"Nig, you ol' duffer, git in hyeh where you b'long! Can't you see thatthat there's a _lady!_" came a voice, unmistakably feminine. And the dog, still growling, but submissive, drew off. 

Ruth urged the pony on and rode the remaining distance to the door. Agirl, attired in a ragged underskirt and equally ragged waist of somecheckered material, and a faded house-apron that was many sizes too smallfor her, stood in the open doorway, watching. She was bare-footed, herhair was in tumbling disorder, though Ruth could tell that it had beencombed recently. But the legs, bare almost to the knees, were clean, though brown from tan, and her face and arms glowed pink and spotless, inspite of the rags. In her eyes, as she watched Ruth, was a strangemixture of admiration and defiance. 

"Dad ain't hyeh this mornin', " she volunteered as Ruth climbed off herpony. 

"I came to see you, " said Ruth, smiling. She threw the reins over thepony's head and advanced, holding out a hand. "I am Ruth Harkness, " sheadded, "the new owner of the Flying W. I have been here almost a month, and I just heard that I had a neighbor. Wont you shake hands with me?"

"I reckon, " said the girl. Reluctantly, it seemed, she allowed Ruth totake her hand. But she drew it away immediately. "I've heard of you, " shesaid; "you're a niece of that ol' devil, Bill Harkness. " She frowned. "Hewas always sayin' dad was hookin' his doggoned cattle. Dad didn't steal'em--ol' Bill Harkness was a liar!" Her eyes glowed fiercely. "I reckonyou'll be sayin' the same thing about dad. "

"No indeed!" declared Ruth. "Your dad and I are going to be friends. Iwant to be friends with you, too. I am not going to charge your dad withstealing my cattle. We are going to be neighbors, and visit each other. Iwant to know your dad, and I want you to come over to the Flying W andget acquainted with my aunt and uncle. Aren't you going to invite meinside? I would if you came to visit me, you know. " She smiled winningly. 

The girl flushed, and cast a glance at the interior of the cabin, which, Ruth had already noted through the open door, was scantily furnished butclean. Then the girl led the way in, motioned Ruth to a chair near arough-topped table, and stood over beside a cast-iron stove, her handshanging at her sides, the fingers crumpling the cloth of the raggedapron. Her belligerence had departed; she seemed now to be beginning torealize that this visit was really meant to honor her, and she grewconscious of her rags, of the visible signs of poverty, of the visitor'sraiment, gorgeous in comparison with her own--though Ruth's was merely asimple riding habit of brown corduroy. 

Ruth had set out for this visit with a definite intention: she wanted todiscover just how the girl and her father lived, and if conditions wereas she suspected she was determined to help them. Conditions were worsethan she had expected, but her face gave no indication. Perhaps Ruth'swisdom was not remarkable where men were concerned, but she had a wealthof delicacy, understanding and sympathy where her own sex was inquestion. She stayed at the cabin for more than an hour and at the end ofthat time she emerged, smiling happily, her arm around the girl, with thegirl's pledge to visit her soon and an earnest invitation to come again. Best of all, she had cleverly played upon the feminine instinct for fineraiment, slyly mentioned a trunk that she had brought with her from theEast, packed to the top with substantial finery which was not in theleast needed by her--an incumbrance, rather--and which, she hinted, mightbecome the property of another, if suitable in size. 

The girl followed her to the edge of the clearing, walking beside thepony. There they took leave of each other, a glow in the eyes of boththat gave promise of future sincere friendship. 

"Good-bye, Hagar, " said the Flying W girl. 

"Good-bye, lady, " said the girl. "Ruth, " she changed, as the Flying Wgirl held up an admonishing finger. And then, with a last smile, Ruthrode down the bridle path homeward, pleasure and pity mingling in hereyes. 

Randerson reached the Flying W ranchhouse late in the afternoon. He rodefirst to the bunkhouse, and seeing nobody there he made a round of thebuildings. Still seeing no one, he urged Patches toward the house, haltedhim at the edge of the front porch and sat in the saddle, looking at thefront door. He was about to call, when the door opened and Uncle Jepsoncame out. There was a broad grin on Uncle Jepson's face. 

"I cal'late you've got here, " he said. 

"Looks mighty like it, " returned the horseman. "You reckon my new boss isanywheres around?"

"She's gone off ridin', " Uncle Jepson told him. "It's likely she'll beback shortly. "

"I reckon I'd better wait, " said Randerson. He wheeled Patches. 

"There's plenty of sittin' room on the porch here, " invited Uncle Jepson, indicating the chairs. 

"Thank you--reckon the bunkhouse will be my quarters. "

He spoke to the pony. Uncle Jepson spoke at the same instant, and Patcheshalted:

"I cal'late you'd better wait here. "

"If you insist, " said Randerson. He swung off and walked to the edge ofthe porch, grinning mildly at Uncle Jepson. The handclasp between themwas warm, for Uncle Jepson had been strongly attracted to this son of theplains; and the twinkle in Randerson's eyes as his met Uncle Jepson's wasnot to be mistaken. 

"So Vickers has gone, " said Randerson as he dropped into a chair. "He's amighty fine man. "

"Willard wanted Chavis to have his job, " whispered Uncle Jepson. 

"You don't say!" Randerson's eyes gleamed. "An' Miss Ruth didn't wanthim, I reckon. " He caught Uncle Jepson's nod. "She's allowin' that she'sgoin' to be boss. But of course she would, " he added. He stood up, forAunt Martha had opened the door and was standing in it, looking at him. He removed his hat and bowed to her, his eyes gleaming with somethingnear affection, for Aunt Martha had found a place in his heart. Hestepped forward, took her hand, and escorted her to the largest and mostcomfortable of the rockers on the porch, and when she sat down she lookedup at him and smiled. 

"I reckon you like it here?" he said gently to Aunt Martha. 

"I like it very much. But there are differences--after Poughkeepsie. Onedoesn't notice them so much at first. "

"I expect you find it sort of rough here, " he said, looking at her. "Theytell me that in the East folks live pretty close together--that there'sconveniences. There ain't a heap of conveniences here. " He pronounced theword slowly and laboriously. It was plain that he was trying to put onhis best manners. 

"No--no conveniences, " said Aunt Martha. "But it's a wonderful country, my boy--wonderful!"

A pulse of something shot through him at the word, "boy. "

"I'm glad you like it, " he said gravely. 

Aunt Martha folded her hands in her lap and looked long at him over therims of her glasses. There was interest in her eyes, and kindliness. Forshe saw something in this figure of a new type that sat beforeher--something that the two big guns, at his hips did not hint at--norhis leather chaps, the cartridge belt, the broad hat, the spurs, thehigh-heeled boots, the colored scarf at his throat. These things were thebadges of his calling, and were, of course, indispensable, but she sawthem not. But the virile manhood of him; the indomitability; the quietfearlessness, indicated by his steady, serene eyes; the rugged, sterlinghonesty that radiated from him, she saw--and admired. But above all shesaw the boy in him--the generous impulses that lay behind his mask ofgrimness, the love of fun that she had seen him exhibit at Calamity. 

"You were born here?" she asked. 

"In Colfax, ma'am. "

"Is that a city?"

"Bless yu', ma'am, no. It's a county. "

"And you were born on a ranch, then. "

"Yes, ma'am. "

She was asking questions that a man would not have dared to ask him, andhe was answering them as a boy might have answered. It did not seem animpertinence to him or to her, so great was her interest in him, so deepwas his admiration of her. 

"And your parents?"

"Both dead, ma'am. " A shadow crossed his face, a look of wistfulness, andshe abruptly ceased questioning. And when, a little later, they saw Ruthcoming across the plains toward them, Aunt Martha got up. He held thescreen door open for her, and she paused on the threshold and patted hisbare head. 

"If I had had a son, I could have wished he would be like you, " she said. 

He blushed crimson. "Why, ma'am--" he began. But Aunt Martha had gone in, and he turned to face Ruth, who was dismounting at the edge of the porch. 

"Oh!" she said, as though his appearance had surprised her, though shehad seen him from afar, "you are here already!"

"I expect it's me, ma'am, " he said gravely. "You see, Wes Vickers stoppedat the Diamond H last evenin', an' I come right over. "

It was quite evident that he would not attempt to be familiar. No longerwas he the free lance rider of the plains who had been at liberty toexchange words with her as suited his whim; here was the man who had beengiven a job, and there stood his employer; he would not be likely to stepover that line, and his manner showed it. 

"Well, " she said, "I am glad you decided to come right away; we missVickers already, and I have no doubt, according to his recommendation, that you will be able to fill his place acceptably. "

"Thank you, ma'am. I reckon I'm to take up my quarters in the bunkhouse?"He paused. "Or mebbe the foreman's shanty?"

"Why, " she said, looking at him and noting his grave earnestness, sostrikingly in contrast to his wild frolicksomeness at Calamity that day. "Why, I don't know about that. Vickers stayed at the ranchhouse, and Isuppose you will stay here too. "

"All right, ma'am; I'll be takin' my war-bag in. " He was evidentlyfeeling a slight embarrassment, and would have been glad to retreat. Hegot his war-bag from its place behind the saddle, on Patches, shoulderedit, and crossed the porch. He was opening the door when Ruth's voicestopped him. 

"Oh, " she said, "your room. I forgot to tell you; it is the one in thenorthwest corner. "

"Thank you, ma'am. " He went in. 

"Come down when you have straightened around, " she called to him, "I wantto talk with you about some things. "

"I'll have to put Patches away, ma'am, " he said, "I'd sure have to comedown, anyway. "

That talk was held with Uncle Jepson looking on and listening and smokinghis pipe. And when it was over, Randerson took the saddle and bridle offPatches, turned him loose in the corral and returned to the porch to talkand smoke with Uncle Jepson. 

While they sat the darkness came on, the kerosene lamp inside waslighted, delicious odors floated out to them through the screen door. Presently a horseman rode to the corral fence and dismounted. 

"One of the boys, I reckon, " said Randerson. 

Uncle Jepson chuckled. "It's Willard, " he said. He peered intoRanderson's face for some signs of emotion. There were none. 

"I'd clean forgot him, " said Randerson. 

Masten came in a few minutes later. He spoke a few words to Uncle Jepson, but ignored Randerson. 

Supper was announced soon after Masten's entrance, and Uncle Jepson ledRanderson around to the rear porch, where he introduced him to a tinwashbasin and a roller towel. Uncle Jepson also partook of this luxury, and then led the new range boss inside. 

If Ruth had any secret dread over the inevitable meeting between Mastenand the new range boss, it must have been dispelled by Randerson'smanner, for he was perfectly polite to Masten, and by no word or sign didhe indicate that he remembered the incident of Calamity. 

Ruth watched him covertly during the meal, and was delighted to find hisconduct faultless. He had not Masten's polish, of course, that was not tobe expected. But she noticed this--it was quickly impressed upon her--hewas not self-conscious, but entirely natural, possessing the easy graceof movement that comes of perfect muscular and mental control. He seemedto relegate self to the background; he was considerate, quiet, serene. And last--the knowledge pleased her more than anything else--he continuedto keep between himself and the others the bars of deference; he madethem see plainly that there would be no overstepping his position. It washis job to be here, and he had no illusions. 

 CHAPTER VII

 HOW AN INSULT WAS AVENGED

As the days passed, it became plain to Ruth, as it did to everyone elseon the ranch--Chavis, Pickett, and Masten included--that Vickers had nottalked extravagantly in recommending Randerson. Uncle Jepson declaredthat "he took right a-hold, " and Aunt Martha beamed proudly upon himwhenever he came within range of her vision. 

There was no hitch; he did his work smoothly. The spring round-up wascarried to a swift conclusion, the calves were branded and turned looseagain to roam the range during the summer; the corral fences wererepaired, new irrigation ditches were laid, others extended--the numerousdetails received the attention they merited, and when summer came inearnest, the Flying W was spick and span and prospering. 

Chavis and Pickett still retained their old positions, but Ruth noticedthat they did not spend so much of their time around the bunkhouse asformerly, they seemed to have work enough to keep their time fullyemployed. Nor did Masten accompany them very often. He seemed to take anew interest in Ruth; he found various pretexts to be near her, and Ruthsecretly congratulated herself on her wisdom in securing her new rangeboss. She had scarcely expected such amazing results. 

She was conscious of a vague disappointment, though. For she would haveliked to see more of her range boss. Twice, under pretense of wanting tolook over the property, she had accompanied him to outlying cow camps, and she had noted that the men seemed to like him--they called him "Rex, "and in other ways exhibited their satisfaction over his coming. Severaltimes she had observed meetings between him and Chavis and Pickett;invariably Chavis was sullen and disagreeable in his presence, and anumber of times she had seen Pickett sneer when Randerson's back wasturned. No one had told her of the open enmity that existed betweenPickett and Randerson; the latter had not hinted of it. 

And Randerson was at the ranchhouse even less frequently than hispredecessor; he spent much of his time with the outfit. But he came inone afternoon, after Ruth's friendship with Hagar Catherson hadprogressed far, and met the nester's daughter on the porch as he wasabout to enter the house. 

By ingenious artifice and persuasion Ruth had induced the girl to acceptfor her own many of the various garments in the alluring trunk, and Ruthherself had been surprised at the wonderful transformation in herappearance when arrayed in them. Hagar was attired this afternoon in adark-blue riding habit, with short skirt--shortened by Aunt Martha--ridingboots, a waist with a low collar and a flowing tie, and a soft hat thatRuth had re-made for her. She had received lessons in hair-dressing, andher brown, wavy tresses were just obstinate enough, through long neglect, to refuse to yield fully to the influence of comb and brush; they bulgedunder the brim of the soft hat, and some stray wisps persisted in blowingover her face. 

She had just taken leave of Ruth who, at the instant Randerson stepped onthe porch, was standing inside the doorway, watching her. She had giventhe girl a trinket that had long been coveted by her, and Hagar's eyeswere bright with delight as she took leave of her friend. They grew evenbrighter when she saw Randerson on the porch, and a swift color suffusedher face. 

The girl stood still, looking at the range boss. A sudden whim todiscover if he recognized her, took possession of her--for she had knownhim long and he had been a friend to her father when friends were few;she stood looking straight at him. 

He gave her one quick, penetrating glance, and then stepped back, astonishment and recognition in his eyes. Then he took a quick stepforward and seized her hands, holding her at arm's length, his eyesleaping in admiration. 

"Why, if it ain't Hagar Catherson!" he said, wonder in his voice. "Haveyou just got out of a fairy book?"

Old friendship was speaking here; Ruth could not fail to understand that. 

But he had not yet finished. "Why, I reckon--" he began. And then he sawRuth, and his lips wreathed in a delighted grin. "You're the fairy, ma'am. " And then he sobered. "Shucks. I'm talkin' nonsense, ma'am. I'vecome to tell you that the grass ain't what it ought to be where we'vebeen, an' tomorrow we're drivin' past here to go down the river. " He wasstill holding Hagar's hands, and now he seemed to realize that perhaps hehad been too effusive, and he flushed and dropped them. "You was justgoin', I reckon, " he said to the girl. And at her nod, and a quick, pleased glance from her eyes, he added: "Tell your dad that I'm comin'over to see him, pretty soon. I'd have been over before, but I've beensort of busy. "

"We've been a-hopin' you'd come, " answered Hagar. And with another smileat Ruth she stepped off the porch and mounted her pony. 

Randerson went directly to his room, and Ruth stood for a long time atthe door, watching Hagar as she rode her pony over the plains. There wasa queer sensation of resentment in her breast over this exhibition offriendship; she had never thought of them knowing each other. She smiledafter a while, however, telling herself that it was nothing to her. Butthe next time that she saw Hagar she ascertained her age. It wasseventeen. 

The outfit came in the next morning--fourteen punchers, the horse-wranglerhaving trouble as usual with the _remuda_, the cook, Chavis, and Pickett. They veered the herd toward the river and drove it past the ranchhouse andinto a grass level that stretched for miles. It was near noon when thechuck wagon came to a halt near the bunkhouse door, and from the porch ofher house Ruth witnessed a scene that she had been anticipating since herfirst day in the West--a group of cowboys at play. 

Did these men of the plains know that their new boss had been wanting tosee them in their unrestrained moments? They acted like boys--moremischievous than boys in their most frolicsome moods. Their movementswere grotesque, their gestures extravagant, their talk high-pitched andflavored with a dialect that Ruth had never heard. They were "showingoff"; the girl knew that. But she also knew that in their actions wasmuch of earnestness, that an excess of vigor filled them. They were liketheir horses which now unleashed in the corral were running, neighing, kicking up their heels in their momentary delight of freedom. 

The girl understood and sympathized with them, but she caught a glimpseof Chavis and Pickett, sitting close together on a bench at the front ofthe messhouse, talking seriously, and a cloud came over her face. Thesetwo men were not light-hearted as the others. What was the reason? Whenshe went into the house a few minutes later, a premonition of impendingtrouble assailed her and would not be dismissed. 

She helped Aunt Martha in the kitchen. Uncle Jepson had goneaway--"nosin' around, " he had said; Masten had ridden away toward theriver some time before--he had seemed to ride toward the break in thecanyon which led to the Catherson cabin; she did not know where Randersonhad gone--had not seen him for hours. 

Hilarious laughter reached her, busy in the kitchen, but it did notbanish the peculiar uneasiness that afflicted her. And some time later, when the laughter ceased and she went to the window and looked out, thecowboys had vanished. They had gone in to dinner. But Chavis and Pickettstill sat on their bench, talking. Ruth shivered and turned from thewindow. 

She was in better spirits shortly after dinner, and went out to thestable to look at her pony. Because of the coming of the _remuda_ she hadthought it best to take her pony from the corral, for she feared that incompany with the other horses her own animal would return to thoseungentle habits which she disliked. 

She fed it from some grain in a bin, carried some water in a pail fromthe trough at the windmill, and stood at the pony's head for some time, watching it. Just as she was about to turn to leave the stable, she feltthe interior darken, and she wheeled quickly to see that the door hadclosed, and that Jim Pickett stood before it, grinning at her. 

For a moment her knees shook, for she could not fail to interpret theexpression of his face, then she heard a gale of laughter from thedirection of the bunkhouse, and felt reassured. But while she stood, sheheard the sounds of the laughter growing gradually indistinct anddistant, and she gulped hard. For she knew that the cowboys were ridingaway--no doubt to join the herd. 

She pretended to be interested in the pony, and stroked its mane with ahand that trembled, delaying to move in the hope that she might bemistaken in her fears and that Pickett would go away. But Pickett did notmove. Glancing at him furtively, she saw that the grin was still on hisface and that he was watching her narrowly. Then, finding that he seemeddetermined to stay, she pretended unconcern and faced him, meeting hisgaze fearlessly. 

"Is there something that you wanted to talk to me about, Pickett?" shequestioned. 

"Yes, ma'am, " he said respectfully, though his voice seemed slightlyhoarse, "I've got a letter here which I want you to read to me--I justcan't sorta make out the writin'. "

She almost sighed with relief. Leaving the stall she went to Pickett'sside and took from his hand a paper that he held out to her. And now, inher relief over her discovery that his intentions were not evil, itsuddenly dawned on her that she had forgotten that the door was closed. 

"It is dark here, " she said; "open the door, please. "

Instead of answering, he seized the hand holding the paper, and with aswift pull tried to draw her toward him. But her muscles had been tensedwith the second fear that had taken possession of her, and sheresisted--almost broke away from him. His fingers slipped from her wrist, the nails scratching the flesh deeply, and she sprang toward the door. But he was upon her instantly, his arms around her, pinning her own toher sides, and then he squeezed her to him, so tightly that the breathalmost left her body, and kissed her three or four times full on thelips. Then, still holding her, and looking in her eyes with an expressionthat filled her with horror, he said huskily:

"Lord, but you're a hummer!"

Then, as though that were the limit of his intentions, he released her, laughed mirthlessly and threw the door open. 

She had spoken no word during the attack. She made no sound now, as shewent toward the house, her face ashen, her breath coming in great gasps. But a few minutes later she was in her room in the ranchhouse, on herbed, her face in the pillow, sobbing out the story of the attack to AuntMartha, whose wrinkled face grew gray with emotion as she listened. 

Masten came in an hour later. Ruth was in a chair in the sitting-room, looking very white. Aunt Martha was standing beside her. 

"Why, what has happened?" Masten took a few steps and stood in front ofher, looking down at her. 

"Aunty will tell you. " Ruth hid her face in her hands and cried softly. 

Aunt Martha led the way into the kitchen, Masten following. Before hereached the door he looked back at Ruth, and a slight smile, almost asneer, crossed his face. But when he turned to Aunt Martha, in thekitchen, his eyes were alight with well simulated curiosity. 

"Well?" he said, questioningly. 

"It is most outrageous, " began Aunt Martha, her voice trembling. "Thatman, Pickett, came upon Ruth in the stable and abused her shamefully. Heactually kissed her--three or four times--and--Why, Mr. Masten, theprints of his fingers are on her wrists!"

Ruth, in the sitting-room, waited, almost in dread, for the explosionthat she knew would follow Aunt Martha's words. 

None came, and Ruth sank back in her chair, not knowing whether she wasrelieved or disappointed. There was a long silence, during which Mastencleared his throat three times. And then came Aunt Martha's voice, filledwith mingled wonder and impatience:

"Aren't you going to do something Mr. Masten? Such a thing ought not togo unpunished. "

"Thunder!" he said fretfully, "what on earth _can_ I do? You don't expectme to go out and _fight_ that man, Pickett. He'd kill me!"

"Mebbe he would, " said Aunt Martha in a slightly cold voice, "but hewould know that Ruth was engaged to a _man!_" There was a silence. Andagain came Aunt Martha's voice:

"There was a time when men thought it an honor to fight for their women. But it seems that times have changed mightily. "

"This is an age of reason, and not muscle and murder, " replied Masten. "There is no more reason why I should go out there and allow Pickett tokill me than there is a reason why I should go to the first railroad, laymy head on the track and let a train run over me. There is law in thiscountry, aunty, and it can reach Pickett. "

"Your self-control does you credit, Mr. Masten. " Aunt Martha's voice waslow, flavored with sarcasm. Masten turned abruptly from her and went into Ruth. Her face was still in her hands, but she felt his presence andinvoluntarily shrank from him. 

He turned his head from her and smiled, toward the stable, and then helaid a hand on Ruth's shoulder and spoke comfortingly. 

"It's too bad, Ruth. But we shall find a way to deal with Pickett withouthaving murder done. Why not have Randerson discharge him? He is rangeboss, you know. In the meantime, can't you manage to stay away fromplaces where the men might molest you? They are all unprincipledscoundrels, you must remember!"

He left her, after a perfunctory caress which she suffered in silence. She saw him, later, as he passed her window, talking seriously to Chavis, and she imagined he was telling Chavis about the attack. Of course, shethought, with a wave of bitterness, Chavis would be able to sympathizewith him. She went to her room shortly afterward. 

The sun was swimming in a sea of saffron above the mountains in thewestern distance when Ruth again came downstairs. Hearing voices in thekitchen she went to the door and looked. Aunt Martha was standing nearthe kitchen table. Randerson was standing close to her, facing her, dwarfing her, his face white beneath the deep tan upon it, his lipsstraight and hard, his eyes narrowed, his teeth clenched; she could seethe corded muscles of his lean under-jaw, set and stiff. Aunt Martha'shands were on his sleeves; her eyes were big and bright, and glowing witha strange light. 

They did not see Ruth, and something in their attitudes kept her fromrevealing herself; she stood silent, listening, fascinated. 

"So he done that!" It was Randerson's voice, and it made Ruth's heartfeel heavy and cold within her, for in it was contempt, intolerance, ragesuppressed--she felt that the words had come through clenched teeth. "Ireckon I'll be seein' Pickett, aunty. "

And then he patted Aunt Martha's shoulders and started for the back door. Ruth heard him open it; he must have been standing on the threshold whenhe spoke again. And this time he spoke in a drawl--slow, gentle:

"I reckon I'll go wash. It was mighty dusty ridin' today. I passedCalamity, aunty. There ain't no mud there any more; Willard wouldn't getmussed up, now. The suck-hole ain't a foot deep any more. "

"You're a scapegrace, " said Aunt Martha severely. Ruth felt that she wasshaking a deprecatory finger at him. "Your manners have been neglected. "But Aunt Martha's voice gave the words an exactly opposite meaning, andRuth blushed. 

There had been a dread fear in Ruth's heart. For she had seen warning ofimpending tragedy in Randerson's face when she had looked at him. Itseemed to have passed. His, "I reckon I'll be seein' Pickett, " meant, perhaps, that he would discharge the man. Relieved, she went upstairsagain and sat in a chair, looking out of a window. 

A little later she saw several of the cowboys come in. She saw Pickettstanding near a corner of the bunkhouse. She watched him closely, forthere was something strange in his actions. He seemed to be waiting forsomething, or somebody. Occasionally he leaned against the corner of thebunkhouse, but she noted that he kept turning his head, keeping a lookoutin all directions. Again a premonition of imminent trouble oppressed her. 

And then she saw Randerson going from the ranchhouse toward the men whowere congregated in front of the bunkhouse; saw Pickett's right hand fallto his side as though it rested on a holster, and she started out of herchair, for illumination now came to her. 

Half way to the bunkhouse, Randerson was met by Uncle Jepson. She sawRanderson stop, observed that Uncle Jepson seemed to say something tohim. She could not, of course, hear the words, "Look out, Randerson;Pickett's layin' for you, " but she saw Randerson lay a hand on UncleJepson's shoulder. 

And then he continued on his way. 

She saw Randerson go close to Pickett, noted that the other men had allturned and were watching the two. Randerson seemed to be speaking, toPickett; the latter had faced him. Then, as she breathlessly watched, shesaw Pickett reach for his gun. Randerson leaped. Pickett's gun did notcome out, Randerson's hand had closed on Pickett's wrist. 

There was a brief, fierce struggle, blows were struck, and then the mensprang apart. Ruth saw Randerson's right arm describe a rapidhalf-circle; she seemed to hear a thud as his fist landed, and Pickettreeled and fell sideways to the ground, close to the wall of thebunkhouse. She heard him curse; saw him reach again for the gun at hiship. The toe of Randerson's right boot struck Pickett's hand, driving itaway from the holster; the hand was ground into the dust by Randerson'sboot. And then, so quickly that she could not follow the movement, Randerson's gun was out, and Pickett lay still where he had fallen. 

Presently Ruth saw Pickett get up, still menaced by Randerson's gun. Cursing, crouching, evidently still awaiting an opportunity to draw hisgun, Pickett began to walk toward the ranchhouse, Randerson close behindhim. At a safe distance, the other men followed--Ruth saw Masten andChavis come out of the bunkhouse door and follow also. The thought struckher that they must have witnessed the incident from a window. She sawthem all, the cowboys at a respectable distance, Pickett and Randerson infront, with Masten and Chavis far behind, come to a halt. Shedivined--she believed she had suspected all along--what the march to theranchhouse meant, but still she did not move, for she feared she couldnot stand. 

Ruth was roused, however, by Randerson's voice. It reached her, sharp, cold, commanding. Evidently he was speaking to Aunt Martha, or to UncleJepson, who had gone into the house:

"Tell Miss Ruth to come here!"

Ruth obeyed. A moment later she stood on the front porch, looking at themall. This scene seemed unreal to her--the cowboys at a distance, Mastenand Chavis in the rear, looking on, Pickett near the edge of the porch, his face bloated with impotent rage, his eyes glaring; the grim figurethat Randerson made as he stood near Pickett, gun in hand, his eyesnarrowed, alert. It seemed to her to be a dream from which she wouldpresently awaken, trembling from the horror of it. 

And then again she heard Randerson's voice. It was low, but so burdenedwith passion that it seemed to vibrate in the perfect silence. There wasa threat of death in it:

"You can tell Miss Ruth that you're never goin' to play the skunk with awoman ag'in!"

Pickett writhed. But it seemed to Ruth, as her gaze shifted fromRanderson to him, that Pickett's manner was not what it should be. He wasnot embarrassed enough, did not seem to feel his disgrace keenly enough. For though he twisted and squirmed under the threat in Randerson's voice, there was an odd smirk on his face that impressed her as nearlyconcealing a malignant cunning. And his voice sounded insincere toher--there was even no flavor of shame in them:

"I'm sorry I done what I did, ma'am. "

"I reckon that's all, Pickett. You draw your time right now. "

Randerson sheathed his pistol and turned slightly sidewise to Pickett, evidently intending to come up on the porch. 

Ruth gasped. For she saw Pickett reach for his gun. It was drawn half outof its holster. As though he had divined what was in Pickett's mind, Randerson had turned slightly at Pickett's movement. There was a singlerapid movement to his right hip, the twilight was split by a red streak, by another that followed it so closely as to seem to make the twocontinuous. Pickett's hand dropped oddly from the half-drawn weapon, hisknees sagged, he sighed and pitched heavily forward, face down, atRanderson's feet. 

Dimly, as through a haze, Ruth saw a number of the cowboys coming towardher, saw them approach and look curiously down at the thing that layalmost at her feet. And then someone took her by the arm--she thought itwas Uncle Jepson--and she was led toward the door. At the threshold shepaused, for Randerson's voice, cold and filled with deadly definiteness, reached her:

"Do you want to take his end of this?" Ruth turned. Randerson waspointing to Pickett's body, ghastly in its prone slackness. He waslooking at Chavis. 

Evidently Chavis elected not to avenge his friend at that moment. Forthere was a dead silence while one might have counted fifty. Then Ruthwas drawn into the house. 

[Illustration: The twilight was split by a red streak]

 CHAPTER VIII

 WHAT UNCLE JEPSON HEARD

Every detail of the killing of Jim Pickett remained vivid in Ruth'srecollection. She felt that she would never forget it. But her horrorgradually abated, and at the end of a week she was able to look atRanderson without shuddering. During the week she had evaded him. And he, divining the state of her feelings, kept away from the house as much aspossible. 

Masten's demeanor on hearing of the insult that had been offered her byPickett had seemed that of a man who was lacking in courage: at the timeshe had not been able to make it conform to her ideas of a man's duty tothe woman he had promised to marry--or to any woman. She had heard himspeak of reason in connection with the affair, as though there were nosuch thing in the world as rage so justifiable as to make a man yearn toinflict punishment upon another man who had attacked his woman. He hadlooked upon the matter cold-bloodedly, and she had resented that. But nowthat she had been avenged, she felt that she had been wrong. It had beensuch a trivial thing, after all; the punishment seemed monstrous incomparison with it. She had seen Pickett's movement when Randerson hadmomentarily turned his back to him, but she had also seen Randerson'sretaliatory movement. She had known then, that Randerson had expectedPickett's action, and that he had been prepared for it, and therefore itseemed to her that in forcing the trouble Randerson had not only foreseenthe ending but had even courted it. 

Remorse over her momentary doubt of Masten's motive in refusing to callPickett to account, afflicted her. He had been wiser than she; he hadtraced the line that divided reason from the primitive passions--man frombeast. His only reference to the incident--a wordless one, which she feltwas sufficiently eloquent--came when one day, while they were standingbeside the corral fence, looking at the horses, they saw Randerson ridingin. Masten nodded toward him and shook his head slowly from side to side, compressing his lips as he did so. And then, seeing her looking at him, he smiled compassionately, as though to say that he regretted the killingof Pickett as well as she. 

She seized his arm impulsively. 

"I was wrong, Willard, " she said. 

"Wrong, dear?" he said. "It wasn't your fault. "

"But I thought--things about you that I shouldn't have thought. I feltthat you ought to have punished Pickett. I am glad, now, that youdidn't. " She shuddered, and looked again at Randerson, just dismountingat the bunkhouse, paying no attention to them. 

"Then you wouldn't have me like him?" He indicated Randerson. 

"No, " she said. 

He gave her shoulder a slight pressure, and turning his head, smiledtriumphantly. 

Later, when they had walked to a far corner of the pasture, talkingconfidentially and laughing a little, he halted and drew her close tohim. 

"Ruth, " he said, gently, "the world is going very well for you now. Youare settled here, you like it, and things are running smoothly. Why nottake a ride over to Lazette one of these days. There is a justice of thepeace over there. It won't need to be a formal affair, you know. Just onthe quiet--a sort of a lark. I have waited a long time, " he coaxed. 

She smiled at his earnestness. But that spark which he had tried in vainto fan into flame still smoldered. She felt no responsive impulse; astrange reluctance dragged at her. 

"Wait, Willard, " she said, "until after the fall round-up. There is nohurry. We are sure of each other. "

They went on toward the ranchhouse. When they passed the bunkhouse, andthrough the open door saw Randerson and Uncle Jepson sitting on a benchsmoking, Ruth quickened her step, and Masten made a grimace of hatred. 

 * * * * *

Inside the bunkhouse, Uncle Jepson, who had been speaking, paused longenough to wrinkle his nose at Masten. Randerson's expression did notchange; it was one of grave expectancy. 

"You was sayin'--" he prompted, looking at Uncle Jepson. 

"That the whole darned deal was a frame-up, " declared Uncle Jepson. "Iwas settin' in the messhouse along in the afternoon of the day of thekillin'--smokin' an' thinkin', but most of the time just settin', Ical'late, when I heard Chavis an' Pickett talkin' low an' easy outside. They was a crack in the wall, an' I plastered one ear up ag'in it, an'took in all they was sayin'. First, they was talkin' about the badfeelin' between you an' Pickett. Pickett said he wanted to 'git' you, an'that Masten wanted to get you out of the way because of what you'd doneto him at Calamity. But I reckon that ain't the real reason; he's gotsome idea that you an' Ruth--"

"Shucks, " said Randerson impatiently. 

"Anyway, " grinned Uncle Jepson, "for some reason, he don't want youhangin' around. Far as I could gather, Pickett wanted some excuse to haveyou fire him, so's he could shoot you. He talked some to Masten about it, an' Masten told him to tackle Ruth, but not to get too rough about it, an' not to go too far. "

"Great guns! The low-down, mean, sneakin'--" said Randerson. His eyeswere glowing; his words came with difficulty through his straightenedlips. 

"Masten wouldn't take it up, he told Pickett, " went on Uncle Jepson. "He'd put it up to you. An' when you'd tackle Pickett about it, Pickettwould shoot you. If they was any chance for Chavis to help along, he'd doit. But mostly, Pickett was to do the job. I cal'late that's aboutall--except that I layed for you an' told you to look out. "

"You heard this talk after--after Pickett had--"

"Of course, " growled Uncle Jepson, a venomous flash in his eyes, slightlyreproachful. 

"Sure--of course, " agreed Randerson. He was grim-eyed; there was coldcontempt in the twist of his lips. He sat for a long time, silent, staring out through the door, Uncle Jepson watching him, subdued by thelook in his eyes. 

When he spoke at last, there was a cold, bitter humor in his voice. 

"So that's Willard's measure!" he said. "He grades up like a side-winderslidin' under the sagebrush. There's nothin' clean about him but hisclothes. But he's playin' a game--him an' Chavis. An' I'm the guy they'reafter!" He laughed, and Uncle Jepson shivered. "She's seen one killin', an' I reckon, if she stays here a while longer, she'll see another:Chavis'. " He stopped and then went on: "Why, I reckon Chavis dyin'wouldn't make no more impression on her than Pickett dyin'. But I reckonshe thinks a heap of Willard, don't she, Uncle Jep?" "If a girlpromises--" began Uncle Jepson. 

"I reckon--" interrupted Randerson. And then he shut his lips and lookedgrimly out at the horses in the corral. 

"Do you reckon she'd--" Randerson began again, after a short silence. "No, " he answered the question himself, "I reckon if you'd tell her shewouldn't believe you. No good woman will believe anything bad about theman she loves--or thinks she loves. But Willard--"

He got up, walked out the door, mounted Patches and rode away. Going tothe door, Uncle Jepson watched him until he faded into the shimmeringsunshine of the plains. 

"I cal'late that Willard--"

But he, too, left his speech unfinished, as though thought had suddenlyceased, or speculation had become futile and ridiculous. 

 CHAPTER IX

 "SOMETHIN'S GONE OUT OF THEM"

As Randerson rode Patches through the break in the canyon wall in theafternoon of a day about a week after his talk with Uncle Jepson in thebunkhouse, he was thinking of the visit he intended to make. He haddelayed it long. He had not seen Abe Catherson since taking his new job. 

"I reckon he'll think I'm right unneighborly, " he said to himself as herode. 

When he reached the nester's cabin, the dog Nig greeted him withvociferous affection, bringing Hagar to the door. 

"Oh, it's Rex!" cried the girl delightedly. And then, reproachfully: "Mean' dad allowed you wasn't comin' any more!"

"You an' dad was a heap mistaken, then, " he grinned as he dismounted andtrailed the reins over the pony's head. "I've had a heap to 'tend to, " headded as he stepped on the porch and came to a halt, looking at her. "Why, I reckon the little kid I used to know ain't here any more!" hesaid, his eyes alight with admiration, as he critically examined hergarments from the distance that separated her from him--a neat housedress of striped gingham, high at the throat, the bottom hem reachingbelow her shoe-tops; a loose-fitting apron over the dress, drawn tightlyat the waist, giving her figure graceful curves. He had never thought ofHagar in connection with beauty; he had been sorry for her, pityingher--she had been a child upon whom he had bestowed much of the unselfishdevotion of his heart; indeed, there had been times when it had assumed apractical turn, and through various ruses much of his wages had beendelicately forced upon the nester. It had not always been wiselyexpended, for he knew that Catherson drank deeply at times. 

Now, however, Randerson realized that the years must inevitably make achange in Hagar. That glimpse he had had of her on the Flying Wranchhouse porch had made him think, but her appearance now caused him tothink more deeply. It made constraint come into his manner. 

"I reckon your dad ain't anywhere around?" he said. 

"Dad's huntin' up some cattle this mornin', " she told him. "Shucks, " sheadded, seeing him hesitate, "ain't you comin' in?"

"Why, I've been wonderin'" and he grinned guiltily "whether it'd beexactly proper. You see, there was a time when I busted right in thehouse without waitin' for an invitation--tickled to get a chance todawdle a kid on my knee. But I reckon them dawdle-days is over. Iwouldn't think of tryin' to dawdle a _woman_ on my knee. But if you thinkthat you're still Hagar Catherson, an' you won't be dead-set on medawdlin' you--Why, shucks, I reckon I'm talkin' like a fool!" And hisface blushed crimson. 

Her face was red too, but she seemed to be less conscious of the changein herself than he, though her eyes drooped when he looked at her. 

He followed her inside and formally took a chair, sitting on its edge andturning his hat over and over in his hands, looking much at it, as if itwere new and he admired it greatly. 

But this constraint between them was not the only thing that was new tohim. While she talked, he sat and listened, and stole covert glances ather, and tried to convince himself that it was really Hagar that wassitting there before him. 

But before long he grew accustomed to the strangeness of the situation, and constraint dropped from him. "Why, I reckon it's all natural, " heconfided to her. "Folks grow up, don't they? Take you. Yesterday you wasa kid, an' I dawdled you on my knee. Today you're a woman, an' it makesme feel some breathless to look at you. But it's all natural. I'd beenseein' you so much that I'd forgot that time was makin' a woman of you. "

She blushed, and he marveled over it. "She can't see, herself, how she'schanged, " he told himself. And while they talked he studied her, notingthat her color was higher than he had ever seen it, that the frankexpression of her eyes had somehow changed--there was a glow in them, deep, abiding, embarrassed. They drooped from his when he tried to holdher gaze. He had always admired the frank directness of them--that toldof unconsciousness of sex, of unquestioning trust. Today, it seemed tohim, there was subtle knowledge in them. He was puzzled and disappointed. And when, half an hour later, he took his leave, after telling her thathe would come again, to see her "dad, " he took her by the shoulders andforced her to look into his eyes. His own searched hers narrowly. It wasas in the old days--in his eyes she was still a child. 

"I reckon I won't kiss you no more, Hagar, " he said. "You ain't a kid nomore, an' it wouldn't be square. Seventeen is an awful old age, ain'tit?"

And then he mounted and rode down the trail, still puzzled over thelurking, deep glow in her eyes. 

"I reckon I ain't no expert on women's eyes, " he said as he rode. "ButHagar's--there's somethin' gone out of them. "

He could not have reached the break in the canyon leading to the plainsabove the river, when Willard Masten loped his horse toward the Cathersoncabin from an opposite direction. 

Hagar was standing on the porch when he came, and her face flooded withcolor when she saw him. She stood, her eyes drooping with shyembarrassment as Masten dismounted and approached her. And then, as hisarm went around her waist, familiarly, he whispered:

"How is my little woman today?"

She straightened and looked up at him, perplexity in her eyes. 

"Rex Randerson was just hyeh, " she said. "I wanted to tell him about youwantin' me to marry you. But I thought of what you told me, an' I didn't. Do you sure reckon he'd kill you, if he knowed?"

"He certainly would, " declared Masten, earnestly. "No one--not even yourfather--must know that I come here to see you. "

"I reckon I won't tell. But Miss Ruth? Are you sure she don't care foryou any more?"

"Well, " he lied glibly; "she has broken our engagement. But if she knewthat I come here to see you she'd be jealous, you know. So it's betternot to tell her. If you do tell her, I'll stop coming, " he threatened. 

"It's hard to keep from tellin' folks how happy I am, " she said. "Once, Iwas afraid Rex Randerson could see it in my eyes--when he took a-hold ofmy arms hyeh, an' looked at me. "

Masten looked jealously at her. "Looked at you, eh?" he said. "Are yousure he didn't try to do anything else--didn't _do_ anything else? Likekissing you, for instance?"

"I'm certain sure, " she replied, looking straight at him. "He used tokiss me. But he says I'm a woman, now, an' it wouldn't be square to kissme any more. " Her eyes had drooped from his. 

"An' I reckon that's right, too, ain't it?" She looked up again, notreceiving an answer. "Why, how red your face is!" she exclaimed. "I ain'tsaid nothin' to hurt you, have I?"

"No, " he said. But he held her tightly to him, her head on his shoulder, so that she might not see the guilt in his eyes. 

 CHAPTER X

 THE LAW OF THE PRIMITIVE

Randerson continued his policy of not forcing himself upon Ruth. He wenthis way, silent, thoughtful, attending strictly to business. To Ruth, watching him when he least suspected it, it seemed that he had grown moregrim and stern-looking since his coming to the Flying W. She saw him, sometimes, laughing quietly with Uncle Jepson; other times she heard himtalking gently to Aunt Martha--with an expression that set her towondering whether he were the same man that she had seen that day withthe pistol in hand, shooting the life out of a fellow being. There weretimes when she wavered in her conviction of his heartlessness. 

Since Ruth had announced her decision not to marry Masten until after thefall round-up, she had not seen so much of him. He rode alone, sometimesnot even asking her to accompany him. These omissions worked no greathardship on her, for the days had grown hot and the plains dry and dusty, so that there was not so much enjoyment in riding as formerly. Besides, she knew the country rather well now, and had no need to depend uponMasten. 

Chavis had severed his connection with the Flying W. He had ridden in tothe ranchhouse some weeks ago, found Ruth sitting on the porch, announcedthat he was "quittin'" and wanted his "time. " She did not ask him why hewanted to quit so pleased was she with his decision, but he advanced anexplanation while she counted the money due him. 

"Things don't suit me here, " he said venomously. "Randerson is toofresh. " He looked at her impudently. "Besides, " he added, "he stands intoo well with the boss. "

She flushed with indignation. "You wouldn't dare say that to _him_!" shedeclared. 

He reddened darkly. "Meanin' what he done to Pickett, I reckon, " hesneered. "Well, Randerson will be gettin' his'n some day, too!"

Ruth remembered this conversation, and on a day about a month later whenshe had gone riding alone, she saw Randerson at a distance and rodetoward him to tell him, for she had meant to, many times. 

Evidently Randerson had seen her, too, for he had already altered hispony's course when she wheeled hers. When their ponies came to a haltnear each other it was Randerson who spoke first. He looked at herunsmilingly over his pony's head. 

"I was ridin' in to the house to see you, ma'am. I thought you ought toknow. This mornin' the boys found two cows with their hoofs burned, an'their calves run off. "

"Their hoofs burned!" she exclaimed. "Why, who would be so inhuman as todo that? But I suppose there was a fire somewhere, and it happened thatway. "

"There was a fire, all right, " he said grimly. "Some one built it, onpurpose. It was rustlers, ma'am. They burned the hoofs of the mothers sothe mothers couldn't follow when they drove their calves off--like anymother would. " He eyed her calmly. "I reckon it was Chavis, ma'am. He'sgot a shack down the crick a ways. He's been there ever since you paidhim off. An' this mornin' two of the boys told me they wanted their time. I was goin' in to get it for them. It's likely they're goin' to joinChavis. "

"Well, let them, " she said indignantly. "If they are that kind of men, wedon't want them around!"

He smiled now for the first time. "I reckon there ain't no way to stopthem from goin', ma'am. An' we sure don't want them around. But when theygo with Chavis, it's mighty likely that we'll miss more cattle. "

She stiffened. "Come with me, " she ordered; "they shall have their moneyright away. "

She urged her pony on, and he fell in beside her, keeping his animal'smuzzle near her stirrup. For he was merely an employee and was filledwith respect for her. 

"I suppose I could have Chavis charged with stealing those two calves?"she asked, as they rode. She looked back over her shoulder at him andslowed her pony down so that he came alongside. 

"Why, yes, ma'am, I reckon you could. You could charge him with stealin'them. But that wouldn't prove it. We ain't got any evidence, you see. Wefound the cows, with the calves gone. We know that Chavis is in thecountry, but we didn't see him doin' the stealin'; we only think he doneit. "

"If I should complain to the sheriff?"

"You could do that, ma'am. But I reckon it's a waste of time. "

"How?"

"Well, you see, ma'am, the sheriff in this county don't amount to aheap--considered as a sheriff. He mostly draws his salary an' keeps outof trouble, much as he can. There ain't no court in the county nearerthan Las Vegas, an' that's a hundred an' fifty miles from here. An', mostly, the court don't want to be bothered with hearin' rustlercases--there bein' no regular law governin' them, an' conviction bein'hard to get. So the sheriff don't bother. "

"But there must be some way to stop them from stealing!" she saidsharply. 

"I reckon there's a way, ma'am. " And now she heard him laugh, quietly, and again she turned and looked at him. His face grew grave again, instantly. "But I reckon you wouldn't approve of it, ma'am, " he added. 

"I would approve of most any method of stopping them--within reason!" shedeclared vindictively, nettled by his tone. 

"We mostly hang them, ma'am, " he said. "That's a sure way of stoppin'them. "

She shuddered. "Do you mean that you hang them without a courtverdict--on your own responsibility?"

"That's the way, ma'am. "

"But doesn't the sheriff punish men who hang others in that manner?" shewent on in tones of horror. 

His voice was quietly humorous. "Them sort of hangin's ain't advertised aheap. It's hard to find anybody that will admit he had a hand in it. Nobody knows anything about it. But it's done, an' can't be undone. An'the rustlin' stops mighty sudden. "

"Oh, " she exclaimed, "what a barbarous custom!"

"I reckon it ain't exactly barbarous, ma'am, " he contended mildly. "Wouldyou have the rustlers go on stealin' forever, an' not try to stop them?"

"There are the courts, " she insisted. 

"Turnin' rustlers off scot-free, ma'am. They can't hold them. An' if arustler is hung, he don't get any more than is comin' to him. Do youreckon there's a lot of difference between a half dozen men hangin' a manfor a crime he's done, than for one man, a judge for instance, orderin'him to be hung? If, we'll say, a hundred men elect a judge to do certainthings, is it any more wrong for the hundred men to do them things thanfor the man they've elected to do them? I reckon not, ma'am. Of course, if the hundred men did somethin' that the judge hadn't been elected todo, why then, it might make some difference. "

"But you say there is no law that provides hanging for rustling. " Shethought she had him. 

"The men that elected the judge made the laws, " he said. "They have aright to make others, whenever they're needed. "

"That's mob law, " she said with a shiver. "What would become of the worldif that custom were followed everywhere?"

"I wouldn't say that it would be a good thing everywhere. Where there'scourts that can be got at easy, there'd be no sense to it. But out herethere's no other way for a man to protect his property. He's got to takethe law into his own hands. "

"It is a crude and cold-blooded way. "

She heard him laugh, and turned to see him looking at her in amusement. 

"There ain't no refinement in punishment, ma'am. Either it's got to shocksome one or not get done at all. I reckon that back East you don't get tosee anyone punished, or hung. You hear about it, or you read about it, an' it don't seem so near you, an' that kind of takes the edge off it. Out here it comes closer, an' it seems a lot cruel. But whether a man'spunished by the law or by the men who make the law wouldn't make a lot ofdifference to the man--he'd be punished anyway. "

"We won't talk about it any further, " she said. "But understand, if thereare any cattle thieves caught on the Flying W they must not be hanged. You must capture them, if possible, and take them to the properofficials, that they may have a fair trial. And we shall abide by thecourt's decision. I don't care to have any more murders committed here. "

His face paled. "Referrin' to Pickett, I reckon, ma'am?" he said. 

"Yes. " She flung the monosyllable back at him resentfully. 

She felt him ride close to her, and she looked at him and saw that hisface was grimly serious. 

"I ain't been thinkin' of the killin' of Pickett as murder, ma'am. Pickett had it comin' to him. You was standin' on the porch, an' I reckonyou used your eyes. If you did, you saw Pickett try to pull his gun on mewhen my back was turned. It was either him or me, ma'am. "

"You anticipated that he would try to shoot you, " she charged. "Youractions showed that. "

"Why, I reckon I did. You see, I've knowed Pickett for a long time. "

"I was watching you from an upstairs window, " she went on. "I saw youwhen you struck Pickett with your fist. You drew your pistol while he wason the ground. You had the advantage--you might have taken his pistolaway from him, and prevented any further trouble. Instead, you allowedhim to keep it. You expected he would try to shoot you, and youdeliberately gave him an opportunity, relying upon your quickness ingetting your own pistol out. "

"I give him his chance, ma'am. "

"His chance. " There was derision in her voice. "I have talked to some ofthe men about you. They say you are the cleverest of any man in thisvicinity with a weapon. You deliberately planned to kill him!"

He rode on, silently, a glint of cold humor in his eyes. He might nowhave confounded her with the story of Masten's connection with theaffair, but he had no intention of telling her. Masten had struck theblow at him--Masten it must be, who would be struck back. 

However, he was disturbed over her attitude. He did not want her to thinkthat he had killed Pickett in pure wantonness, for he had not thought ofshooting the man until Uncle Jepson had warned him. 

"I've got to tell you this, ma'am, " he said, riding close to her. "Oneman's life is as good as another's in this country. But it ain't anybetter. The law's too far away to monkey with--law like you're used to. The gun a man carries is the only law anyone here pays any attention to. Every man knows it. Nobody makes any mistakes about it, unless it's whenthey don't get their gun out quick enough. An' that's the man's faultthat pulls the gun. There ain't no officials to do any guardin' out here;you've got to do it yourself or it don't get done. A man can't take toomany chances--an' live to tell about it. When you know a man's lookin'for you, yearnin' to perforate you, it's just a question of who can shootthe quickest an' the straightest. In the case of Pickett, I happened tobe the one. It might have been Pickett. If he wasn't as fast as me inslingin' his gun, why, he oughtn't to have taken no chance. He'd havebeen plumb safe if he'd have forgot all about his gun. I don't reckonthat I'd have pined away with sorrow if I hadn't shot him. "

She was much impressed with his earnestness, and she looked quickly athim, nearly convinced. But again the memory of the tragic moment becamevivid in her thoughts, and she shuddered. 

"It's too horrible to think of!" she declared. 

"I reckon it's no picnic, " he admitted. "I ain't never been stuck onshootin' men. I reckon I didn't sleep a heap for three nights after Ishot Pickett. I kept seein' him, an' pityin' him. But I kept tellin'myself that it had to be either him or me, an' I kind of got over it. Pickett _would_ have it, ma'am. When I turned my back to him I was hopin'that he wouldn't try to play dirt on me. Do you reckon he oughtn't tohave been made to tell you that he had been wrong in tacklin' you? Why, ma'am, I kind of liked Pickett. He wasn't all bad. He was one of themkind that's easy led, an' he wasn't a heap responsible; he fell in withthe wrong kind of men--men like Chavis. I've took a lot from Pickett. "

"You might have shown him in some other way that you liked him, " she saidwith unsmiling sarcasm. "It seems to me that men who go about thinking ofshooting each other must have a great deal of the brute in them. "

"Meanin' that they ain't civilized, I reckon?"

"Yes. Mr. Masten had the right view. He refused to resort to the methodsyou used in bringing Pickett to account. He is too much a gentleman toact the savage. "

For an instant Randerson's eyes lighted with a deep fire. And then hesmiled mirthlessly. 

"I reckon Mr. Masten ain't never had anybody stir him up right proper, "he said mildly. "It takes different things to get a man riled so's he'llfight--or a woman, either. Either of 'em will fight when the right thinggets them roused. I expect that deep down in everybody is a little ofthat brute that you're talkin' about. I reckon you'd fight like a tiger, ma'am, if the time ever come when you had to. "

"I never expect to kill anybody, " she declared, coldly. 

"You don't know what you'll do when the time comes, ma'am. You've beenlivin' in a part of the country where things are done accordin' to hardan' fast rules. Out here things run loose, an' if you stay here longenough some day you'll meet them an' recognize them for your own--an'you'll wonder how you ever got along without them. " He looked at her nowwith a subtle grin. But his words were direct enough, and his voice rangearnestly as he went on: "Why, I reckon you've never been tuned up tonature, ma'am. Have you ever hated anybody real venomous?"

"I have been taught differently, " she shot back at him. "I have neverhated anybody. "

"Then you ain't never loved anybody, ma'am. You'd be jealous of the oneyou loved, an' you'd hate anybody you saw makin' eyes at them. "

"Well, of all the odd ideas!" she said. She was so astonished at the turnhis talk had taken that she halted her pony and faced him, her cheekscoloring. 

"I don't reckon it's any odd idea, ma'am. Unless human nature is an oddidea, an' I reckon it's about the oldest thing in the world, next to lovean' hate. " He grinned at her unblushingly, and leaned against the saddlehorn. 

"I reckon you ain't been a heap observin', ma'am, " he said frankly, butvery respectfully. "You'd have seen that odd idea worked out many times, if you was. With animals an' men it's the same. A kid--which you won'tclaim don't love its mother--is jealous of a brother or a sister which itthinks is bein' favored more than him, an' if the mother don't show thatshe's pretty square in dealin' with the two, there's bound to be hateborn right there. What do you reckon made Cain kill his brother, Abel?

"Take a woman--a wife. Some box-heads, when their wife falls in love withanother man, give her up like they was takin' off an old shoe, sayin'they love her so much that they want to see her happy--which she can'tbe, she says, unless she gets the other man. But don't you go tobelievin' that kind of fairy romance, ma'am. When a man is so willin' togive up his wife to another man he's sure got a heap tired of her an'don't want her any more. He's got his eye peeled for Number Two, an' he'sthankin' his wife's lover for makin' the trail clear for the matrimonialwagon. But givin' up Number One to the other man gives him a chance topose a lot, an' mebbe it's got a heap of effect on Number Two, who sortof thinks that if she gets tied up to such a sucker she'll be able towrap him around her finger. But if he loves Number Two, he'll be mightygrumpy to the next fellow that goes to makin' sheeps eyes at her. "

"That is a highly original view, " she said, laughing, feeling that sheought to be offended, but disarmed by his ingenuousness. "And so youthink that love and hate are inseparable passions. "

"I reckon you can't know what real love is unless you have hated, ma'am. Some folks say they get through life without hatin' anybody, but ifyou'll look around an' watch them, you'll find they're mostly anunfeelin' kind. You ain't one of them kind, ma'am. I've watched you, an'I've seen that you've got a heap of spirit. Some of these days you'regoin' to wake up. An' when you do, you'll find out what love is. "

"Don't you think I love Mr. Masten?" she said, looking at himunwaveringly. 

He looked as fairly back at her. "I don't reckon you do, ma'am. Mebbe youthink so, but you don't. "

"What makes you think so?" she demanded, defiantly. 

"Why, the way you look at him, ma'am. If I was engaged to a girl an' shelooked at me as critical as you look at him, sometimes, I'd sure feelcertain that I'd drawed the wrong card. "

Still her eyes did not waver. She began to sense his object inintroducing this subject, and she was determined to make him feel thathis conclusions were incorrect--as she knew they were. 

"That is an example of your wonderful power of observation, " she said, "the kind you were telling me about, which makes you able to make suchremarkable deductions. But if you are no more correct in the others thanyou are in trying to determine the state of my feelings toward Mr. Masten, you are entirely wrong. I _do_ love Mr. Masten!"

She spoke vehemently, for she thought herself very much in earnest. 

But he grinned. "You're true blue, " he said, "an' you've got the grit totell where you stand. But you're mistaken. You couldn't love Masten. "

"Why?" she said, so intensely curious that she entirely forgot to thinkof his impertinence in talking thus to her. "Why can't I love Mr. Masten?"

He laughed, and reddened. "Because you're goin' to love me, ma'am, " hesaid, gently. 

She would have laughed if she had not felt so indignant. She would havestruck him as she had struck Chavis had she not been positive that behindhis words was the utmost respect--that he did not intend to beimpertinent--that he seemed as natural as he had been all along. Shewould have exhibited scorn if she could have summoned it. She did nothingbut stare at him in genuine amazement. She was going to be severe withhim, but the mild humor of his smile brought confusion upon her. 

"You don't lack conceit, whatever your other shortcomings, " she managed, her face rosy. 

"Well now, I'm thankin' you, ma'am, for lettin' me off so easy, " he said. "I was expectin' you'd be pretty hard on me for talkin' that way. I'vebeen wonderin' what made me say it. I expect it's because I've beenthinkin' it so strong. Anyway, it's said, an' I can't take it back. Iwouldn't want to, for I was bound to tell you some time, anyway. I reckonit ain't conceit that made me say it. I've liked you a heap ever since Igot hold of your picture. "

"So that is where the picture went!" she said. "I have been hunting highand low for it. Who gave it to you?"

"Wes Vickers, ma'am. " There was disgust in his eyes. "I never meant tomention it, ma'am; that was a slip of the tongue. But when I saw thepicture, I knowed I was goin' to love you. There ain't nothin' happenedyet to show that you won't think a lot of me, some day. "

"You frighten me, " she mocked. 

"I reckon you ain't none frightened, " he laughed. "But I expect you'resome disturbed--me sayin' what I've said while you're engaged to Masten. I'm apologizing ma'am. You be loyal to Masten--as I know you'd be, anyway. An' some day, when you've broke off with him, I'll comea-courtin'. "

"So you're sure that I'm going to break my engagement with Masten, areyou?" she queried, trying her best to be scornful, but not succeedingvery well. "How do you know that?"

"There's somethin' that you don't see that's been tellin' me, ma'am. Mebbe some day that thing will be tellin' you the same stuff, an' thenyou'll understand, " he said enigmatically. 

"Well, " she said, pressing her lips together as though this were to beher last word on the subject; "I have heard that the wilderness sometimesmakes people dream strange dreams, and I suppose yours is one of them. "She wheeled her pony and sent it scampering onward toward the ranchhouse. 

He followed, light of heart, for while she had taunted him, she had alsolistened to him, and he felt that progress had been made. 

 CHAPTER XI

 HAGAR'S EYES

Randerson had been in no hurry to make an attempt to catch the rustlerswhose depredations he had reported to Ruth. He had told the men to bedoubly alert to their work, and he had hired two new men--from theDiamond H--to replace those who had left the Flying W. His surmise thatthey wanted to join Chavis had been correct, for the two new men--whom hehad put on special duty and had been given permission to come and go whenthey pleased--had reported this fact to him. There was nothing to do, however, but to wait, in the hope that one day the rustlers would attemptto run cattle off when one or more of the men happened to be in thevicinity. And then, if the evidence against the rustlers were convincingenough, much would depend on the temper of himself and the men as towhether Ruth's orders that there should be no hanging would be observed. There would be time enough to decide that question if any rustlers werecaught. 

He had seen little of the Easterner during the past two or three weeks. Masten rarely showed himself on the range any more--to Randerson'squeries about him the men replied that they hadn't seen him. ButRanderson was thinking very little about Masten as he rode through thebrilliant sunshine this afternoon. He was going again to Catherson's, tosee Hagar. Recollections of the change that had come over the girl weredisquieting, and he wanted to talk to her again to determine whether shereally had changed, or whether he had merely fancied it. 

Far down the river he crossed at a shallow ford, entered a section oftimber, and loped Patches slowly through this. He found a trail that hehad used several times before, when he had been working for the Diamond Hand necessity or whim had sent him this way, and rode it, noting that itseemed to have been used much, lately. 

"I reckon old Abe's poundin' his horses considerable. Why, it's rightplain, " he added, after a little reflection, "this here trail runs intothe Lazette trail, down near the ford. An' Abe's wearin' it out, ridin'to Lazette for red-eye. I reckon if I was Abe, I'd quit while thequittin's good. " He laughed, patting Patches' shoulder. "Shucks, a manc'n see another man's faults pretty far, but his own is pretty nearinvisible. You've rode the Lazette trail a heap, too, Patches, " he said, "when your boss was hittin' red-eye. We ain't growin' no angels' wings, Patches, which would give us the right to go to criticizin' others. "

Presently he began to ride with more caution, for he wanted to surpriseHagar. A quarter of a mile from the cabin he brought Patches to a halt ona little knoll and looked about him. He had a good view of the cabin inthe clearing, and he watched it long, for signs of life. He saw no suchsigns. 

"Abe's out putterin' around, an' Hagar's nappin', I reckon--or tryin' onher new dresses, " he added as an after-thought. 

He was about to ride on, when a sound reached his ears, and he drew thereins tight on Patches and sat rigid, alert, listening. 

The perfect silence of the timber was unbroken. He had almost decidedthat his ears had played him a trick when the sound came again, nearerthan before--the sound of voices. Quickly and accurately he determinedfrom which direction they came, and he faced that way, watching a narrowpath that led through the timber to a grass plot not over a hundred feetfrom him, from which he was screened by some thick-growing brush at hisside. 

He grinned, fully expecting to see Abe and Hagar on the path presently. "Abe's behavin' today, " he told himself as he waited. "I'll sure surprisethem, if--"

Suddenly he drew his breath sharply, his teeth came together viciously, and his brows drew to a frown, his eyes gleaming coldly underneath. Forhe saw Willard Masten coming along the path, smiling and talking, andbeside him, his arm around her waist, also smiling, but with her headbent forward a little, was Hagar Catherson. 

The color slowly left Randerson's face as he watched. He had no nicescruples about eavesdropping at this moment--here was no time formanners; the cold, contemptuous rage that fought within him was too deepand gripping to permit of any thought that would not center about the twofigures on the path. He watched them, screened by the brush, with thedeadly concentration of newly aroused murder-lust. Once, as he saw themhalt at the edge of the grass plot, and he observed Masten draw Hagarclose to him and kiss her, his right hand dropped to the butt of hispistol at his right hip, and he fingered it uncertainly. He drew the handaway at last, though, with a bitter, twisting smile. 

Five minutes later, his face still stony and expressionless, hedismounted lightly and with infinite care and caution led Patches awayfrom the knoll and far back into the timber. When he was certain therewas no chance of his being seen or heard by Masten and Hagar, he mounted, urged Patches forward and made a wide detour which brought him at lengthto the path which had been followed by Masten and Hagar in reaching thegrass plot. He loped the pony along this path, and presently he came uponthem--Hagar standing directly in the path, watching him, red withembarrassment which she was trying hard to conceal; Masten standing onthe grass plot near her, staring into the timber opposite; Randerson, trying to appear unconcerned and making a failure of it. 

"It's Rex!" ejaculated the girl. Her hands had been clasped in front ofher; they dropped to her sides when she saw Randerson, and her fingersbegan to twist nervously into the edges of her apron. A deep breath, which was almost a sigh of relief, escaped her. "I thought it was Dad!"she said. 

Evidently Masten had likewise expected the horseman to be her father, forat her exclamation he turned swiftly. His gaze met Randerson's, hisshoulders sagged a little, his eyes wavered and shifted from the steadyones that watched him. 

His composure returned quickly, however, and he smiled blandly, but therewas a trace of derision in his voice:

"You've strayed off your range, haven't you, Randerson?" he saidsmoothly. 

"Why, I reckon I have. " Randerson's voice was low, almost gentle, and hesmiled mildly at Hagar, who blushingly returned it but immediately lookeddownward. 

"I expect dad must be gone somewhere--that you're lookin' for him, "Randerson said. "I thought mebbe I'd ketch him here. "

"He went to Red Rock this mornin', " said the girl. She looked up, andthis time met Randerson's gaze with more confidence, for his pretense ofcasualness had set her fears at rest. "Mr. Masten come over to see him, too. "

The lie came hesitatingly through her lips. She looked at Masten asthough for confirmation, and the latter nodded. 

"Catherson is hard to catch, " he said. "I've been over here a number oftimes, trying to see him. " His voice was a note too high, and Randersonwondered whether, without the evidence of his eyes, he would havesuspected Masten. He decided that he would, and his smile was a triflegrim. 

"I reckon Catherson is a regular dodger, " he returned. "He's alwaysgallivantin' around the country when somebody wants to see him. " Hesmiled gently at Hagar, with perhaps just a little pity. 

"It's getting along in the afternoon, Hagar, " he said. "Dad ought to beamblin' back here before long. " His face grew grave at the frightenedlight in her eyes when he continued: "I reckon me an' Masten better waitfor him, so's he won't dodge us any more. " He cast a glance around him. "Where's your cayuse?" he said to Masten. 

"I left him down near the ford, " returned the other. 

"Right on your way back to the Flyin' W, " said Randerson, as though thediscovery pleased him. "I'm goin' to the Flyin' W, too, soon as I seeCatherson. I reckon, if you two ain't got no particular yearnin' to goprowlin' around in the timber any longer, we'll all go back toCatherson's shack an' wait for him there. Three'll be company, while it'dbe mighty lonesome for one. "

Masten cleared his throat and looked intently at Randerson'simperturbable face. Did he know anything? A vague unrest seized Masten. Involuntarily he shivered, and his voice was a little hoarse when hespoke, though he attempted to affect carelessness:

"I don't think I will wait for Catherson, " he said, "I can see himtomorrow, just as well. "

"Well, that's too bad, " drawled Randerson. "After waitin' this long, too!But I reckon you're right; it wouldn't be no use waitin'. I'll go too, Ireckon. We'll ride to the Flyin' W together. "

"I don't want to force my company on you, Randerson, " laughed Mastennervously. "Besides, I had thought of taking the river trail--back towardLazette, you know. "

Randerson looked at him with a cold smile. "The Lazette trail suits metoo, " he said; "we'll go that way. "

Masten looked at him again. The smile on Randerson's face wasinscrutable. And now the pallor left Masten's cheeks and was succeeded bya color that burned. For he now was convinced and frightened. He heardRanderson speaking to Hagar, and so gentle was his voice that it startledhim, so great was the contrast between it and the slumbering threat inhis eyes and manner:

"Me an' Masten is goin' to make a short cut over to where his horse is, Hagar; we've changed our minds about goin' to the shack with you. We'vedecided that we're goin' to talk over that business that he come hereabout--not botherin' your dad with it. " His lips straightened at thestartled, dreading look that sprang into her eyes. "Dad ain't goin' toknow, girl, " he assured her gravely. "I'd never tell him. You go back tothe shack an' pitch into your work, sort of forgettin' that you ever sawMr. Masten. For he's goin' away tonight, an' he ain't comin' back. "

Hagar covered her face with her hands and sank into the grass beside thepath, crying. 

"By God, Randerson!" blustered Masten, "what do you mean? This is goingtoo--"

A look silenced him--choked the words in his throat, and he turnedwithout protest, at Randerson's jerk of the head toward the ford, andwalked without looking back, Randerson following on Patches. 

When they reached the narrow path that led to the crossing, just beforeentering the brush Randerson looked back. Hagar was still lying in thegrass near the path. A patch of sunlight shone on her, and so clear wasthe light that Randerson could plainly see the spasmodic movement of hershoulders. His teeth clenched tightly, and the muscles of his face cordedas they had done in the Flying W ranchhouse the day that Aunt Martha hadtold him of Pickett's attack on Ruth. 

He watched silently while Masten got on his horse, and then, stillsilent, he followed as Masten rode down the path, across the river, through the break in the canyon wall and up the slope that led to theplains above. When they reached a level space in some timber that fringedthe river, Masten attempted to urge his horse through it, but was broughtto a halt by Randerson's voice:

"We'll get off here, Masten. "

Masten turned, his face red with wrath. 

"Look here, Randerson, " he bellowed; "this ridiculous nonsense has gonefar enough. I know, now, that you were spying on us. I don't know why, unless you'd selected the girl yourself--"

"That's ag'in you too, " interrupted Randerson coldly. "You're goin' topay. "

"You're making a lot of fuss about the girl, " sneered Masten. "A man--"

"You're a heap careless with words that you don't know the meanin' of, "said Randerson. "We don't raise men out here that do things like you do. An' I expect you're one in a million. They all can't be like you, backEast; if they was, the East would go to hell plenty rapid. Get off yourhorse!"

Masten demurred, and Randerson's big pistol leaped into his hand. Hisvoice came at the same instant, intense and vibrant:

"It don't make no difference to me _how_ you get off!"

He watched Masten get down, and then he slid to the ground himself, thepistol still in hand, and faced Masten, with only three or four feet ofspace separating them. 

Masten had been watching him with wide, fearing eyes, and at the menaceof his face when he dismounted Masten shrank back a step. 

"Good Heavens, man, do you mean to shoot me?" he said, the wordsfaltering and scarcely audible. 

"I reckon shootin' would be too good for you. " Again Randerson's face hadtaken on that peculiar stony expression. Inexorable purpose was writtenon it; what he was to do he was in no hurry to be about, but it would bedone in good time. 

"I ain't never claimed to be no angel, " he said. "I reckon I'm about theaverage, an' I've fell before temptation same as other men. But I'vedrawed the line where you've busted over it. Mebbe if it was some othergirl, I wouldn't feel it like I do about Hagar. But when I tell you thatI've knowed that girl for about five years, an' that there wasn't a meanthought in her head until you brought your dirty carcass to her father'sshack, an' that to me she's a kid in spite of her long dresses and hernewfangled furbelows, you'll understand a heap about how I feel rightnow. Get your paws up, for I'm goin' to thrash you so bad that your ownmother won't know you--if she's so misfortunate as to be alive to look atyou! After that, you're goin' to hit the breeze out of this country, an'if I ever lay eyes on you ag'in I'll go gunnin' for you!"

While he had been speaking he had holstered the pistol, unstrapped hiscartridge belt and let guns and belt fall to the ground. Then withoutwarning he drove a fist at Masten's face. 

The Easterner dodged the blow, evaded him, and danced off, his facealight with a venomous joy. For the dreaded guns were out of Randerson'sreach, he was a fair match for Randerson in weight, though Randersontowered inches above him; he had had considerable experience in boxing athis club in the East, and he had longed for an opportunity to avengehimself for the indignity that had been offered him at Calamity. Besides, he had a suspicion that Ruth's refusal to marry before the fall round-uphad been largely due to a lately discovered liking for the man who wasfacing him. 

"I fancy you'll have your work cut out for you, you damned meddler!" hesneered as he went in swiftly, with a right and left, aimed atRanderson's face. 

The blows landed, but seemingly had no effect, for Randerson merelygritted his teeth and pressed forward. In his mind was a picture of agirl whom he had "dawdled" on his knee--a "kid" that he had played with, as a brother might have played with a younger sister. 

 CHAPTER XII

 THE RUSTLERS

At about the time Randerson was crossing the river near the point wherethe path leading to Catherson's shack joined the Lazette trail, RuthHarkness was loping her pony rapidly toward him. They passed each otherwithin a mile, but both were unconscious of this fact, for Randerson wasriding in the section of timber that he had entered immediately aftercrossing the river, and Ruth was concealed from his view by a stretch ofintervening brush and trees. 

Ruth had been worried more than she would have been willing to admit, over the presence of Chavis and his two men in the vicinity, and thatmorning after she had questioned a puncher about the former Flying Wforeman, she had determined to ride down the river for the purpose ofmaking a long distance observation of the "shack" the puncher andRanderson had mentioned as being inhabited by Chavis. That determinationhad not been acted upon until after dinner, however, and it was nearlytwo o'clock when she reached the ford where she had passed Randerson. 

The puncher had told her that Chavis' shack was about fifteen milesdistant from the Flying W ranchhouse, and situated in a little basin nearthe river, which could be approached only by riding down a rock-strewnand dangerous declivity. She had no intention of risking the descent; shemerely wanted to view the place from afar, and she judged that from theedge of a plateau, which the puncher had described to her, she would beable to see very well. 

When she passed the ford near the Lazette trail, she felt a sudden qualmof misgiving, for she had never ridden quite that far alone--the ford wasabout ten miles from the ranchhouse--but she smiled at the sensation, conquering it, and continued on her way, absorbed in the panoramic viewof the landscape. 

At a distance of perhaps a mile beyond the ford she halted the pony onthe crest of a low hill and looked about her. The country at this pointwas broken and rocky; there was much sand; the line of hills, of whichthe one on which her pony stood was a part, were barren and uninviting. There was much cactus. She made a grimace of abhorrence at a clump thatgrew near her in an arid stretch, and then looked beyond it at a stretchof green. Far away on a gentle slope she saw some cattle, and lookinglonger, she observed a man on a horse. One of the Flying W men, ofcourse, she assured herself, and felt more secure. 

She rode on again, following a ridge, the pony stepping gingerly. Anotherhalf mile and she urged the pony down into a slight depression where thefooting was better. The animal made good progress here, and after a whilethey struck a level, splotched with dry bunch-grass, which rustlednoisily under the tread of the pony's hoofs. 

It was exhilarating here, for presently the level became a slope, and theslope merged into another level which paralleled the buttes along theriver, and she could see for miles on the other side of the stream, avista of plain and hills and mountains and forest so alluring in itsvirgin wildness; so vast, big, and silent a section that it awed her. 

When she saw the sun swimming just above the peaks of some mountains inthe dim distance, she began to have some doubts of the wisdom of makingthe trip, but she pressed on, promising herself that she would have abrief look at the shack and the basin, and then immediately return. Shehad expected to make much better time than she had made. Also, she hadnot anticipated that a fifteen-mile ride would tire her so. But shebelieved that it was not the ride so far, but the prospect of anotherfifteen-mile ride to return, that appalled her--for she had ridden muchsince her coming to the Flying W, and was rather hardened to it. In oneof his letters to her, her uncle had stated that his men often rode sixtymiles in a day, and that he remembered one ride of ninety miles, which acowpuncher had made with the same pony in twenty-two hours of straightriding. He had told her that the tough little plains pony could go anydistance that its rider was able to "fork" it. She believed that, for thelittle animal under her had never looked tired when she had ridden him tothe ranchhouse at the end of a hard day. 

But these recollections did not console her, and she urged the pony on, into a gallop that took her over the ground rapidly. 

At last, as she was swept around a bend in the plateau, she saw spreadingbeneath her a little valley, green-carpeted, beautiful. A wood rose nearthe river, and at its edge she saw what she had come to see--Chavis'shack. 

And now she realized that for all the knowledge that a look at Chavis'shack would give her, she might as well have stayed at the Flying W. Shedidn't know just what she had expected to see when she got here, but whatshe did see was merely the building, a small affair with a flat roof, thespreading valley itself, and several steers grazing in it. 

There were no other signs of life. She got off the pony and walked to theedge of the plateau, discovering that the valley was much shallower thanshe thought it would be, and that at her side, to the left, was thedeclivity that the puncher had told her about. She leaned over the edgeand looked at it. 

It was not so steep as she had expected when listening to the puncher'sdescription of it. But she thought it looked dangerous. At the point fromwhich she viewed it, it was not more than fifteen or twenty feet belowher. It cut into the plateau, running far back and doubling around towardher, and the stretch below her, that was within range of her eyes, wasalmost level. The wall of the cut on which she stood was ragged anduneven, with some scraggly brush thrusting out between the crevices ofrocks, and about ten feet down was a flat rock, like a ledge, thatprojected several feet out over the level below. 

She was about to turn, for she had seen all she cared to see, when animpulse of curiosity urged her to crane her neck to attempt to peeraround a shoulder of the cut where it doubled back. She started andturned pale, not so much from fright as with surprise, for she saw ahorse's head projecting around the shoulder of the cut, and the animalwas looking directly at her. As she drew back, her breath coming fast, the animal whinnied gently. 

Almost instantly, she heard a man's voice:

"My cayuse is gettin' tired of loafin', I reckon. " Ruth held her breath. The voice seemed to come from beneath her feet--she judged that it reallyhad come from beneath the rock that projected from the wall of the cutbelow her. And it was Chavis' voice!

Of course, he would not be talking to himself, and therefore there mustbe another man with him. At the risk of detection, and filled with anoverwhelming curiosity to hear more she kneeled at the edge of the cutand listened intently, first making sure that the horse she had seencould not see her. 

"I reckon Linton didn't pull it off--or them Flyin' W guys are stickin'close to the herd, " said another voice. "He ought to have been here anhour ago. "

"Linton ain't no rusher, " said Chavis. "We'll wait. "

There was a silence. Then Chavis spoke again:

"Flyin' W stock is particular easy to run off. Did I tell you? B---- toldme"--Ruth did not catch the name, she thought it might have been Bennet, or Ben--"that the girl had give orders that anyone ketched runnin' offFlyin' W stock wasn't to be hung!" Ruth heard him chuckle. "Easy boss, eh, Kester?" He sneered. "Ketch that damned Flyin' W outfit hangin'anybody!"

Kester was one of the men who had quit the day that Ruth had metRanderson, when the latter had been riding in for the money due them. Itdid not surprise Ruth to discover that Kester was with Chavis, forRanderson had told her what might be expected of him. Linton was theother man. 

Nor did it surprise Ruth to hear Chavis talking of stealing the Flying Wstock. But it angered her to discover that her humane principles werebeing ridiculed; she was so incensed at Chavis that she felt she couldremain to hear him no longer, and she got up, her face red, her eyesflashing, to go to her pony. 

But the pony was nowhere in sight. She remembered now, her heart sinkingwith a sudden, vague fear, that she had neglected to trail the reins overthe animal's head, as she had been instructed to do by the puncher whohad gentled the pony for her; he had told her that no western horse, broken by an experienced rider, would stray with a dragging rein. 

She gave a quick, frightened glance around. She could see clearly to thebroken section of country through which she had passed some time before, and her glance went to the open miles of grass land that stretched southof her. The pony had not gone that way, either. Trembling from a suddenweakness, but driven by the urge of stern necessity, she advancedcautiously to the edge of the cut again and looked over. 

Her pony was standing on the level below her, almost in front of the rockunder which had been Chavis and Kester! It had evidently just gone downthere, for at the instant she looked over the edge of the cut she sawChavis and Kester running toward it, muttering with surprise. 

For one wild, awful instant, Ruth felt that she would faint, for theworld reeled around her in dizzying circles. A cold dread that seized hersenses helped her to regain control of herself presently, however, andscarcely breathing she stole behind some dense weeds at the edge of thecut, murmuring a prayer of thankfulness for their presence. 

What Chavis and Kester had said upon seeing the pony, she had not heard. But now she saw crafty smiles on their faces; Chavis' was transfigured byan expression that almost drew a cry of horror from her. Through theweeds she could see their forms, and even hear the subdued exclamationfrom Chavis:

"It's the girl's cayuse, sure. I'd know it if I saw it in the Cannibalislands. I reckon she's been snoopin' around here somewheres, an' it'ssloped! Why, Kester!" he cried, standing erect and drawing great, longbreaths, his eyes blazing with passion as for an instant she saw them asthey swept along the edge of the cut, "I'd swing for a kiss from themlips of hers!"

"You're a fool!" declared Kester. "Let the women alone! I never knowed aman to monkey with one yet, that he didn't get the worst of it. "

Chavis paid no attention to this remonstrance. He seized Ruth's pony bythe bridle and began to lead it up the slope toward the plateau. Kesterlaid a restraining hand on his arm. He spoke rapidly; he seemed to havebecome, in a measure, imbued with the same passion that had takenpossession of Chavis. 

"Leave the cayuse here; she'll be huntin' for it, directly; she'll comeright down here. Give her time. "

Chavis, however, while he obeyed the suggestion about leaving the ponywhere it was, did not follow Kester's suggestion about waiting, but beganto run up the slope toward the plateau, scrambling and muttering. AndKester, after a short instant of silent contemplation, followed him. 

Ruth no longer trembled. She knew that if she was to escape from the twomen she would have to depend entirely upon her own wit and courage, andin this crisis she was cool and self-possessed. She waited until she sawthe two men vanish behind the shoulder of the cut where she had seen thehorse's head, and then she clambered over the edge of the wall, graspingsome gnarled branches, and letting herself slide quickly down. In aninstant she felt her feet come in contact with the flat rock under whichthe men had been when she had first heard them talking. It seemed a greatdistance to the ground from the rock, but she took the jump bravely, noteven shutting her eyes. She landed on all fours and pitched headlong, face down, in the dust, but was up instantly and running toward her pony. 

Seizing the bridle, she looped it through her arm, and then, pulling atthe animal, she ran to where the horses of the two men stood, watchingher, and snorting with astonishment and fright. With hands that trembledmore than a little, she threw the reins over their heads, so that theymight not drag, and then, using the quirt, dangling from her wrist by arawhide thong, she turned their heads toward the declivity and lashedthem furiously. She watched them as they went helter-skelter, down intothe valley, and then with a smile that might have been grim if it had notbeen so quavering, she mounted her own animal and rode it cautiously upthe slope toward the plateau. 

As she reached the plateau, her head rising above its edge, she saw thatChavis and Kester were a good quarter of a mile from her and runningtoward some timber a few hundred yards beyond them. 

With a laugh that was almost derisive, Ruth whipped her pony and sent itflying over the plateau at an angle that took her almost directly awayfrom the running men. She had been riding only a minute or two, however, when she heard a shout, and saw that the men had stopped and were facingin her direction, waving their hands at her. They looked grotesque--likejumping jacks--in the sudden twilight that had fallen, and she could notwithhold a smile of triumph. It did not last long, for she saw the menbegin to run again, this time toward the cut, and she urged her pony toadditional effort, fearful that the men might gain their ponies andovertake her. 

And now that the men were behind her, she squared her pony toward thetrail over which she had ridden to come here, determined to follow it, for she felt that she knew it better than any other. 

The pony ran well, covering the ground with long, agile jumps. For abouttwo miles she held it to its rapid pace, and then, looking backward forthe first time she saw the plateau, vast, dark and vacant, behind her, and she drew the pony down, for she had come to the stretch of brokencountry and realized that she must be careful. 

She shuddered as she looked at the darkening world in front of her. Neverhad it seemed so dismal, so empty, and at the same time so full oflurking danger. The time which precedes the onrush of darkness is alwaysa solemn one; it was doubly solemn to Ruth, alone, miles from home, witha known danger behind her and unknown dangers awaiting her. 

Fifteen miles! She drew a long breath as the pony scampered along;anxiously she scanned the plains to the south and in front of her forsigns of Flying W cattle or men. The cattle and horseman that she hadpreviously seen, far over on the slope, had vanished, and it looked sodismal and empty over there that she turned her head and shivered. 

There seemed to be nothing in front of her but space and darkness. Shewondered, gulping, whether Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha were worriedabout her. They would be, of course, for she had never stayed like thisbefore. But, she thought, with a pulse of joy, they would be lighting thelamps presently, and when she got to the big level beyond the ford, shewould be able to see the lights, and the sight of them would make herfeel better. She had never realized before how companionable a horsefelt, and as her pony ran on, she began to give some attention to hiswork, noting how his muscles rippled and contracted, how his sidesheaved, with what regularity his legs moved. Involuntarily, she felt ofhis shoulder--it was moist, and the muscles under the smooth hair writhedlike living things. She laughed, almost hysterically, for the touch madeher feel that she was not alone--she was with the most faithful of man'sfriends, and she knew that the little animal under her would do his bestfor her--would run himself to death in her service, if she insisted. 

She had a glorious start over her pursuers. They would never catch her. Twice, after she entered the broken stretch she looked back, but couldsee no sign of them. She did not know that at that moment Chavis andKester, enraged and disgusted over the trick she had played on them, wereriding slowly through the valley toward their shack. 

She was almost through the broken stretch when the pony stumbled. Shepulled quickly on the reins, and the pony straightened. But instantly shefelt its forelegs stiffen, felt it slide; the thought came to her that itmust have slid on a flat rock or a treacherous stretch of lava. Itstruggled like a cat, to recover its balance, grunting and heaving withthe effort, but went down, finally, sideways, throwing her out of thesaddle. 

She had anticipated the fall and had got her feet out of the stirrups, and she alighted standing, braced for the shock. Her left foot struck thetop of a jagged rock, slipped, doubled under her, and she felt a sharp, agonizing pain in the ankle. For a moment she paid no attention to it, however, being more concerned for the pony, but when she noted that theanimal had got up, seemingly none the worse for the fall, she suddenlyrealized that the ankle pained her terribly, and she hopped over to aflat rock and sat on it, to examine the injury. She worked the anklerapidly back and forth, each movement bringing tears to her eyes. She hadalmost forgotten about her pursuers, and when she thought of them she gotup and limped toward the pony, which had wandered a little away fromwhere it had fallen. 

And now the pony, which had performed so nobly for her during the milesshe had ridden to reach this spot, suddenly seemed determined to undo allhis service by yielding to a whim to avoid capture. 

She tried threats, flattery, cajolery. Twice more she hobbled painfullynear him, and each time he unconcernedly walked away. The third time, heallowed her to come very close, and just when she felt that success wasvery near, he snorted with pretended fright, wheeled, and slashed outwith both hoofs at her and galloped off a full quarter of a mile. Shecould see him standing and looking at her, his ears erect, before thedarkness blotted him from view altogether. 

She tried again, groping her way painfully over rocks, slipping, stumbling, holding her breath from fear of snakes--but she could not findthe pony. And then, white, shaking, clammy from her dread of thedarkness, the awesome silence, and the possibility of Chavis and Kesterfinding her here, she groped blindly until she found a big rock risinghigh above its fellows, and after a struggle during which she tore theskin from her hands and knees, she climbed to its top and crouched on it, shuddering and crying. And she thought of Randerson; of his seriousnessand his earnestness when he had said:

"I reckon you don't know hate or fear or desperation.... Out here thingsrun loose, an' if you stay here long enough, some day you'll meet theman' recognize them for your own--an' you'll wonder how you ever got alongwithout them. "

Well, she hated now; she hated everything--the country included--with abitterness that, she felt, would never die. And she had felt fear, too, and desperation. She felt them now, and more, she felt a deep humility, and she felt a genuine respect for Randerson--a respect which more thancounterbalanced her former repugnance toward him for the killing ofPickett. For she knew that a while ago, if she had had a pistol with her, she would have killed Chavis and Kester without hesitation. 

 CHAPTER XIII

 THE FIGHT

At about the time that Chavis and Kester had discovered Ruth's pony andhad clambered up the slope in search of the girl, the two figures on thetimber-fringed level near the break in the canyon wall were makinggrotesque shadows as they danced about in the dying sunlight. 

Masten's science had served him well. He had been able, so far, to evademany of Randerson's heavy blows, but some of them had landed. They hadhurt, too, and had taken some of the vigor out of their target, thoughMasten was still elusive as he circled, with feet that dragged a little, feinting and probing for openings through which he might drive his fists. 

A great many of his blows had reached their mark also. Randerson's facewas covered with livid lumps and welts. But he seemed not to mind them, to be unconscious of them, for on his lips was still the dogged smilethat had reached them soon after the fight had started, and in his eyeswas the same look of cold deliberation and unrelenting purpose. 

He had spoken no word since the fight began; he had taken Masten'sheaviest punches without sign or sound to indicate that they had landed, always crowding forward, carrying the battle to his adversary, refusingto yield a step when to yield meant to evade punishment. Passion, deepand gripping, had made him for the moment an insensate automaton; he wasdevoid of any feeling except a consuming desire to punish the despoilerof his "kid. "

But he was holding this passion in check; he was its master--it had notmastered him; he had made it a vassal to his deliberation. To haveunleashed it all at once would have made him too eager, would haveweakened him. He had chosen this punishment for Masten, and he would seethat it was sufficient. 

But, as Randerson had well known, Masten was no mean opponent. He steppedin and out rapidly, his blows lacking something in force through hisinability to set himself. But he landed more often than Randerson; heblocked and covered cleverly; he ducked blows that would have ended thefight had they struck him with their full force. 

Masten had been full of confidence when the fight started. Some of thatconfidence had gone now. He was beginning to realize that he could notbeat Randerson with jabs and stinging counters that hurt withoutdeadening the flesh where they struck; nor could he hope to wear theWesterner down and finally finish him. And with this realization came apulse of fear. He began to take more risks, to set himself more firmly onhis feet in order to give his blows greater force when they landed. Forhe felt his own strength waning, and he knew what the end would be, should he no longer be able to hold Randerson off. 

He went in now with a left jab, and instead of dancing back to avoidRanderson's counter, he covered with the left, swiftly drawn back fromthe jab, and hooked his right to Randerson's face. The blow landedheavily on Randerson's jaw, shaking him from head to foot. But he shookhis head as though to dissipate the effect of it, and came after Mastengrimly. Again Masten tried the maneuver, and the jab went homeaccurately, with force. But when he essayed to drive in the right, it wasblocked, and Randerson's right, crooked, rigid, sent with the force of abattering ram, landed fairly on Masten's mouth, with deadening, crushingeffect. 

It staggered Masten, sent him back several feet, and his legs shook underhim, sagging limply. His lips, where the blow had landed, were smashed, gaping hideously, red-stained. Randerson was after him relentlessly. Masten dared not clinch, for no rules of boxing governed this fight, andhe knew that if he accepted rough and tumble tactics he would be beatenquickly. So he trusted to his agility, which, though waning, answeredwell until he recovered from the effects of the blow. 

And then, with the realization that he was weakening, that the last blowhad hurt him badly, came to Masten the sickening knowledge that Randersonwas fighting harder than ever. He paid no attention to Masten's blows, not even attempting to fend them off, but bored in, swinging viciously. His blows were landing now; they left deadened flesh and paralyzedmuscles as marks of their force. 

Masten began to give way. Half a dozen times he broke ground, or slippedto one side or the other. It was unavailing. Blows were coming at him nowfrom all angles, ripping, tearing, crashing blows that seemed to increasein force as the fight went on. One of them caught Masten just below theear on the right side. He reeled and went to his haunches, and dizzy, nauseated, he sat for an instant, trying to fix the world correctly inhis vision, for it was all awry--trees, the plains, himself--all weredancing. Dimly he sensed the form of Randerson looming over him. He stillwas able to grasp the danger that menaced him, and reeling, he threwhimself headlong, to escape Randerson, landing on his side on the ground, and with an inarticulate shriek of fury, he pulled the small caliberpistol from his hip pocket, aimed it at the shadowy form of his adversaryand pressed the trigger. 

And then it seemed that an avalanche had struck him; that he was whirledalong by it, then buried under it. 

Evidently he had been buried for a long time, for when he opened his eyesthe dense blackness of the Western night had descended. He felt a dull, heavy pain in his right wrist, and he raised it--it seemed to have beencrushed. He laid the hand down again, with a groan, and then he heard avoice. Looking up, he saw the shadowy figure of his conqueror standingover him. 

"I reckon I've handed it to you pretty bad, " said Randerson. "But you hadit comin' to you. If you hadn't tried to play the skunk at the lastminute, you'd have got off easier. I reckon your hand ain't so active asit's been--I had to pretty near stamp it off of you--you would keeppullin' the trigger of that pop-gun. Do you reckon you c'n get up now, an' get on your horse?"

Masten felt himself lifted; he did not resist. Then he felt the saddleunder him; he made an effort and steadied himself. Then, still only halfconscious he rode, reeling in the saddle, toward a light that he saw inthe distance, which, he dimly felt, must come from the Flying Wranchhouse. 

 CHAPTER XIV

 THE ROCK AND THE MOONLIGHT

Randerson did not leave the scene of the fight immediately. He stood fora long time, after buckling on his belt and pistols, looking meditativelytoward the break in the canyon beyond which was Catherson's shack. 

"Did the dresses have anything to do with it?" he asked himself, standingthere in the darkness. "New dresses might have--puttin' foolish notionsin her head. But I reckon the man--" He laughed grimly. He had thought itall over before, back there on the path when he had been talking toMasten and Hagar. He reflected again on it now. "Lookin' it square in theface, it's human nature. We'll allow that. We'll say a man has feelin's. But a man ought to have sense, too--or he ain't a man. If Masten was aboy, now, not realizin', there'd be excuses. But he's wised up.... If hisintentions had been honorable--but he's engaged to Ruth, an' theycouldn't. I reckon he'll pull his freight now. Catherson would sure musshim up some. "

He mounted his pony and rode toward the Flying W ranchhouse. Halfwaythere he passed Masten. The moon had risen; by its light he could see theEasterner, who had halted his horse and was standing beside it, watchinghim. Randerson paid no heed to him. 

"Thinkin' it over, I reckon, " he decided, as he rode on. Looking back, when he reached the house, he saw that Masten was still standing besidehis horse. 

At the sound of hoof beats, Uncle Jepson came out on the porch and peeredat the rider. Randerson could see Aunt Martha close behind him. UncleJepson was excited. He started off the porch toward Randerson. 

"It's Randerson, mother!" he called shrilly back to Aunt Martha, who wasnow on the porch. 

In a brief time Randerson learned that Ruth had gone riding--alone--aboutnoon, and had not returned. Randerson also discovered that the girl hadquestioned a puncher who had ridden in--asking him about Chavis' shackand the basin. Randerson's face, red from the blows that had landed onit, paled quickly. 

"I reckon she's takin' her time about comin' in, " he said. "Mebbe hercayuse has broke a leg--or somethin'. " He grinned at Uncle Jepson. "Iexpect there ain't nothin' to worry about. I'll go look for her. "

He climbed slowly into the saddle, and with a wave of the hand to theelderly couple rode his pony down past the bunkhouse at a pace that waslittle faster than a walk. He urged Patches to slightly greater speed ashe skirted the corral fence, but once out on the plains he loosened thereins, spoke sharply to the pony and began to ride in earnest. 

Patches responded nobly to the grim note in his master's voice. Withstretching neck and flying hoofs he swooped with long, smooth undulationsthat sent him, looking like a splotched streak, splitting the night. Heran at his own will, his rider tall and loose in the saddle, speaking nofurther word, but thinking thoughts that narrowed his eyes, made themglint with steely hardness whenever the moonlight struck them, and causedhis lips to part, showing the clenched teeth between them, and shoved hischin forward with the queer set that marks the fighting man. 

For he did not believe that Ruth's pony had broken a leg. She had gone tosee Chavis' shack, and Chavis--

One mile, two, three, four; Patches covered them in a mad riot ofrecklessness. Into depressions, over rises, leaping rocks and crashingthrough chaparral clumps, scaring rattlers, scorpions, toads, and otherdenizens to wild flight, he went, with not a thought for his own or hisrider's safety, knowing from the ring in his master's voice that speed, and speed alone, was wanted from him. 

After a five mile run he was pulled down. He felt the effects of theeffort, but he was well warmed to his work now and he loped, though withmany a snort of impatience and toss of the head, by which he tried toconvey to his master his eagerness to be allowed to have his will. 

On the crest of a hill he was drawn to a halt, while Randerson scannedthe country around him. Then, when the word came again to go, he was offwith a rush and a snort of delight, as wildly reckless as he had beenwhen he had discovered what was expected of him. 

They flashed by the ford near the Lazette trail; along a ridge, the crestof which was hard and barren, making an ideal speedway; they sank into adepression with sickening suddenness, went out of it with a clatter, andthen went careening over a level until they reached a broken stretchwhere speed would mean certain death to both. 

Patches was determined to risk it, but suddenly he was pulled in andforced to face the other way. And what he saw must have made him realizethat his wild race was ended, for he deflated his lungs shrilly, andrelaxed himself for a rest. 

Randerson had seen her first. She was sitting on the top of a giganticrock not more than fifty feet from him; she was facing him, had evidentlybeen watching him; and in the clear moonlight he could see that she waspale and frightened--frightened at him, he knew, fearful that he mightnot be a friend. 

This impression came to him simultaneously with her cry--shrill withrelief and joy: "Oh, it's Patches! It's Randerson!" And then she suddenlystiffened and stretched out flat on the top of the rock. 

He lifted her down and carried her, marveling at her lightness, to aclump of bunch-grass near by, and worked, trying to revive her, until shestruggled and sat up. She looked once at him, her eyes wide, her gazeintent, as though she wanted to be sure that it was really he, and thenshe drew a long, quavering breath and covered her face with her hands. 

"Oh, " she said; "it was horrible!" She uncovered her face and looked upat him. "Why, " she added, "I have been here since before dark! And itmust be after midnight, now!"

"It's about nine. Where's your horse?"

"Gone, " she said dolorously. "He fell--over there--and threw me. I sawChavis--and Kester--over on the mesa. I thought they would come after me, and I hurried. Then my pony fell. I've hurt my ankle--and I couldn'tcatch him--my pony, I mean; he was too obstinate--I could have killedhim! I couldn't walk, you know--my ankle, and the snakes--and the awfuldarkness, and--Oh, Randerson, " she ended, with a gulp of gratitude, "Inever was so glad to see you--anybody--in my life!"

"I reckon it _was_ kind of lonesome for you out here alone with thesnakes, an' the dark, an' things. "

She was over her scare now, he knew--as he was over his fears for her, and he grinned with a humor brought on by a revulsion of feeling. 

"I reckon mebbe the snakes would have bothered you some, " he added, "forthey're natural mean. But I reckon the moon made such an awful darknesson purpose to scare you. "

"How can you joke about it?" she demanded resentfully. 

"I'm sorry, ma'am, " he said with quick contrition. "You see, I was gladto find you. An' you're all right now, you know. "

"Yes, yes, " she said, quickly forgiving. "I suppose I _am_ a coward. "

"Why, no, ma'am, I reckon you ain't. Anybody sittin' here alone, a woman, especial, would likely think a lot of curious thoughts. They'd seem real. I reckon it was your ankle, that kept you from walkin'. "

"It hurts terribly, " she whispered, and she felt of it, looking at himplaintively. "It is so swollen I can't get my boot off. And the leatherseems like an iron band around it. " She looked pleadingly at him. "Won'tyou please take it off?"

His embarrassment was genuine and deep. 

"Why, I reckon I can, ma'am, " he told her. "But I ain't never had a heapof experience--" His pause was eloquent, and he finished lamely "withboots--boots, that is, that was on swelled ankles. "

"Is it necessary to have experience?" she returned impatiently. 

"Why, I reckon not, ma'am. " He knelt beside her and grasped the boot, giving it a gentle tug. She cried out with pain and he dropped the bootand made a grimace of sympathy. "I didn't mean to hurt you, ma'am. "

"I know you didn't"--peevishly. "Oh, " she added as he took the boot inhand again, this time giving it a slight twist; "men are _such_ awkwardcreatures!"

"Why, I reckon they are, ma'am. That is, one, in particular. There'stimes when I can't get my own boots on. " He grinned, and she looked icilyat him. 

"Get hold of it just above the ankle, please, " she instructed evenly anddrew the hem of her skirt tightly. "There!" she added as he seized thelimb gingerly, "now pull!"

He did as he had been bidden. She shrieked in agony and jerked the footaway, and he stood up, his face reflecting some of the pain and miserythat shone in hers. 

"It's awful, ma'am, " he sympathized. "Over at the Diamond H, one of theboys got his leg broke, last year, ridin' an outlaw, or tryin' to ridehim, which ain't quite the same thing--an' we had to get his boot offbefore we could set the break. Why, ma'am; we had to set on his head tokeep him from scarin' all the cattle off the range, with his screechin'. "

She looked at him with eyes that told him plainly that no one was goingto sit on _her_ head--and that she would "screech" if she chose. And thenshe spoke to him with bitter sarcasm:

"Perhaps if you _tried_ to do something, instead of standing there, telling me something that happened _ages_ ago, I wouldn't have to sithere and endure this awful m-m-misery!"

The break in her voice brought him on his knees at her side. "Why, Ireckon it _must_ hurt like the devil, ma'am. " He looked aroundhelplessly. 

"Haven't you got something that you might take it off with?" she demandedtearfully. "Haven't you got a knife?"

He reddened guiltily. "I clean forgot it ma'am. " He laughed withembarrassment. "I expect I'd never do for a doctor, ma'am; I'm so excitedan' forgetful. An' I recollect, now that you mention it, that we had tocut Hiller's boot off. That was the man I was tellin' you about. He--"

"Oh, dear, " she said with heavy resignation, "I suppose you simply _must_talk! Do you _like_ to see me suffer?"

"Why, shucks, I feel awful sorry for you, ma'am. I'll sure hurry. "

While he had been speaking he had drawn out his knife, and with as muchdelicacy as the circumstances would permit, he accomplished thedestruction of the boot. Then, after many admonitions for him to becareful, and numerous sharp intakings of her breath, the boot waswithdrawn, showing her stockinged foot, puffed to abnormal proportions. She looked at it askance. 

"Do you think it is b-broken?" she asked him, dreading. 

He grasped it tenderly, discovered that the ankle moved freely, and afterpressing it in several places, looked up at her. 

"I don't think it's broke, ma'am. It's a bad sprain though, I reckon. Ireckon it ought to be rubbed--so's to bring back the blood that couldn'tget in while the boot was on. "

The foot was rubbed, he having drawn off the stocking with as muchdelicacy as he had exhibited in taking off the boot. And then whileRanderson considerately withdrew under pretense of looking at Patches, the stocking was put on again. When he came back it was to be met with arequest:

"Won't you please find my pony and bring him back?"

"Why, sure, ma'am. " He started again for Patches, but halted and lookedback at her. "You won't be scared again?"

"No, " she said. And then: "But you'll hurry, won't you?"

"I reckon. " He was in the saddle quickly, loping Patches to the crest ofa hill near by in hopes of getting a view of the recreant pony. He got aglimpse of it, far back on the plains near some timber, and he was aboutto shout the news to Ruth, who was watching him intently, when he thoughtbetter of the notion and shut his lips. 

Urging Patches forward, he rode toward Ruth's pony at a moderate pace. Three times during the ride he looked back. Twice he was able to seeRuth, but the third time he had swerved so that some bushes concealed himfrom her. He was forced to swerve still further to come up with the pony, and he noted that Ruth would never have been able to see her pony fromher position. 

It was more than a mile to where the animal stood, and curiously, asthough to make amends for his previous bad behavior to Ruth, he cametrotting forward to Randerson, whinnying gently. 

Randerson seized the bridle, and grinned at the animal. 

"I reckon I ought to lam you a-plenty, you miserable deserter, " he saidseverely, "runnin' away from your mistress that-a-way. Is that the wayfor a respectable horse to do? You've got her all nervous an' upset--an'she sure roasted me. Do you reckon there's any punishment that'd fit whatyou done? Well, I reckon! You come along with me!"

Leading the animal, he rode Patches to the edge of the timber. There, unbuckling one end of the reins from the bit ring, he doubled them, passed them through a gnarled root, made a firm knot and left the ponytied securely. Then he rode off and looked back, grinning. 

"You're lost, you sufferin' runaway. Only you don't know it. "

He loped Patches away and made a wide detour of the mesa, making surethat he appeared often on the sky line, so that he would be seen by Ruth. At the end of half an hour he rode back to where the girl was standing, watching him. He dismounted and approached her, standing before her, hisexpression one of grave worry. 

"That outlaw of yours ain't anywhere in sight, ma'am, " he said. "I reckonhe's stampeded back to the ranchhouse. You sure you ain't seen him gopast here?"

"No, " she said, "unless he went way around, just after it got dark. "

"I reckon that's what he must have done. Some horses is plumb mean. Butyou can't walk, you know, " he added after a silence; "I reckon you'llhave to ride Patches. "

"You would have to walk, then, " she objected. "And that wouldn't befair!"

"Walkin' wouldn't bother me, ma'am. " He got Patches and led him closer. She looked at the animal, speculatively. 

"Don't you think he could carry both of us?" she asked. 

He scrutinized Patches judicially. A light, which she did not see, leapedinto his eyes. 

"Why, I didn't think of that. I reckon he could, ma'am. Anyway, we cantry it, if you want to. "

He led Patches still closer. Then, with much care, he lifted Ruth andplaced her in the saddle, mounting behind her. Patches moved off. 

After a silence which might have lasted while they rode a mile, Ruthspoke. 

"My ankle feels very much easier. "

"I'm glad of that, ma'am. "

"Randerson, " she said, after they had gone on a little ways further; "Ibeg your pardon for speaking to you the way I did, back there. But myfoot _did_ hurt terribly. "

"Why, sure. I expect I deserved to get roasted. "

Again there was a silence. Ruth seemed to be thinking deeply. At adistance that he tried to keep respectful, Randerson watched her, withworshipful admiration, noting the graceful disorder of her hair, thewisps at the nape of her neck. The delicate charm of her made him thrillwith the instinct of protection. So strong was this feeling that when hethought of her pony, back at the timber, guilt ceased to bother him. 

Ruth related to him the conversation she had overheard between Chavis andKester, and he smiled understandingly at her. 

"Do you reckon you feel as tender toward them now as you did before youfound that out?"

"I don't know, " she replied. "It made me angry to hear them talk likethat. But as for hanging them--" She shivered. "There were times, tonight, though, when I thought hanging would be too good for them, " sheconfessed. 

"You'll shape up real western--give you time, " he assured. "You'll beready to take your own part, without dependin' on laws to do it foryou--laws that don't reach far enough. "

"I don't think I shall ever get your viewpoint, " she declared. 

"Well, " he said, "Pickett was bound to try to get me. Do you think thatif I'd gone to the sheriff at Las Vegas, an' told him about Pickett, he'dhave done anything but poke fun at me? An' that word would have gone allover the country--that I was scared of Pickett--an' I'd have had to pullmy freight. I had to stand my ground, ma'am. Mebbe I'd have been a heroif I'd have let him shoot me, but I wouldn't have been here any more toknow about it. An' I'm plumb satisfied to be here, ma'am. "

"How did you come to hear about me not getting home?" she asked. 

"I'd rode in to see Catherson. I couldn't see him--because he wasn'tthere. Then I come on over to the ranchhouse, an' Uncle Jepson told meabout you not comin' in. "

"Was Mr. Masten at the ranchhouse?"

He hesitated. Then he spoke slowly. "I didn't see him there, ma'am. "

She evidently wondered why it had not been Masten that had come for her. 

They were near the house when she spoke again:

"Did you have an accident today, Randerson?"

"Why, ma'am?" he asked to gain time, for he knew that the moonlight hadbeen strong enough, and that he had been close enough to her, to permither to see. 

"Your face has big, ugly, red marks on it, and the skin on your knucklesis all torn, " she said. 

"Patches throwed me twice, comin' after you, ma'am, " he lied. "I plowedup the ground considerable. I've never knowed Patches to be sounreliable. "

She turned in the saddle and looked full at him. "That is strange, " shesaid, looking ahead again. "The men have told me that you are a wonderfulhorseman. "

"The men was stretchin' the truth, I reckon, " he said lightly. 

"Anyway, " she returned earnestly; "I thank you very much for coming forme. "

She said nothing more to him until he helped her down at the edge of theporch at the ranchhouse. And then, while Uncle Jepson and Aunt Marthawere talking and laughing with pleasure at her return, she found time tosay, softly to him:

"I really don't blame you so much--about Pickett. I suppose it wasnecessary. "

"Thank you, ma'am, " he said gratefully. 

He helped her inside, where the glare of the kerosene lamps fell uponhim. He saw Uncle Jepson looking at him searchingly; and he caught Ruth'squick, low question to Aunt Martha, as he was letting her gently down ina chair:

"Where is Willard?"

"He came in shortly after dark, " Aunt Martha told her. "Jep was talkingto him, outside. He left a note for you. He told Jep that he was goingover to Lazette for a couple of weeks, my dear. "

Randerson saw Ruth's frown. He also saw Aunt Martha looking intentlythrough her glasses at the bruises on his face. 

"Why, boy, " she exclaimed, "what has happened to you?"

Randerson reddened. It was going to be harder for him to lie to AuntMartha than to Ruth. But Ruth saved him the trouble. 

"Randerson was thrown twice, riding out to get me, " she explained. 

"Throwed twice, eh?" said Uncle Jepson to Randerson, when a few minuteslater he followed the range boss out on the porch. He grinned atRanderson suspiciously. "Throwed twice, eh?" he repeated. "Masten's facelooks like some one had danced a jig on it. Huh! I cal'late that if youwas throwed twice, Masten's horse must have _drug_ him!"

"You ain't tellin' _her_!" suggested Randerson. 

"You tell her anything _you_ want to tell her, my boy, " whispered UncleJepson. "An' if I don't miss my reckonin', she'll _listen_ to you, someday. "

 CHAPTER XV

 THE RUNAWAY COMES HOME

Masten's note to Ruth contained merely the information that he was goingto Lazette, and that possibly he might not return for two weeks. Hehinted that he would probably be called upon to go to Santa Fe onbusiness, but if so he would apprise her of that by messenger. He gave noreason for his sudden leave-taking, or no explanation of his breach ofcourtesy in not waiting to see her personally. The tone of the note didnot please Ruth. It had evidently been written hurriedly, on a sheet ofpaper torn from a pocket notebook. That night she studied it long, by thelight from the kerosene lamp in her room, and finally crumpled it up andthrew it from her. Then she sat for another long interval, her elbows onthe top of the little stand that she used as a dressing table, her chinin her hands, staring with unseeing eyes into a mirror in front ofher--or rather, at two faces that seemed to be reflected in the glass:Masten's and Randerson's. 

Next morning she got downstairs late, to find breakfast over andRanderson gone. Later in the morning she saw Uncle Jepson waving a handto her from the corral, and she ran down there, to find her pony standingoutside the fence, meek and docile. The bridle rein, knotted and broken, dangled in the dust at his head. 

She took up the end with the knot in it. 

"He's been tied!" she exclaimed. She showed Uncle Jepson the slip knot. And then she became aware of Aunt Martha standing beside her, and sheshowed it to her also. And then she saw a soiled blue neckerchief twistedand curled in the knot, and she examined it with wide eyes. 

"Why, it's Randerson's!" she declared, in astonishment. "How on earth didit get here?"

And now her face crimsoned, for illumination had come to her. She placedthe neckerchief behind her, with a quick hope that her relatives had notseen it, nor had paid any attention to her exclamation. But she saw UncleJepson grin broadly, and her face grew redder with his words:

"I cal'late the man who lost that blue bandanna wasn't a tol'able pieceaway when that knot was tied. "

"Jep Coakley, you mind your own business!" rebuked Aunt Martha sharply, looking severely at Uncle Jepson over the rims of her spectacles. 

"Don't you mind him, honey, " she consoled, putting an arm around the girlas Uncle Jepson went away, chuckling. "Why, girl, " she went on, smilingat Ruth's crimson face, "you don't blame him, do you? If you don't knowhe likes you, you've been blind to what I've been seeing for many days. Never mention to him that you know he tied the pony, dear. For he's agentleman, in spite of that. "

And obediently, though with cheeks that reddened many times during theprocess, and laughter that rippled through her lips occasionally, Ruthwashed the neckerchief, folded it, to make creases like those which wouldhave been in it had its owner been wearing it, then crumpled it, andstole to Randerson's room when she was sure that he was not there, andplaced the neckerchief where its owner would be sure to find it. 

She was filled with a delightful dread against the day when he woulddiscover it, for she felt that he might remember where he had lost it, and thus become convinced that she knew of his duplicity. But many dayspassed and he did not come in. She did not know that on his way out tojoin the outfit the next morning he had noticed that he had lost theneckerchief, and that he remembered it flapping loose around his neckwhen he had gone toward the timber edge for her pony. He had searchedlong for it, without success, of course, and had finally ridden away, shaking his head, deeply puzzled over its disappearance. 

Nor did Ruth know that on the day she had discovered the neckerchiefdangling from the knot, Aunt Martha had spoken again to Uncle Jepconcerning it. 

"Jep Coakley, " she said earnestly; "you like your joke, as well as anyman. But if I ever hear of you mentioning anything to Randerson aboutthat bandanna, I'll tweak your nose as sure as you're alive!"

 CHAPTER XVI

 TWO ARE TAUGHT LESSONS

There was one other thing that Ruth did not know--the rage that dwelt inRanderson's heart against Chavis and Kester. He had shown no indicationof it when she had related to him the story of her adventure with themen, nor did he mention it to any of his associates. There had been atime in his life when he would have brought the men to a quick and finalaccounting, for their offense was one that the laws governing humanconduct in this country would not condone; but he was not the man he hadbeen before the coming of Ruth; her views on the taking of human life--nomatter what the provocation--were barriers that effectively restrainedhis desires. 

Yet he could not permit Kester and Chavis to think they could repeat theoffense with impunity. That would be an indication of impotence, ofservile yielding to the feminine edict that had already gone forth, andbehind which Chavis and his men were even now hiding--the decree of theFlying W owner that there should be no taking of human life. His lipstwisted crookedly as on the morning of the day following his adventurewith Ruth and the recreant pony he mounted his own animal and rode awayfrom the outfit without telling any of them where he was going. Two orthree hours later, in a little basin near the plateau where Ruth hadoverheard the men talking, Chavis and Kester were watching the crookedsmile; their own faces as pale as Randerson's, their breath swellingtheir lungs as the threat of impending violence assailed them; theirmuscles rippling and cringing in momentary expectation of the rapidmovement they expected--and dreaded; their hearts laboring and pounding. For they saw in the face of this man who had brought his pony to a haltwithin ten feet of them a decision to adhere to the principles that hadgoverned him all his days, and they knew that a woman's order would notstay the retributive impulse that was gleaming in his eyes. 

"We'll get to an understandin' before we quit here, " he said, his cold, alert eyes roving over them. "You've made one break, an' you're gettin'out of it because my boss ain't dead stuck on attendin' funerals. Ireckon you know I ain't got no such nice scruples, an' a funeral more orless won't set so awful heavy on my conscience. There's goin' to be moremourners requisitioned in this country damned sudden if women ain't goin'to be allowed range rights. I ain't passin' around no more warnin's, an'you two is talkin' mighty sudden or the mourners will be yowlin'. What'sthe verdict?"

Chavis sighed. "We wasn't meanin' no harm, " he apologized, some colorcoming into his face again. 

"An' you?" Randerson's level look confused Kester. 

"I ain't travelin' that trail no more, " he promised, his eyes shifting. He knew as well as Chavis that it was the only way. A word, spoken with ahint of belligerence, a single hostile movement, would have precipitatedthe clash they knew Randerson had come to force--a clash which they knewwould end badly for them. For Randerson had chosen his position whenhalting Patches--it was strategic, and they knew his fingers were itchingfor the feel of his guns. 

They saw the crooked smile fade from his lips; they curved with cold, amused contempt. 

"Not runnin' no risks to speak of, eh?" he drawled. "Well, get goin'!" Helounged in the saddle, watching them as they rode away, not looking back. When they reached the far slope of the basin he turned Patches andsniffed disgustedly. Five minutes later he was at the crest of the backslope, riding toward the outfit, miles away. 

It was an hour later that he observed a moving spot on the sky line. Thedistance was great, but something familiar in the lines of thefigure--when he presently got near enough to see that the blot was a ponyand rider--made his blood leap with eager anticipation; and he spokesharply to Patches, sending him forward at a brisk lope. 

He had seen some cattle near the rider; he had passed them earlier in themorning--lean, gaunt range steers that would bother a fast pony in a runif thoroughly aroused. 

He saw that the rider had halted very close to one of the steers, and alook of concern flashed into his eyes. 

"She oughtn't to do that!" he muttered. Unconsciously, his spurs touchedPatches' flanks, and the little animal quickened his pace. 

Randerson did not remove his gaze from the distant horse and rider. Herode for a quarter of a mile in silence, his muscles slowly tensing as hewatched. 

"What's she doin' now?" he demanded of the engulfing space, as he saw therider swing around in the saddle. 

"Hell!" he snapped an instant later; "she's gettin' off her horse!" Heraised his voice in a shout, that fell flat and futile on the dead desertair, and he leaned forward in the saddle and drove the spurs deep as hesaw the range steer nearest the rider raise its head inquiringly and looktoward the rider--for she had dismounted and was walking away from herhorse at an angle that would take her very close to the steer. 

Patches was running now, with the cat-like leaps peculiar to him, and hisrider was urging him on with voice and spur and hand, his teeth set, hiseyes burning with anxiety. 

But the girl had not seen him. She was still moving away from her horse;too far away from it to return if the steer decided to charge her, andRanderson was still fully half a mile distant. 

He groaned audibly as he saw the steer take a few tentative steps towardher, his head raised, tail erect, his long horns glinting in the whitesunlight. Randerson knew the signs. 

"Good God!" he whispered; "can't she see what that steer is up to?"

It seemed she did, for she had halted and was facing the animal. For aninstant there was no movement in the vast realm of space except theterrific thunder of Patches' hoofs as they spurned the hard alkali levelover which he was running; the squeaking protests of the saddle leather, and Randerson's low voice as he coaxed the pony to greater speed. ButPatches had reached the limit of effort, was giving his rider his lastounce of strength, and he closed the gap between himself and the girlwith whirlwind rapidity. 

But it seemed he would be too late. The girl had sensed her danger. Shehad caught the stealthy movement of the steer; she had glimpsed theunmistakable malignance of his blood-shot eyes, and had stood for aninstant in the grip of a dumb, paralyzing terror. She had dismounted togather some yellow blossoms of soap-weed that had looked particularlyinviting from the saddle, and too late she had become aware of thebelligerent actions of the steer. 

She realized now that she was too far from her pony to reach it in casethe steer attacked her, but in the hope of gaining a few steps before thecharge came she backed slowly, edging sidelong toward the pony. 

She gained a considerable distance in this manner, for during the firstfew seconds of the movement the steer seemed uncertain and stood, swinging its head from side to side, pawing the sand vigorously. 

The girl was thankful for the short respite, and she made the most of it. She had retreated perhaps twenty-five or thirty feet when the steercharged, bolting toward her with lowered head. 

She had gone perhaps thirty or forty feet when Patches reached the scene. The girl saw the blur he made as he flashed past her--he had cut betweenher and the steer--so close to her that the thunder of his hoofs roareddeafening in her ears, and the wind from his passing almost drew her offher balance as amazed, stunned, nerveless, she halted. She caught aglimpse of Randerson's profile as he swept into a circle and threw hisrope. There must be no missing--there was none. The sinuous loop wentout, fell over the steer's head. Thereafter there was a smother of dustin which the girl could see some wildly waving limbs. Outside of thesmother she saw the pony swing off for a short distance and stiffen itslegs. The rope attached to the pommel of the saddle grew taut as a bowstring; there was an instant of strained suspense during which the pony'sback arched until the girl thought it must surely break. It was over inan instant, though every detail was vividly impressed upon the girl'smind. For the cold terror that had seized her had fled with theappearance of Patches--she knew there could be no danger to her afterthat. 

She watched the steer fall. He went down heavily, the impetus of hischarge proving his undoing; he struck heavily on head and shoulder, grunting dismally, his hind quarters rising in the air, balancing therefor an infinitesimal space and then following his head. 

The rope stretched tighter; the girl saw Patches putting a steady pull onit. The loop had fallen around the steer's neck; she heard the animalcough for breath once, then its breath was cut off. 

In this minute the girl's chief emotion was one of admiration for thepony. How accurate its movements in this crisis! How unerring itsjudgment! For though no word had been spoken--at least the girl heardnone--the pony kept the rope taut, bracing against its burden asRanderson slid out of the saddle. 

The girl's interest left the pony and centered on its rider. Randersonwas running toward the fallen steer, and though Ruth had witnessed thisoperation a number of times since her coming to the Flying W, she hadnever watched it with quite the interest with which she watched it now. It was all intensely personal. 

Randerson had drawn a short piece of rope from a loop on the saddle whenhe had dismounted. It dangled from his hand as he ran toward the steer. In an instant he was bending over the beast, working at its hoofs, drawing the forehoofs and one hind hoof together, lashing them fast, twining the rope in a curious knot that, the girl knew from experience, would hold indefinitely. 

Randerson straightened when his work was finished, and looked at Ruth. The girl saw that his face was chalk white. But his voice was sharp, andit rang like the beat of a hammer upon metal:

"Get on your horse!"

There was no refusing that voice, and Ruth turned and ran toward herpony, with something of the confusion and guilt that overtakes a recreantchild scolded by its parent. She was scarcely in the saddle when sheturned to watch Randerson. 

He was pulling the loop from the steer's head. He coiled it, with muchdeliberation, returned to Patches and hung the rope from its hook. Thenhe walked slowly back to the steer. 

The latter had been choked to unconsciousness, but was now reviving. Witha quick jerk Randerson removed the rope from its hoofs, retreating toPatches and swinging into the saddle, watching the movements of thesteer. 

The steer had got to its feet and stood with legs braced in sharp outwardangles, trembling, its great head rolling from side to side, loweredalmost to the dust, snorting breath into its lungs. 

The girl was fascinated, but she heard Randerson's voice again, flung ather this time:

"Get away from here--quick!"

She jerked on the reins, and the pony, wise with the wisdom ofexperience, knowing the danger that portended, bolted quickly, carryingher some distance before she succeeded in halting him. 

When she turned to look back, there was a dust cloud near the spot wherethe steer had lain. In the cloud she saw the steer, Patches, andRanderson. Patches and the steer were running--Patches slightly inadvance. The pony was racing, dodging to the right and left, pursuing azig-zag course that kept the steer bothered. 

As the girl watched she found a vicious rage stealing over her, directedagainst the steer. Why didn't Randerson kill the beast, instead ofrunning from it in that fashion? Somehow, she did not like to seeRanderson in that role; it was far from heroic--it flavored of panic; itmade her think of the panic that had gripped her a few minutes before, when she had retreated from the steer. 

She watched the queer race go on for a few minutes, and then she saw anexhibition of roping that made her gasp. From a point fifteen or twentyfeet in advance of the steer, Randerson threw his rope. He had twisted inthe saddle, and he gave the lariat a quick flirt, the loop running outperpendicularly, like a rolling hoop, and not more than a foot from theground, writhing, undulating, the circle constricting quickly, sinuously. The girl saw the loop topple as it neared the steer--it was much like themotion of a hoop falling. It met one of the steer's hoofs as it was flungoutward; it grew taut; the rope straightened and Patches swung off to theright at an acute angle. He did not brace his legs, this time. This was adifferent game. He merely halted, turning his head and watching, with awell-I've-done-it-now expression of the eyes that would have brought asmile to the girl's face at any other time. 

Again it was over in an instant; for the second time the steer turned asomersault. Again there followed a space during which there was nomovement. 

Then Randerson slacked the rope. It seemed to Ruth that Patches did thisof his own accord. The steer scrambled to its feet, hesitated an instant, and then lunged furiously toward the tormenting horse and rider. 

Patches snorted; Ruth was certain it was with disgust. He leaped--againthe girl thought Randerson had no hand in the movement--directly towardthe enraged steer, veering sharply as he neared it, and passing to itsrear. For the third time the rope grew taut, and this time the ponybraced itself and the steer went down with a thud that carried clearlyand distinctly to the girl. 

She thought the beast must be fatally injured, and felt that it richlydeserved its fate. But after a period, during which Patches wheeled toface the beast, Randerson grinning coldly at it, the steer againscrambled to its feet. 

This time it stood motionless, merely trembling a little. The fear of therope had seized it; this man-made instrument was a thing that could notbe successfully fought. That, it seemed to the girl, was the lesson thesteer had been taught from its experience. That it was the lessonRanderson had set out to teach the animal, the girl was certain. Itexplained Randerson's seeming panic; it made the girl accuse herselfsharply for doubting him. 

She watched the scene to its conclusion. The steer started off, shakingits head from side to side. Plainly, it wanted no more of this sort ofwork; the fight had all been taken out of it. Again the pony stiffened, and again the steer went down with a thud. This time, while it struggledon the ground, Randerson gave the rope a quick flirt, making undulationthat ran from his hand to the loop around the steer's leg, loosening it. And when the beast again scrambled to its feet it trotted off, free, headand tail in the air, grunting with relief. 

A few minutes later Randerson loped Patches toward her, coiling his rope, a grin on his face. He stopped before her, and his grin broadened. 

"Range steers are sort of peculiar, ma'am, " he said gently. "They'reraised like that. They don't ever see no man around them unless he'sforkin' his pony. No cowpuncher with any sense goes to hoofin' it arounda range steer--it ain't accordin' to the rules. Your range steer ain'tused to seein' a man walkin'. On his pony he's safe--nine times out often. The other time a range steer will tackle a rider that goes tomonkeyin' around him promiscuous. But they have to be taught manners, ma'am--the same as human bein's. That scalawag will recognize the ropenow, ma'am, the same as a human outlaw will recognize the rope--or thelaw. Of course both will be outlaws when there's no rope or no lawaround, but--Why, ma'am, " he laughed--"I'm gettin' right clever atworkin' my jaw, ain't I? Are you headin' back to the Flyin' W? Because ifyou are, I'd be sort of glad to go along with you--if you'll promise youwon't go to galivantin' around the country on foot no more. Not that_that_ steer will tackle you again, ma'am--he's been taught _his_ lesson. But there's others. "

She laughed and thanked him. As they rode she considered his subtlereference to the law and the rope, and wondered if it carried anypersonal significance to anyone. Twice she looked at him for evidence ofthat, but could gain nothing from his face--suffused with quietsatisfaction. 

 CHAPTER XVII

 THE TARGET

Earlier in the morning, Ruth had watched Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martharide away in the buckboard toward Lazette. She had stood on the porch, following them with her eyes until the buckboard had grown dim in hervision--a mere speck crawling over a sun-scorched earth, under a clearwhite sky in which swam a sun that for days had been blighting growingthings. But on the porch of the ranchhouse it was cool. 

Ruth was not cool. When the buckboard had finally vanished into thedistance, with nothing left of it but a thin dust cloud that spread anddisintegrated and at last settled down, Ruth walked to a rocker on theporch and sank into it, her face flushed, her eyes glowing with eagerexpectancy. 

A few days before, while rummaging in a wooden box which had been theproperty of her uncle, William Harkness, she had come upon another box, considerably smaller, filled with cartridges. She had examined themthoughtfully, and at last, with much care and trepidation, had taken oneof them, found Uncle Harkness' big pistol, removed the cylinder andslipped the cartridge into one of the chambers. It had fitted perfectly. Thereafter she had yielded to another period of thoughtfulness--longerthis time. 

A decision had resulted from those periods, for the day before, when apuncher had come in from the outfit, on an errand, she had told him tosend Randerson in to the ranchhouse to her, on the following day. And shewas expecting him now. 

She had tried to dissuade Uncle Jep and Aunt Martha from making the tripto Lazette today, but, for reasons which she would not have admitted--anddid not admit, even to herself--she had not argued very strongly. And shehad watched them go with mingled regret and satisfaction; two emotionsthat persisted in battling within her until they brought the disquietthat had flushed her cheeks. 

It was an hour before Randerson rode up to the edge of the porch, andwhen Patches came to a halt, and her range boss sat loosely in thesaddle, looking down at her, she was composed, even though her cheekswere still a little red. 

"You sent for me, ma'am. "

It was the employee speaking to his "boss. " He was not using the incidentof a few nights before to establish familiarity between them; his voicewas low, deferential. But Willard Masten's voice had never made her feelquite as she felt at this moment. 

"Yes, I sent for you, " she said, smiling calmly--trying to seem theemployer but getting something into her voice which would not properlybelong there under those circumstances. She told herself it was notpleasure--but she saw his eyes flash. "I have found some cartridges, andI want you to teach me how to shoot. "

He looked at her with eyes that narrowed with amusement, after a quickglint of surprise. 

"I reckon I c'n teach you. Are you figurin' that there's some one in thiscountry that you don't want here any more?"

"No, " she said; "I don't expect to shoot anybody. But I have decided thatas long as I have made up my mind to stay here and run the Flying W, Imay as well learn to be able to protect myself--if occasion arises. "

"That's a heap sensible. You c'n never tell when you'll have to do someshootin' out here. Not at men, especial, " he grinned, "but you'll runacross things--a wolf, mebbe, that'll get fresh with you, or a sneakin'coyote that'll kind of make the hair raise on the back of your neck, notbecause you're scared of him, but because you know his mean tricks an'don't admire them, or a wildcat, or a hydrophobia polecat, ma'am, " hesaid, with slightly reddening cheeks; "but mostly, ma'am, I reckon you'lllike shootin' at side-winders best. Sometimes they get mighty full offight, ma'am--when it's pretty hot. "

"How long will it take you to teach me to shoot?" she asked. 

"That depends, ma'am. I reckon I could show you how to pull the triggerin a jiffy. That would be a certain kind of shootin'. But as for showin'you how to hit somethin' you shoot at, why, that's a little different. I've knowed men that practiced shootin' for years, ma'am, an' theycouldn't hit a barn if they was inside of it. There's others that can hitmost anything, right handy. They say it's all in the eye an' the nerves, ma'am--whatever nerves are. "

"You haven't any nerves, I suppose, or you wouldn't speak of them thatway. "

"If you mean that I go to hollerin' an' jumpin' around when somethin'happens, why I ain't got any. But I've seen folks with nerves, ma'am. "

He was looking directly at her when he spoke, his gaze apparently withoutsubtlety. But she detected a gleam that seemed far back in his eyes, andshe knew that he referred to her actions of the other night. 

She blushed. "I didn't think you would remind me of _that_, " she said. 

"Why, I didn't, ma'am. I didn't mention any names. But of course, awoman's got nerves; they can't help it. "

"Of course men are superior, " she taunted. 

She resisted an inclination to laugh, for she was rather astonished todiscover that man's disposition to boast was present in this son of thewilderness. Also, she was a little disappointed in him. 

But she saw him redden. 

"I ain't braggin', ma'am. Take them on an average, an' I reckon woman hasgot as much grit as men. But they show it different. They're quicker toimagine things than men. That makes them see things where there ain'tanything to see. A man's mother is always a woman, ma'am, an' if he's gotany grit in him he owes a lot of it to her. I reckon I owe more to mymother than to my father. "

His gaze was momentarily somber, and she felt a quick, new interest inhim. Or had she felt this interest all along--a desire to learn somethingmore of him than he had expressed?

"You might get off your horse and sit in the shade for a minute. It ishot, you've had a long ride, and I am not quite ready to begin shooting, "she invited. 

He got off Patches, led him to the shade of the house, hitched him, andthen returned to the porch, taking a chair near her. 

"Aunt Martha says you were born here, " Ruth said. "Have you always been acowboy?"

A flash that came into his eyes was concealed by a turn of the head. Soshe had asked Aunt Martha about him. 

"I don't remember ever bein' anything else. As far back as I c'nrecollect, there's been cows hangin' around. "

"Have you traveled any?"

"To Denver, Frisco, Kansas City. I was in Utah, once, lookin' over theMormons. They're a curious lot, ma'am. I never could see what on earth aman wanted half a dozen wives for. One can manage a man right clever. Buthalf a dozen! Why, they'd be pullin' one another's hair out, fightin'over him! One would be wantin' him to do one thing, an' another would bewantin' him to do another. An' between them, the man would be goin' offto drown himself. "

"But a woman doesn't always manage her husband, " she defended. 

"Don't she, ma'am?" he said gently, no guile in his eyes. "Why, all thehusbands I've seen seemed to be pretty well managed. You can see samplesof it every day, ma'am, if you look around. Young fellows that have actedpretty wild when they was single, always sort of steady down when they'rehooked into double harness. They go to actin' quiet an' subdued-like--likethey'd lost all interest in life. I reckon it must be their wives managin'them, ma'am. "

"It's a pity, isn't it?" she said, her chin lifting. 

"The men seem to like it, ma'am. Every day there's new ones makin'contracts for managers. "

"I suppose _you_ will never sacrifice yourself?" she asked challengingly. 

"It ain't time, yet, ma'am, " he returned, looking straight at her, hiseyes narrowed, with little wrinkles in the corners. "I'm waitin' for youto tell Masten that you don't want to manage him. "

"We won't talk about that, please, " she said coldly. 

"Then we won't, ma'am. "

She sat looking at him, trying to be coldly critical, but not succeedingvery well. She was trying to show him that there was small hope of himever realizing his desire to have her "manage" him, but she felt that shedid not succeed in that very well either. Perplexity came into her eyesas she watched him. 

"Why is it that you don't like Willard Masten?" she asked at length. "Whyis it that he doesn't like you?"

His face sobered. "I don't recollect to have said anything about Masten, ma'am, " he said. 

"But you don't like him, do you?"

A direct answer was required. "No, " he said simply. 

"Why?" she persisted. 

"I reckon mebbe you'd better ask Masten, " he returned, his voiceexpressionless. Then he looked at her with an amused grin. "If it's goin'to take you any time to learn to shoot, I reckon we'd better begin. "

She got up, went into the house for the pistol and cartridges, and cameout again, the weapon dangling from her hand. 

"Shucks!" he said, when he saw the pistol, comparing its huge bulk to thesize of the hand holding it, "you'll never be able to hold it, when itgoes off. You ought to have a smaller one. "

"Uncle Jep says this ought to stop anything it hits, " she declared. "Thatis just what I want it to do. If I shoot anything once, I don't want tohave to shoot again. "

"I reckon you're right bloodthirsty, ma'am. But I expect it's so big foryou that you won't be able to hit anything. "

"I'll show you, " she said, confidently. "Where shall we go to shoot? Weshall have to have a target, I suppose?"

"Not a movin' one, " he said gleefully. "An' I ain't aimin' to hold it foryou!"

"Wait until you are asked, " she retorted, defiantly. "Perhaps I may be abetter shot than you think!"

"I hope so, ma'am. "

She looked resentfully at him, but followed him as he went out near thepasture fence, taking with him a soap box that he found near a shed, andstanding it up behind a post, first making sure there were no cattlewithin range in the direction that the bullets would take. Then hestepped off twenty paces, and when she joined him he took the pistol fromher hands and loaded it from the box. He watched her narrowly as she tookit, and she saw the concern in his eyes. 

"Oh, I have used a revolver before, " she told him, "not so large a one asthis, of course. But I know better than to point it at myself. "

"I see you do, ma'am. " His hand went out quickly and closed over hers, for she had been directing the muzzle of the weapon fairly at his chest. "You ought never point it at anybody that you don't want to shoot, " heremonstrated gently. 

He showed her how to hold the weapon, told her to stand sideways to thetarget, with her right arm extended and rigid, level with the shoulder. 

He took some time at this; three times after she extended her arm heseemed to find it necessary to take hold of the arm to rearrange itsposition, lingering long at this work, and squeezing the pistol hand alittle too tightly, she thought. 

"Don't go to pullin' the trigger too fast or too hard, " he warned; "alittle time for the first shot will save you shootin' again, mebbe--untilyou get used to it. She'll kick some, but you'll get onto that prettyquick. "

She pulled the trigger, and the muzzle of the pistol flew upward. 

"I reckon that target feels pretty safe, ma'am, " he said dryly. "But thatbuzzard up there will be pullin' his freight--if he's got any sense. "

She fired again, her lips compressed determinedly. At the report asplinter of wood flew from the top of the post. She looked at him with anexultant smile. 

"That's better, " he told her, grinning; "you'll be hittin' the soap box, next. "

She did hit it at the fourth attempt, and her joy was great. 

For an hour she practiced, using many cartridges, reveling in this newpastime. She hit the target often, and toward the end she gained suchconfidence and proficiency that her eyes glowed proudly. Then, growingtired, she invited him to the porch again, and until near noon theytalked of guns and shooting. 

Her interest in him had grown. His interest in her had always been deep, and the constraint that had been between them no longer existed. 

At noon she went into the house and prepared luncheon, leaving himsitting on the porch alone. When she called Randerson in, and he took achair across from her, she felt a distinct embarrassment. It was notbecause she was there alone with him, for he had a right to be there; hewas her range boss and his quarters were in the house; he was anemployee, and no conventions were being violated. But the embarrassmentwas there. 

Did Randerson suspect her interest in him? That question assailed her. She studied him, and was uncertain. For his manner had not changed. Hewas still quiet, thoughtful, polite, still deferential and natural, witha quaintness of speech and a simplicity that had gripped her, that heldher captive. 

But her embarrassment fled as the meal progressed. She forgot it in herinterest for him. She questioned him again; he answered frankly. Andthrough her questions she learned much of his past life, of his hopes andambitions. They were as simple and natural as himself. 

"I've been savin' my money, ma'am, " he told her. "I'm goin' to own aranch of my own, some day. There's fellows that blow in all their wagesin town, not thinkin' of tomorrow. But I quit that, quite a while ago. I'm lookin' out for tomorrow. It's curious, ma'am. Fellows will try toget you to squander your money, along with their own, an' if you don't, they'll poke fun at you. But they'll respect you for not squanderin' it, like they do. I reckon they know there ain't any sense to it. " Thus shediscovered that there was little frivolity in his make-up, and pleasurestirred her. And then he showed her another side of his character--hisrespect for public opinion. 

"But I ain't stingy, ma'am. I reckon I've proved it. There's a differencebetween bein' careful an' stingy. "

"How did you prove it?"

He grinned at her. "Why, I ain't mentionin', " he said gently. 

But she had heard of his generosity--from several of the men, and fromHagar Catherson. She mentally applauded his reticence. 

She learned that he had read--more than she would have thought, from hisspeech--and that he had profited thereby. 

"Books give the writer's opinion of things, " he said. "If you read athoughtful book, you either agree with the writer, or you don't, accordin' to your nature an' understandin'. None of them get thingsexactly right, I reckon, for no man can know everything. He's got to falldown, somewhere. An' so, when you read a book, you've got to do a heap ofthinkin' on your own hook, or else you'll get mistaken ideas an' go togettin' things mixed up. I like to do my own thinkin'. "

"Are you always right?"

"Bless you, ma'am, no. I'm scarcely ever right. I'll get to believin' athing, an' then along will come somethin' else, an' I'll have to startall over again. Or, I'll talk to somebody, an' find that they've got abetter way of lookin' at a thing. I reckon that's natural. "

They did not go out to shoot again. Instead, they went out on the porch, and there, sitting in the shade, they talked until the sun began to swimlow in the sky. 

At last he got up, grinning. 

"I've done a heap of loafin' today, ma'am. But I've certainly enjoyedmyself, talkin' to you. But if you ain't goin' to try to hit the targetany more, I reckon I'll be ridin' back to the outfit. "

She got up, too, and held out her hand to him. "Thank you, " she said. "You have made the day very short for me. It would have been lonesomehere, without aunt and uncle. "

"I saw them goin', " he informed her. 

"And, " she continued, smiling, "I am going to ask you to come again, verysoon, to teach me more about shooting. "

"Any time, ma'am. " He still held her hand. And now he looked at it with ablush, and dropped it gently. Her face reddened a little too, for now sherealized that he had held her hand for quite a while, and she had made nomotion to withdraw it. Their eyes met eloquently. The gaze held for aninstant, and then both laughed, as though each had seen something in theeyes of the other that had been concealed until this moment. Then Ruth'sdrooped. Randerson smiled and stepped off the porch to get his pony. 

A little later, after waving his hand to Ruth from a distance, he rodeaway, his mind active, joy in his heart. 

"You're a knowin' horse, Patches, " he said confidentially to the pony. "If you are, what do you reckon made her ask so many questions?" Hegulped over a thought that came to him. 

"She was shootin' at the target, Patches, " he mused. "But do you reckonshe was aimin' at me?"

 CHAPTER XVIII

 THE GUNFIGHTER

Red Owen, foreman of the Flying W in place of Tom Chavis, resigned, wasstretched out on his blanket, his head propped up with an arm, looking atthe lazy, licking flames of the campfire. He was whispering to BudTaylor, named by Randerson to do duty as straw boss in place of thedeparted Pickett, and he was referring to a new man of the outfit who hadbeen hired by Randerson about two weeks before because the work seemed torequire the services of another man, and he had been the only applicant. 

The new man was reclining on the other side of the fire, smoking, payingno attention to any of the others around him. He was listening, though, to the talk, with a sort of detached interest, a half smile on his face, as though his interest were that of scornful amusement. 

He was of medium height, slender, dark. He was taciturn to the point ofmonosyllabic conversation, and the perpetual, smiling sneer on his facehad gotten on Red Owen's nerves. 

"Since he's joined the outfit, he's opened his yap about three times aday--usual at grub time, when if a man loosens up at all, he'll loosen upthen, " Red told Taylor, glaring his disapproval. "I've got an idea thatI've seen the cuss somewheres before, but I ain't able to place him. "

"His mug looks like he was soured on the world--especial himself. If Ihad a twistin' upper lip like that, I'd sure plant some whiskers on it. Amustache, now, would hide a lot of the hyena in him. "

Owen stared meditatively at the new man through the flames. "Yes, " hesaid expressionlessly, "a mustache would make him look a whole lotdifferent. " He was straining his mental faculties in an effort toremember a man of his acquaintance who possessed a lower lip like that ofthe man opposite him, eyes with the same expression in them, and a nosethat was similar. He did not succeed, for memory was laggard, or hisimagination was playing him a trick. He had worried over the man's facesince the first time he had seen it. 

He heaved a deep breath now, and looked perplexedly into the flames. "It's like a word that gits onto the end of your tongue when yourbrain-box ain't got sense enough to shuck it out, " he remarked, lowly. "But I'll git it, some time--if I don't go loco frettin' about it. "

"What you figger on gettin'--a new job?" asked Taylor, who had beensinking into a nap. 

"Snakes!" sneered Owen. 

"Thank yu', I don't want 'em, " grinned Taylor with ineffable gentleness, as he again closed his eyes. 

Owen surveyed him with cold scorn. Owen's temper, because of hisinability to make his memory do his bidding, was sadly out of order. Hehad been longing for days to make the new man talk, that he might beenabled to sharpen his memory on the man's words. 

He studied the man again. He had been studying him all day, while he andsome more of the men had worked the cattle out of some timber near thefoothills, to the edge of the basin--where they were now camped. But theface was still elusive. If he could only get the man to talking, to watchthe working of that lower lip!

His glance roved around the fire. Seven men, besides the cook--asleepunder the wagon--and Randerson, were lying around the fire in positionssimilar to his own. Randerson, the one exception, was seated on the edgeof the chuck box, its canvas cover pushed aside, one leg dangling, hiselbow resting on the other. 

Randerson had been rather silent for the past few days--since he hadridden in to the ranchhouse, and he had been silent tonight, gazingthoughtfully at the fire. Owen's gaze finally centered on the range boss. It rested there for a time, and then roved to the face of the newman--Dorgan, he called himself. Owen started, and his chin went forward, his lips straightening. For he saw Dorgan watching Randerson with abitter sneer on his lips, his eyes glittering coldly and balefully!

Evil intent was written largely here--evil intent without apparent reasonfor it. For the man was a stranger here; Randerson had done nothing--toOwen's knowledge--to earn Dorgan's enmity; Randerson did not deliberatelymake enemies. Owen wondered if Dorgan were one of those misguided personswho take offense at a look unknowingly given, or a word, spoken duringmomentary abstraction. 

Owen had disliked Dorgan before; he hated him now. For Owen had formed adeep attachment for Randerson. There was a determination in his mind toacquaint the range boss with his suspicions concerning Dorgan'sexpression, and he got up, after a while, and took a turn around thecampfire in the hope of attracting Randerson's attention. 

Randerson paid no attention to him. But through the corners of his eyes, as he passed Dorgan, Owen noted that the man flashed a quick, speculativeglance at him. But Owen's determination had not lessened. "If he'ssuspicious of me, he's figgerin' on doin' some dog's trick to Wrecks. I'mputtin' Wrecks wise a few, an' if Dorgan don't like it, he c'n go toblazes!"

He walked to the rear of the chuck box and stood within half a dozen feetof Randerson. 

"Figger we've got 'em all out of the timber?" he asked. 

There was no answer from Randerson. He seemed absorbed in contemplationof the fire. 

"W-r-e-c-k-s!" bawled Owen, in a voice that brought every man of thecircle upright, to look wildly around. Taylor was on his feet, his hairbristling, the pallor of mingled fear, astonishment, and disgust on hisface. Owen grinned sardonically at him. "Lay down an' turn over, youwall-eyed gorilla!" admonished Owen. He turned his grin on the others. "Can't a man gas to the boss without all you yaps buttin' in?" hedemanded. 

"What for are you-all a-yowlin' that-a-way for?" questioned agentle-voiced Southerner reproachfully. "I was just a-dreamin' of rakin'in a big pot in a cyard game. An' now you've done busted it up. " He sankdisgustedly to his blanket. 

"He thinks he's a damned coyote, " said a voice. 

"You're thinkin' it's a yowl, " said another. "But you've got him wrong. He's a jackass, come a-courtin'. "

"A man can't get no sleep at all, scarcely, " grumbled another. 

But Owen had accomplished his purpose. For during the exchange ofamenities Randerson had answered him--without turning, though:

"What you wantin', Red?" he said. 

"You figger we've got 'em all out of the timber?" repeated Owen. 

"Shucks. " Randerson's voice was rich with mirth. "Why, I reckon. Unlessyou was figgerin' to use a fine-toothed comb. Why, the boys was alla-nappin', Red, " he added gently. 

He did not look around, so that Owen might give him the warning wink thatwould have put him on his guard. Owen would have tapped him on theshoulder, but glancing sidelong, he saw Dorgan watching him, and he didnot. A ripple of scornful laughter greeted Randerson's reply, and with asneering glance around, Owen again sought his blanket. 

The reception that had been accorded his effort had made him appearridiculous, he knew. It would be days before the outfit would ceasereferring to it. 

He stretched himself out on the blanket, but after a few moments ofreflection, he sat up, doggedly. He had been imagining all sorts of direthings that Dorgan might have in mind. He had a presentiment of impendingtrouble, and so deep was it that his forehead was damp with perspiration. 

Several of the men, disturbed by Owen, had sat up, and were smoking andtalking, and when he heard one of the men, named Blair, refer to agunman, Watt Kelso, who had formerly graced Lazette with his presence, alight leaped into Owen's eyes, his teeth came together with a snap, hislips formed into straight lines, and he drew a slow, deep breath. Forthat was the word that had eluded him--Kelso! And Kelso--how plain andsimple it seemed to him now--Kelso was Dorgan, sitting opposite him now!Kelso minus his mustache, looking much different than when he had seenhim last, but Kelso, just the same--undeniably Kelso!

So great was Owen's excitement over this discovery that he was forced tolie down and turn his back to the fire for fear that Kelso might look athim and thus discover that he was recognized. 

As he lay there, his brain yielded to a riot of speculation. What wasKelso doing here? Why had he come, minus the mustache, assuming the name, Dorgan? What meant his glances at Randerson?

He provided an explanation presently. Memory drew a vivid picture forhim. It showed him a saloon in Lazette, some card tables, with men seatedaround them. Among the men were Kelso and Randerson. Randerson had been amere youth. Kelso and Randerson were seated opposite each other, at thesame table. Kelso had been losing--was in bad temper. He had chargedRanderson with cheating. There had been words, and then Kelso had essayedto draw his pistol. There was a scuffle, a shot, and Kelso had been ledaway with a broken arm, broken by Randerson's bullet--blaspheming, andshouting threats at Randerson. And now, after years of waiting, Kelso hadcome to carry out his threats. It was all plain to Owen, now. And withthe knowledge, Owen's excitement abated and he sat up, coldly observant, alert, to watch and listen. 

For, while Owen had been thinking, Blair had continued to talk of WattKelso, of his deeds and his personality. And Owen saw that for the firsttime since joining the outfit, Kelso seemed interested in the talk aroundhim. He was watching Blair with narrowed, glittering eyes, in which Owencould see suspicion. It was as though he were wondering if Blair knewthat the man of whom he spoke now was at that minute sitting close tohim, listening. But presently, Owen became convinced that Kelso thoughtnot, for the suspicion in the gunman's eyes changed to cold, secretamusement. 

"Kelso's pulled his freight from Lazette, " declared Blair, during thecourse of his talk. "It's likely he'll drift somewhere where he ain't sowell known. It got to be pretty hard pickin' for him around here--folksfight shy of him. But he was sure a killer!"

Blair paused. "I reckon I might mention a man that he didn't kill, " saida man who lay near Blair. "An' he wanted to, mighty bad. "

"We're wantin' to know, " returned Blair. "He must have been a high-gradegun-slinger. "

The man nodded toward Randerson, who apparently was not listening to thisconversation. There was a subdued chuckle from the man, and grunts ofadmiration or skepticism from the others. Owen's gaze was fixed on Kelso;he saw the latter's eyes gleam wickedly. Yes, that was it, Owen saw now;the recollection of his defeat at Randerson's hands still rankled in thegunman's mind. Owen saw him glance covertly at Randerson, observed hislips curl. 

One of the other men saw the glance also. Not having the knowledgepossessed by Owen, the man guffawed loudly, indicating the gunman. 

"Dorgan ain't swallerin' your yarn about Randerson puttin' a kink inKelso, " he said to Blair. 

Randerson turned, a mild grin on his face. "You fellows quit yoursoft-soapin' about that run-in with Kelso, " he said. "There ain't anycompliments due me. I was pretty lucky to get out of that scrape with awhole hide. They told me Kelso's gun got snagged when he was tryin' todraw it. "

So then, Randerson _had_ been listening, despite his apparentabstraction. And Owen sat rigid when he saw the gunman look coldly atRanderson and clear his throat. 

Plainly, if Kelso had been awaiting an opportunity to take issue withRanderson, it was now!

"Yes, " he said, "you was mighty lucky. "

There was a sneer in the words, and malevolence in the twist of his lipsas his voice came through them. 

A flat, dead silence followed the speech. Every man held the position inwhich he had been when the gunman had spoken; nothing but their eyesmoved, and these were directed from Randerson to the gunman and backagain, questioningly, expectantly. For in the hearts of the men who hadbeen talking until now there had been no thought of discord; they hadspoken without rancor. But hostility, cold, premeditated, had been in thenew man's speech. 

Randerson moved his head slightly, and he was looking straight intoKelso's eyes. Kelso had moved a little; he was now sitting on his saddle, having shifted his position when Blair had begun to talk, and the thumbof his right hand was hooked in his cartridge belt just above the holsterof his pistol. 

Randerson's face was expressionless. Only his eyes, squinted a little, with a queer, hard glint in them, revealed any emotion that might haveaffected him over Kelso's words. 

"Yes, Dorgan, " he said gently, "I was mighty lucky. "

Kelso's lips curved into a slow, contemptuous smile. 

"I reckon you've always been lucky, " he said. 

"Meanin'?"

"Meanin' that you've fell into a soft place here, that you ain't fit tofill!"

Again a silence fell, dread, premonitory. It was plain to every man ofthe outfit, awake and listening, that Dorgan had a grievance--whetherreal or imaginary, it made little difference--and that he was determinedto force trouble. Only Owen, apparently, knowing the real state ofaffairs, knew that the reference to Randerson's inefficiency was a merepretext. But that violence, open, deadly, was imminent, foreshadowed byDorgan's word, every man knew, and all sat tense and pale, awaitingRanderson's reply. 

They knew, these men, that it was not Randerson's way to forcetrouble--that he would avoid it if he could do so without dishonor. Butcould he avoid it now? The eyes that watched him saw that he meant totry, for a slow, tolerant smile appeared on his lips. 

"I reckon you're plumb excited--Owen wakin' you up out of your sleep likehe did, " said Randerson. "But, " he added, the smile chilling a little, "Iain't askin' no man to work for me, if he ain't satisfied. You can drawyour time tomorrow, if it don't suit you here. "

"I'm drawin' it now!" sneered the gunman. "I ain't workin' for nopussy-kitten specimen which spends his time gallivantin' around thecountry with a girl, makin' believe he's bossin', when--" Here he addedsomething that made the outfit gasp and stiffen. 

As he neared the conclusion of the speech, his right hand fell to hisgun-holster. Owen had been watching him, and at the beginning of themovement he shouted a warning:

"Look out, Wrecks!"

He had been afraid to tell Randerson that it was Kelso who was facinghim, for fear that the information, bursting upon Randerson quickly, would disconcert him. 

But Randerson had been watching, understanding the drift of the gunman'swords. And when he saw the shoulder of his gun-arm move, his own righthand dropped, surely, swiftly. Kelso's gun had snagged in its holsteryears before. It came freely enough now. But its glitter at his side wasmet by the roar and flame spurt of Randerson's heavy six, the thumb snapon the hammer telling of the lack of a trigger spring, the position ofthe weapon indicating that it had not been drawn from its holster. 

Apparently not a man in the outfit had noticed this odd performance, though they had been held with dumb astonishment over the rapidity withwhich it had been executed. But they saw the red, venomous streak splitthe night; they heard the gunman's gurgling gasp of amazement, and theywatched, with ashen faces, while he dropped his weapon, sagged oddlyforward and tumbled headlong into the sand near the fire. Then several ofthem sprang forward to drag him back. 

It had seemed that none of the men had noticed that Randerson had seemedto shoot his pistol while it was still in the holster. One, however, hadnoticed. It was Red Owen. And while the other men were pulling the gunmanback from the fire, Owen stepped close to Randerson, lifted the holster, and examined it quickly. He dropped it, with a low exclamation ofastonishment. 

"I was wonderin'--Holy smoke! It's a phony holster, fixed on the gun tolook like the real thing! An' swung from the belt by the trigger guard!Lord, man! Did you know?"

"That Dorgan was Kelso?" said Randerson, with a cold smile. "I reckon. Iknowed him the day he asked for a job. An' I knowed what he comefor--figurin' on settlin' that grudge. "

Randerson and Owen started toward the gunman, to determine how badly hehad been hit; they were met by Blair. There was amazement and incredulityin the man's eyes. 

"He's goin' to cash in--quick, " he said. "You got him, pretty nearlyproper--just over the heart. But, but, he says he's Watt Kelso! An' thatthat eastern dude, Masten, sent him over here--payin' him five hundredcold, to perforate you!"

Randerson ran to where Kelso lay, gasping and panting for breath. Heknelt beside him. 

"You talkin' straight, Kelso?" he asked. "Did Masten hire you to put meout of business?"

"Sure, " whispered Kelso. 

"Where's Masten stayin'?"

"With Chavis--in the shack. He's been there right along, except, " hefinished, with a grim attempt at humor, "when he's been rushin' thatbiscuit-shooter in Lazette. "

Five minutes later, standing near one of the wheels of the chuck-wagon, gazing somberly at the men, who were carrying Kelso away, Randerson spokegrimly to Owen, who was standing beside him. 

"Pickett an' then Kelso! Both of them was sure bad enough. But I reckonMasten's got them both roped an' hog-tied for natural meanness. " Heturned to Owen. "I reckon I had to do it, old man, " he said, a quaver inhis voice. 

"Buck up, Wrecks!" Owen slapped him on the shoulder, and turned towardthe men. 

Randerson watched him, but his thoughts were elsewhere. "I reckon she'dhave wanted it different, " he said to himself. 

 CHAPTER XIX

 READY GUN AND CLEAN HEART

Uncle Jepson understood the cow-punchers because he understood humannature, and because he had a strain of the wild in him that had beenretained since his youth. Their simplicity, their directness, had beenhis own; their frankness and generosity, their warm, manly impulses--allreminded him of the days before age, with its accompanying conservatismof thought and action, had placed a governor upon them. They understoodhim, too, recognizing him as their kind. Blair, especially, had taken afancy to him, and therefore it was not many days after the shooting ofKelso that Uncle Jepson got the story, with all its gruesome details, from his lips. 

The tale was related in strictest confidence, and Uncle Jepson did notrepeat it. 

But the main fact, that Randerson had killed another man in his outfit, found its way to Ruth's ears through the medium of a roaming puncher whohad stopped for an hour at the ranchhouse. Ruth had confirmed the newsthrough questioning several Flying W men, and, because of theirreluctance to answer her inquiries, their expressionless faces, shegathered that the shooting had not met with their approval. She did notconsider that they had given her no details, that they spoke no word ofblame or praise. She got nothing but the bare fact--that Randerson's gunhad again wrought havoc. 

She had not seen Masten. A month had slipped by since the day of hisdeparture, when she got a note from him, by messenger, from Lazette, saying that his business was not yet concluded, and that possibly, twoweeks more would elapse before he would be able to visit the Flying W. 

Had Randerson, standing near the chuck wagon on the night of the shootingof Kelso, known what effect the news would have on Ruth? "I reckon shewould have wanted it different, " he had reflected, then. And he had beenentirely correct, for the news had destroyed something that had beengrowing and flourishing in her heart. It had filled her soul withdisappointment, at least; repugnance and loathing were not very far away. She had almost been persuaded, that day when he had taught her how to usethe pistol. The killing of Pickett had grown dim and distant in hermental vision; Randerson had become a compelling figure that dominatedher thoughts. But this second killing! She could no longer interpret thesteady, serene gleam in his eyes as mild confidence and frank directness;as she saw them now they reflected hypocrisy--the cold, designing cunningof the habitual taker of human life. 

She had been very near to making a mistake; she had almost yielded to thelure of the romance that had seemed to surround him; the magneticpersonality of him had attracted her. He attracted her no longer--herheart was shut to him. And, during the days of Masten's continuingabsence--in the times when she reflected on her feelings toward Randersonon the day he had taught her the use of the pistol, she bitterlyreproached herself for her momentary lack of loyalty to the Easterner. She had been weak for an instant--as life is measured--and she would makeit up to Masten--by ceasing to be irritated by his moods, through payingno attention to his faults, which, she now saw, were infinitely lessgrave than those of the man who had impressed her for an instant--and byyielding to his suggestion that she marry him before the fall round-up. 

In these days, too, she seriously thought of discharging Randerson, forhe had not ridden in to report the killing and to offer a defense for it, but she remembered Vickers' words: "Randerson is square, " and shesupposed that all cowboys were alike, and would shoot--to kill--if theyconsidered their provocation to be great enough. 

But these thoughts did not occupy all of her time. She foundopportunities to ride and sew and talk--the latter mostly with AuntMartha and Uncle Jepson. And she kept making her visits to HagarCatherson. 

Of late Ruth had noticed a change in the girl's manner. She seemed tohave lost the vivacity that had swept upon her with the coming of her newclothes; she had grown quiet and thoughtful, and had moods of intenseabstraction. Ruth rode to the cabin one morning, to find her sitting onthe edge of the porch, hugging Nig tightly and whispering to him. Hereyes were moist when Ruth rode up to the porch and looked down at her, but they filled with delight when they rested upon her visitor. 

She did not get up, though, and still held Nig, despite the dog'sattempts to release himself. 

"Have you been crying, Hagar?" Ruth inquired as she dismounted and sat onthe edge of the porch close to the girl. 

Hagar smiled wanly and rubbed her eyes vigorously with the back of herfree hand, meanwhile looking sidelong at Ruth. 

"Why, I reckon not, " she answered hesitatingly, "that is, not cryin'regular. But I was just tellin' Nig, here, that he's the only sure enoughfriend I've got--that can be depended on not to fool anybody. "

"Why, Hagar!" Ruth was astonished and perhaps a little hurt by thispessimistic view. "What an odd idea for you to have! Who has fooled you, Hagar?"

"Nobody, " said the girl almost sullenly. She dug her bare toe into thedeep sand at the edge of the porch and looked down at the miniature hillshe was making, her lips set queerly. Ruth had already noticed that shewas dressed almost as she had been at their first meeting--a slipoverapron that Ruth had given her being the only new garment. It was thelonesomeness, of course, Ruth reflected, and perhaps a vision of thedreary future, prospectless, hopeless, to be filled with the monotony ofthe past. Her arm stole out and was placed on Hagar's shoulder. 

"I haven't fooled you, Hagar, " she said; "have I?"

"No, ma'am. " Her lips quivered. She glanced furtively at Ruth, and a halffrightened, half dreading look came into her eyes. "Nobody's fooled me, "she added with a nervous laugh. "I was just feelin' sorta dumpish, Ireckon. "

"You mustn't brood, you know, " consoled Ruth. "It ruins character. "

"What's character?"

"Why--why, " hesitated Ruth, "the thing that makes you yourself--apartfrom every other person; your reputation; the good that is in you--thegood you feel. "

"I ain't got any, " said the girl, morosely, grimly. 

"Why, Hagar, you have! Everybody has--either good or bad. "

"Mine's bad, I reckon--if I've got any. " She suddenly buried her face onRuth's shoulder and sobbed. 

Perplexed, astonished, almost dismayed, Ruth held her off and tried tolook at her face. But the girl only buried it deeper and continued tocry. 

"Why, Hagar; whatever is the matter?"

There was no answer, and after holding her for a time, Ruth succeeded ingetting a look at her face. It was tear-stained, but dogged inexpression, and had Ruth been experienced in reading the human emotions, she could have seen the guilt in the girl's eyes, lurking far back. Shealso might have seen the determination in them--a determination not totell her secret. And a sorrow, also, was there--aroused through thethought that she had deceived Ruth, and could not tell her. 

Hagar realized now that she had permitted her emotions to carry her toofar, that she had aroused Ruth's curiosity. Ruth must never know! Shemade an effort and sat up, laughing grimly through her tears, shaking herhair back from her eyes, brushing it away fiercely. 

"Dad says there's times when I'm half loco, " she said. "I reckon he'sright. " She recovered her composure rapidly, and in a few minutes therewere no traces of tears or of mental distress. But Ruth was puzzled, andafter she left the cabin she tried in vain to provide an explanation forthe girl's strange conduct. 

On her next visit to the cabin, Ruth was astonished when Hagar asked herbluntly:

"Ain't there no punishment for men who deceive girls?"

"Very little, Hagar, I fear--unless it is God's punishment. "

"Shucks!" The girl's eyes flashed vindictively. "There ought to be. Durn'em, anyway!"

"Hagar, what has brought such a subject into your mind?" said Ruthwonderingly. 

The girl reddened, but met Ruth's eyes determinedly. "I've got a book inhere, that dad got with some other traps from ol' man Cullen's girls, back in Red Rock--they thought we was poorly, an' they helped usthat-a-way. It's 'Millie's Lovers, ' an' it tells how a man deceived agirl, an' run away an' left her--the sneakin' coyote!"

"Girls shouldn't read such books, Hagar. "

"Yes, they ought to. But it ought to tell in 'em how to get even with themen who do things like that!" She frowned as she looked at Ruth. "Whatwould you think of a man that done that in real life?"

"I should think that he wouldn't be much of a man, " said Ruth. 

As before, Ruth departed from this visit, puzzled and wondering. 

On another morning, a few days following Ruth's discovery of the shootingof Kelso, she found Hagar standing on the porch. The dog had apprisedHagar of the coming of her visitor. Hagar's first words were:

"Did you hear? Rex Randerson killed Kelso. "

"I heard about it some days ago, " said Ruth. "It's horrible!"

"What do you reckon is horrible about it?" questioned Hagar, with a queerlook at her friend. 

"Why, " returned Ruth, surprised; "the deed itself! The very thought ofone human being taking the life of another!"

"There's worse things than killin' a man that's tryin' to make youshuffle off, " declared Hagar evenly. "Rex Randerson wouldn't kill nobodyunless they made him do it. An' accordin' to what dad says, Kelso pulledfirst. Rex ain't lettin' nobody perforate _him_, you bet!"

"He is too ready with his pistol. "

The girl caught the repugnance in Ruth's voice. "I thought you kind ofliked Randerson, " she said. 

Ruth blushed. "What made you think that?" she demanded. 

"I've heard that you've gone ridin' with him a lot. I just reckoned it. "

"You are mistaken, Hagar. I do not like Randerson at all. He is my rangeboss--that is all. A murderer could never be a friend to me. "

A shadow came over Hagar's face. "Rex Randerson has got a clean heart, "she said slowly. She stood looking at Ruth, disappointment plain in hereyes. The disappointment was quickly succeeded by suspicion; she caughther breath, and the hands that were under her apron gripped each otherhard. 

"I reckon you'll take up with Masten again, " she said, trying to controlher voice. 

Ruth looked intently at her, but she did not notice the girl's emotionthrough her interest in her words. 

"What do you mean by 'again'?"

"I heard that you'd broke your engagement. "

"Who told you that?" Ruth's voice was sharp, for she thought Randersonperhaps had been talking. 

Hagar blushed crimson and resorted to a lie. "My dad told me. He saidhe'd heard it. "

"Well, it isn't true, " Ruth told her firmly; "I have never broken withMr. Masten. And we are to be married soon. "

She turned, for she was slightly indignant at this evidence that thepeople in the country near her had been meddling with her affairs, andshe did not see the ashen pallor that quickly spread over Hagar's face. Had Ruth been looking she must have suspected the girl's secret. But ittook her some time to mount her pony, and then looking back she waved herhand at Hagar, who was smiling, though with pale and drawn face. 

Hagar stood rigid on the porch until she could no longer see Ruth. Thenshe sank to the edge of the porch, gathered the dog Nig into her arms, and buried her face in his unkempt shoulder. Rocking back and forth in aparoxysm of impotent passion, she spoke to the dog:

"I can't kill him now, Nig, he's goin' to marry _her_! Oh Nig, Nig, whatam I goin' to do now?" And then she looked up scornfully, her eyesflashing. "She won't let Rex be a friend of hers, because he's killed twomen that God had ought to have killed a long while ago! But she'll marryMasten--who ain't fit to be Rex's dog. She won't, Nig! Why--?"

She got up and started for the door. But nearing it, she sank upon thethreshold, crying and moaning, while Nig, perplexed at this conduct onthe part of his mistress, stood off a little and barked loudly at her. 

 CHAPTER XX

 THE BUBBLE--DREAMS

Loping his pony through the golden haze of the afternoon, Randerson cameover the plains toward the Flying W ranchhouse, tingling withanticipation. The still small voice to which he had listened in the daysbefore Ruth's coming had not lied to him; Fate, or whatever power ruledthe destinies of lovers, had made her for him. Man's interference mightdelay the time of possession, his thoughts were of Masten for a briefinstant, and his lips straightened, but in the end there could be noother outcome. 

But though he was as certain of her as he was that the sun would continueto rule the days, he kept his confidence from betraying his thoughts, andwhen at last he rode slowly down along the corral fence, past thebunkhouse and the other buildings, to the edge of the porch, sittingquietly in the saddle and looking down at Ruth, who was sitting in arocker, sewing, his face was grave and his manner that of unconsciousreverence. 

Ruth had been on the porch for more than an hour. And as on the day whenhe had come riding in in obedience to her orders to teach her themysteries of the six-shooter, she watched him today--with anticipation, but with anticipation of a different sort, in which was mingled a littleregret, but burdened largely with an eagerness to show him, unmistakably, that he was not the sort of man that she could look upon seriously. Andso when she saw him ride up to the porch and bring his pony to a halt, she laid her sewing in her lap, folded her hands over it, and watched himwith outward calmness, though with a vague sorrow gripping her. For inspite of what he had done, she still felt the man's strong personality, his virility--the compelling lure of him. She experienced a quick, involuntary tightening of the muscles when she heard his voice--for itintensified the regret in her--low, drawling, gentle:

"I have come in to report to you, ma'am. "

"Very well, " she said calmly. She leaned back in her chair, looking athim, feeling a quick pulse of pity for him, for as she sat there andwaited, saying nothing further, she saw a faint red steal into hischeeks. She knew that he had expected an invitation to join her on theporch; he was entitled to that courtesy because of her treatment of himon the occasion of his previous visit; and that when the invitation didnot come he could not but feel deeply the embarrassment of the situation. 

The faint glow died out of his face, and the lines of his lips grew atrifle more firm. This reception was not the one he had anticipated, butthen there were moods into which people fell. She was subject to moods, too, for he remembered the night she had hurt her ankle--how she had"roasted" him. And his face grew long with an inward mirth. She would askhim to get off his horse, presently, and then he was going to tell her ofhis feelings on that night. 

But she did not invite him to alight. On the contrary, she maintained asilence that was nearly severe. He divined that this mood was to continueand instead of getting off his pony he swung crossways in the saddle. 

"We've got the cattle all out of the hills an' the timber, an' we'reworkin' down the crick toward here, " he told her. "There ain't nothin'unusual happened, except"--and here he paused for a brief instant--"thatI had to shoot a man. It was Watt Kelso, from over Lazette way. I hiredhim two weeks before. "

"I heard of it, " she returned steadily, her voice expressionless. 

"I hated like poison to do it. But I had no choice. He brought it onhimself. "

"Yes, I suppose so, " she said flatly. She looked at him now with thefirst flash of emotion that she had allowed him to see. "If killingpeople is your trade, and you choose to persist in it, I don't see how weare to stop you. "

He looked sharply at her, but his voice was low and even. "I don't shootfolks for the fun of it, ma'am. "

"No?"--with scornful disbelief. "Well, I presume it doesn't make muchdifference. Dead people wouldn't appreciate the joke, anyway. "

His face was serious now, for he could see that she was deeply disturbedover the shooting. 

"I reckon you wouldn't believe me, no matter how hard I talked, " he said. "You'd have your own opinion. It sure does look bad for me--havin' toplug two guys in one season. An' I don't blame you for feelin' like youdo about it. But I've got this to say, " he went on earnestly. "Kelso cometo the outfit, lookin' for trouble. I'd had a run-in with him a few yearsago. An' I shot him--in the arm. I thought it was all over. But alongcomes Kelso, with his mustache shaved off so's I wouldn't know him--whichI did. He asked me for a job, an' I give it to him--hopin'. But hopes--"

"If you knew him, why did you give him a job?" she interrupted. "It mighthave saved you shooting him. "

"If he was wantin' to force trouble he'd have done it sooner or later, ma'am. "

"Well?" she said, interested in spite of herself. 

"He waited two weeks for a chance. I didn't give him any chance. An'then, one night, after Red Owen had been cuttin' up some monkey shines, he talked fresh an' pulled his gun. He was a regular gunfighter, ma'am;he'd been hired to put me out of business. "

There was an appeal in his eyes that did not show in his voice; and itwould be all the appeal that he would make. Looking fixedly at him, shebecame certain of that. 

"Do you know who hired him?"

There was that in her tone which told him that he might now make his casestrong--might even convince her, and thus be restored to that grace fromwhich he, plainly, had fallen. But he was a claimant for her hand, he hadtold her that he would not press that claim until she broke herengagement with Masten, and if he now told her that it had been theEasterner who had hired Kelso to kill him, he would have felt that shewould think he had taken advantage of the situation, selfishly. And hepreferred to take his chance, slender though it seemed to be. 

"He didn't tell me. "

"Then you only suspected it?"

He was silent for an instant. Then: "A man told me he was hired. "

"Who told you?"

"I ain't mentionin', ma'am. " He could not tell her that Blair had toldhim, after he had told Blair not to mention it. 

She smiled with cold incredulity, and he knew his chance had gone. 

But he was not prepared for her next words. In her horror for his deed, she had ceased to respect him; she had ceased to believe him; his earnestprotestations of innocence of wantonness she thought were hypocritical--animpression strengthened by his statement that Kelso had been hired to killhim, and by his inability to show evidence to prove it. A shiver ofrepulsion, for him and his killings, ran over her. 

"I believe you are lying, Randerson, " she said, coldly. 

He started, stiffened, and then stared, at her, his face slowlywhitening. She had said words that, spoken by a man, would have broughtabout another of those killings that horrified her. She watched him, sensing for the first time something of the terrible emotions thatsometimes beset men in tense situations but entirely unconscious of thefact that she had hurt him far more than any bullet could have hurt him. 

Yet, aside from the whiteness of his face, he took the fatal thrustwithout a sign. His dreams, that had seemed to be so real to him whileriding over the plains toward the ranchhouse, had been bubbles that shehad burst with a breath. He saw the wrecks of them go sailing into thedust at his feet. 

He had gazed downward, and he did not look up at once. When he did, hisgaze rested, as though by prearrangement, on her. Her eyes were stillcold, still disbelieving, and he drew himself slowly erect. 

"I reckon you've said enough, ma'am, " he told her quietly, though hisvoice was a trifle hoarse. "A man couldn't help but understand that. " Hewheeled Patches and took off his hat to her. "I'll send Red Owen to seeyou, ma'am, " he added. "I can recommend Red. "

She was on her feet, ready to turn to go into the house, for his mannerof receiving her insult had made her feel infinitely small and mean. Butat his words she halted and looked at him. 

"Why should you send Red Owen to see me? What do you mean?" she demanded. 

"Why, you've made it pretty plain, ma'am, " he answered with a low laugh, turning his head to look back at her. "I reckon you wouldn't expect me togo on workin' for you, after you've got so you don't trust me any more. Red will make you a good range boss. "

He urged Patches on. But she called to him, a strange regret filling her, whitening her cheeks, and Patches came again to a halt. 

"I--I don't want Red Owen for a range boss, " she declared with a gulp. "If you are determined to quit, I--I suppose I cannot prevent it. But youcan stay a week or two, can't you--until I can get somebody I like?"

He smiled gravely. "Why, I reckon I can, ma'am, " he answeredrespectfully. "There won't be no awful hurry about it. I wouldn't want todisconvenience you. "

And then he was off into the deepening haze of the coming evening, ridingtall and rigid, with never a look behind to show her that he cared. 

Standing in the doorway of the house, the girl watched him, both hands ather breast, her eyes wide, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed, until thesomber shadows of twilight came down and swallowed him. Then, oppressedwith a sudden sense of the emptiness of the world, she went into thehouse. 

 CHAPTER XXI

 ONE TOO MANY

To no man in the outfit did Randerson whisper a word concerning theresult of his visit to the ranchhouse--that he would cease to be theFlying W range boss just as soon as Ruth Harkness could find a man toreplace him. He went his way, thoughtful, silent, grave, filled withsomber thoughts and dark passions that sometimes flashed in his eyes, buttaking no man into his confidence. And yet they knew that all was notwell with him. For in other days his dry humor, his love of wholesomefun, had shortened many an hour for them, and his serenity, in ordinarydifficulties, had become a byword to them. And so they knew that thething which was troubling him now was not ordinary. 

They thought they knew what was troubling him. Kelso had been hired totake his life. Kelso had lost his own in the effort. That might haveseemed to end it. But it had become known that Kelso had been a mere toolin the hands of an unscrupulous plotter, and until the plotter had beensent on the way that Kelso had gone there could be no end. Already therewere whispers over the country because of Randerson's delay. 

Of course, they would wait a reasonable time; they would give him his"chance. " But they did not know what was holding him back--that deep inhis heart lurked a hope that one day he might still make his dreams cometrue, and that if he killed Masten, Ruth's abhorrence of him and hisdeeds, already strong, could never be driven from her. If he lost thishope, Masten was doomed. 

And during the second week following his latest talk with Ruth, the girlunconsciously killed it. He met her in the open, miles from theranchhouse, and he rode toward her, deeply repentant, resolved to bravepublic scorn by allowing Masten to live. 

He smiled gravely at her when he came close--she waiting for him, lookingat him, unmoved. For she had determined to show him that she had meantwhat she had said to him. 

"Have you found a new range boss, ma'am?" he said gently. He had hopedthat she might answer lightly, and then he would have known that shewould forgive him, in time. 

But her chin went up and she looked coldly at him. "You will be able toleave the Flying W shortly, Randerson, " she said. "I am going to leavesuch matters for Mr. Masten to look after. "

She urged her pony away and left him, staring somberly after her. 

Two hours later he was riding down the declivity toward Chavis' shack, inthe basin. He had ridden first to the outfit, and had talked with Owen. And his appearance had been such that when he left the foreman the lattersought out Blair. 

"If I don't miss my reckonin', Masten's goin' to get his'n today. "

Randerson rode, straight as Patches could carry him, to the door ofChavis' shack. No one appeared to greet him, but he had seen horses, saddled, hitched to the corral fence, and he knew that some one wasabout. Chavis, Kester, and Hilton were inside the shack, and when theyheard him ride up, they came to the door, curious. And when they saw himthey stiffened and stood rigid, with not a finger moving, for they hadseen men, before, meditating violence, and they saw the signs inRanderson's chilled and narrowed eyes, and in the grim set of his lips. 

His lips moved; his teeth hardly parted to allow the words to comethrough them. They writhed through:

"Where's Masten?"

Three pairs of lungs sighed audibly in process of deflation. 

It was Chavis who answered; the other two looked at him when the questioncame, silently. Chavis would have lied, but the light in Randerson's eyeswarned him not to trifle, and the truth came from his lips:

"Masten's gone to the Flyin' W ranchhouse. "

"I reckon that's all, " said Randerson shortly. "I'm thankin' you. "

He rode away, grinning coldly back at them, still watchful, for he knewChavis, guiding his pony toward the declivity on the other side of thebasin. The three men watched him until the pony had climbed to the mesa. Then Chavis turned to the others. 

"I reckon he's goin' to see Masten about that Kelso deal, " he said. "Somebody ought to put Masten wise. "

Kester grinned. "It's bound to come, " he commented. "Let's finish ourgame; it is your deal. "

On the mesa, Randerson urged Patches along the edge, over the trail thatRuth had taken when, months before, she had come upon Chavis and Kesterat the declivity. 

"Nothin' would have happened, if it hadn't been for Masten, " he toldhimself as he rode away. "Pickett wouldn't have got fresh, an' Kelsowould have kept himself mighty shady. We'd have fought it out, square--mean' Masten. I reckon I didn't kill Pickett and Kelso; it was Masten thatdone it. "

He came, after a while, to the rock upon whick he had found Ruth lying onthe night of the accident. And he sat and looked long at the grass plotwhere he had laid her when she had fainted. 

"She looked like an angel, layin' there, " he reminded himself, his eyeseloquent. "She's too blamed good for that sneakin' dude. "

He came upon the ruined boot, and memories grimmed his lips. "It'sbusted--like my dreams, " he said, surveying it, ripped and rotting. "Ireckon this is as good a place as any, " he added, looking around him. 

And he dismounted, led Patches out of sight behind some high bushes thatgrew far back from the rocks; came back, stretched himself out on thegrass plot, pulled his hat over his eyes and yielded to his gloomythoughts. But after he had lain there a while, he spoke aloud:

"He'll come this way, if he comes at all. "

With the memory of Randerson's threat always before him, "if I ever layeyes on you ag'in, I'll go gunnin' for you, " Masten rode slowly andwatchfully. For he had felt that the words had not been idle ones, and ithad been because of them that he had hired Kelso. And he went toward theranchhouse warily, much relieved when he passed the bunkhouse, to findthat Randerson was apparently absent. He intended to make this one trip, present to Ruth his excuses for staying away, and then go back to Chavis'shack, there to remain out of Randerson's sight, until he could deviseanother plan that, he hoped, would put an end to the cowpuncher who wasforever tormenting him. 

His excuses had been accepted by Ruth, for she was in the mood to restorehim to that spot in her heart that Randerson had come very near tooccupy. She listened to him calmly, and agreed, without consciousemotion, to his proposal that they ride, on the Monday following, toLazette, to marry. She had reopened the subject a little wearily, for nowthat Randerson was hopeless she wanted to have the marriage over with assoon as possible. She saw now, that it had been the vision of Randerson, always prominent in her mind, that had caused her to put off the date ofher marriage to Masten when he had mentioned it before. That vision hadvanished now, and she did not care how soon she became Masten's wife. 

On the porch of the ranchhouse they had reached the agreement, andtriumphantly Masten rode away into the darkness, foreseeing the defeat ofthe man whom he had feared as a possible rival, seeing, too--if he couldnot remove him entirely--his dismissal from the Flying W and his ownascent to power. 

"On Monday, then, " he said softly to Ruth, as ready to leave, he hadlooked down at her from his horse. "I shall come early, remember, for Ihave waited long. "

"Yes, Monday, " she had answered. And then, dully: "I have waited, too. "

Masten was thinking of this exchange of words as he rode past the fordwhere the Lazette trail crossed into the broken country beyond it. He hadnot liked the tone of her voice when she had answered him; she had notseemed enthusiastic enough to suit him. But he did not feel very greatlydisturbed over her manner, for Monday would end it, and then he would doas he pleased. 

He was passing a huge boulder, when from out of the shadow surrounding ita somber figure stepped, the star-shot sky shedding sufficient light forMasten to distinguish its face. He recognized Randerson, and hevoluntarily brought his pony to a halt and stiffened in the saddle, fear, cold and paralyzing, gripping him. He did not speak; he made no soundbeyond a quick gasp as his surprised lungs sought air, and he wasincapable of action. 

Randerson, though, did not make a hostile movement and did not present aforeboding figure. His arms were folded over his chest, and if it had notbeen for Masten's recollection of those grim words, "I'll go gunnin' foryou, " Masten would have felt reasonably secure. But he remembered thewords, and his voice caught in his throat and would not come, when heessayed to bluster and ask Randerson the cause for this strange anddramatic appearance. 

But there was no thought of the dramatic in Randerson's mind as he stoodthere--nothing but cold hatred and determination--nothing except a bitterwish that the man on the pony would reach for his gun and thus make histask easier for him. 

The hoped-for movement did not come, and Randerson spoke shortly:

"Get off your cayuse!"

Masten obeyed silently, his knees shaking under him. Was it to be anotherfist fight? Randerson's voice broke in on this thought:

"I promised to kill you. You're a thing that sneaks around at night onits belly, an' you ought to be killed. But I'm goin' to give you achance--like you give me when you set Kelso on me. That'll let you dielike a man--which you ain't!" He tapped the gun at his right hip. "I'lluse this one. We'll stand close--where we are--to make your chancebetter. When I count three you draw your gun. Show your man now, ifthere's any in you!"

He dropped his hands from his chest and held the right, the fingers bentlike the talons of a bird of prey, about to seize a victim. He waited, his eyes gleaming in the starlight, with cold alertness for Masten'sexpected move toward his gun. But after a long, breathless silence, during which Masten's knees threatened to give way, he leaned forward. 

"Flash it! Quick! Or you go out anyway!"

"I'm unarmed!" Masten's voice would not come before. It burst forth now, hysterically, gaspingly, sounding more like a moan than the cry of a manpleading for his life. 

But it stung the stern-faced man before him to action, rapid and tense. He sprang forward with a low, savage exclamation, drawing one of his bigweapons and jamming its muzzle deep into Masten's stomach. Then, holdingit there, that the Easterner might not trick him, he ran his other handover the frightened man's clothing, and found no weapon. Then he steppedback with a laugh, low, scornful, and bitter. The discovery that Mastenwas not armed seemed to drive his cold rage from him, and when he spokeagain his voice was steely and contemptuous:

"You can hit the breeze, I reckon--I ain't murderin' anybody. You're saferight now. But I'm tellin' you this: I'm lookin' for you, an' you don'trun no blazer in on me no more! After this, you go heeled--or you hit thebreeze out of the country. One of us has got to go. This country is toocrowded with both of us!"

Masten got on his pony, trembling so that he had trouble in getting hisfeet into the stirrups. He rode on, hundreds of yards, before he dared toturn, so great was his dread that to do so would be to bring upon him thewrath of the man who had spared him. But finally he looked around. He sawRanderson riding out into the darkness of the vast stretch of grass-landthat lay to the south. 

 CHAPTER XXII

 INTO WHICH A GIRL'S TROUBLE COMES

Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha had not seen Masten when he had visitedRuth, for they had gone in the buckboard to Red Rock. And Masten haddeparted when they reached home. Nor did they see Ruth after theyarrived, for she had gone to bed. But at the breakfast table Ruth toldthem of the visit of Masten and of her plan to advance the date of themarriage. 

Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha received the news in silence. Aunt Marthadid manage to proffer a half-hearted congratulation, but Uncle Jepsonwrinkled his nose, as he did always when displeased, and said nothing;and he ate lightly. Ruth did not notice that she had spoiled hisappetite, nor did she note with more than casual interest that he leftthe table long before she or Aunt Martha. She did not see him, standingat the corral fence, scowling, and she could not hear the old-fashionedprofanity that gushed from his lips. 

"Aren't you glad?" Ruth asked Aunt Martha when they were alone, for shehad noted her relative's lack of enthusiasm. 

"Why, yes, honey, " Aunt Martha smiled at her, though it seemed forced. "Only--" She hesitated eloquently. 

"Only what, Aunt Martha?" Ruth's voice was a little sharp, as with allpersons who act in opposition to her better judgment and who resentanyone understanding them. 

"Only I was hoping it would be Randerson, my dear, " said Aunt Marthagently. 

"Randerson!" Ruth's voice was scornful. But it sounded insincere to her, and she would trust it no further. 

"Honey!" Aunt Martha's arm was around her, and Aunt Martha's sympatheticand knowing eyes were compelling hers; and her voice was ineffablygentle. "Are you sure, honey, that you don't wish it were Randerson? Itis a great event in your life, dear, and once it is done, it can't beundone. Don't be hasty. "

"It can never be Randerson, " Ruth said firmly--not, however, as firmly asshe had intended. "Randerson is a murderer--a reckless taker of humanlife!"

"He _had_ to shoot, they say, " defended Aunt Martha. "I don't believe hewould harm a living thing except in defense of his own life. Defendingthemselves is their way out here, girl--they know no other way. And he isa man, dear. I don't know when I have met a man who has impressed memore!"

"Please don't talk about it any more. " Ruth's face was pale, her browscontracted, for Aunt Martha's reference to Randerson had brought backhaunting sensations that, she thought, she had succeeded in putting outof her life. She was ready to cry, and when she thought of Randerson--howcalmly he had accepted his dismissal, with what manliness he had borneher insults, a chill of sympathy ran over her. She believed she wouldnever forget him as he had looked on the night he had ridden away aftertelling her that he would leave the Flying W--riding into the darkness ofthe plains, with his hopes blasted, bravely making no complaint. 

She got her pony, after a while, and rode far and long, coming in to theranchhouse about noon. After she had turned the pony into the corral andwas coming toward the house, she saw Uncle Jepson sitting on the porch, puffing furiously at his pipe. She spoke to him in greeting, and wasabout to pass him to go into the house, when he called to her:

"I want to talk to you a minute, Ruth. " He spoke rapidly, his voice dryand light, and she could see his facial muscles twitching. Wonderingly, she sank into a chair near him. 

"You're sure thinkin' of marryin' Masten, girl?" he said. 

"Yes, " she declared firmly. 

"Well, then I've got to tell you, " said Uncle Jepson decisively. "I'vebeen puttin' it off, hopin' that you'd get shet of that imp of Satan, an'I wouldn't have to say anything. "

"Uncle Jep!" she protested indignantly. 

"That's just what he is, Ruth--a durned imp of the devil. I've knowed itfrom the first day I saw him. Since he's come out here, he's proved it. "He swung his chair around and faced her, and forgetting his pipe in hisexcitement, he told her the story he had told Randerson: how he had goneinto the messhouse on the day of the killing of Pickett, for a rest and asmoke, and how, while in there he had overheard Chavis and Pickettplotting against Randerson, planning Pickett's attack on her, mentioningMasten's connection with the scheme. She did not open her lips untilUncle Jepson had concluded, and then she murmured a low "Oh!" and satrigid, gripping the arms of her chair. 

"An' that ain't all, it ain't half of it!" pursued Uncle Jepsonvindictively. "Do you know that Masten set that Watt Kelso, thegunfighter, on Randerson?" He looked at Ruth, saw her start and draw along breath, and he grinned triumphantly. "Course you don't know; Ical'late Randerson would never make a peep about it. He's all man--thatfeller. But it's a fact. Blair told me. There'd been bad blood betweenRanderson an' Kelso, an' Masten took advantage of it. He paid Kelso fivehundred dollars in cold cash to kill Randerson!"

"Oh, it can't be!" moaned the girl, covering her face with her hands andshrinking into her chair. 

"Shucks!" said Uncle Jepson derisively, but more gently now, for he sawthat the girl was badly hurt. "The whole country is talkin' about it, Ruth, an' wonderin' why Randerson don't salivate that durned dude! An'the country expects him to do it, girl! They'll fun him out of here, ifhe don't! Why, girl, " he went on, "you don't know how much of a sneak aman can be when he's got it in him!"

She was shuddering as though he had struck her, and he was on the edge ofhis chair, looking at her pityingly, when Aunt Martha came to the doorand saw them. She was out on the porch instantly, flushing withindignation. 

"Jep Coakley, you're up to your tricks again, ain't you? You quitdevilin' that girl, now, an' go on about your business!"

"I've got some things to say, an' I cal'late to say them!" declared UncleJepson determinedly. "I've kept still about it long enough. I ain'twantin' to hurt her, " he added apologetically, as Aunt Martha slipped toher knees beside Ruth and put an arm around her, "but that durned Mastenhas been doin' some things that she's got to know about, right now. An'then, if she's set on marryin' him, why, I cal'late it's her business. Itwas Masten who was behind Pickett kissin' her--he tellin' Pickett to doit. An' he hired Kelso to kill Randerson. "

"Oh, Ruth!" said Aunt Martha, her voice shaky, as she nestled her headclose to the girl's. But her eyes shone with satisfaction. 

"There's another thing, " went on Uncle Jepson to Ruth. "Did you noticeRanderson's face, the night he come to hunt you, when you hurt yourankle? Marked up, kind of, it was, wasn't it? An' do you know what Mastenwent to Las Vegas for? Business, shucks! He went there to get his facenursed up, Ruth--because Randerson had smashed it for him! They'd had afight; I saw them, both comin' from the same direction, that night. Ireckon Randerson had pretty nigh killed him. What for?" he asked as Ruthturned wide, questioning eyes on him. "Well, I don't rightly know. ButI've got suspicions. I've seen Masten goin' day after day through thatbreak in the canyon over there. A hundred times, I cal'late. An' I'veseen him here, when you wasn't lookin', kissin' that Catherson girl. Ical'late, if you was to ask her, she'd be able to tell you a heap moreabout Masten, Ruth. "

Ruth got up, pale and terribly calm, disengaging herself from Aunt Marthaand standing before Uncle Jepson. He too got to his feet. 

Ruth's voice quavered. "You wouldn't, oh, you couldn't lie to me, Uncle, because you like Rex Randerson? Is it true?" She put her hands on hisshoulders and shook him, excitedly. 

"True? Why, Ruth, girl; it's as true as there's a Supreme Bein' above us. Why----"

But she waited to hear no more, turning from him and putting out herhands to keep Aunt Martha away as she passed her. She went out to thecorral, got her pony, saddled it, mounted, and rode over the plainstoward the break in the canyon wall. Uncle Jepson had one quick glimpseof her eyes as she turned from him, and he knew there would be no Mondayfor Willard Masten. 

Ruth had no feelings as she rode. The news had stunned her. She had onlyone thought--to see Hagar Catherson, to confirm or disprove UncleJepson's story. She could not have told whether the sun was shining, orwhether it was afternoon or morning. But she must see Hagar Catherson atonce, no matter what the time or the difficulties. She came to the breakin the canyon after an age, and rode through it, down across the bed ofthe river, over the narrow bridle path that led to the Catherson cabin. 

The dog Nig did not greet her this time; he was stretched out on hisbelly, his hind legs gathered under him, his forelegs stuck out in front, his long muzzle extending along them, while he watched in apparentanxiety the face of his master, Abe Catherson, who was sitting on theedge of the porch, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, in anattitude of deep dejection. The dog's concern was for Catherson's futureactions, for just a few minutes before he had witnessed a scene that hadmade his hair bristle, had brought ugly growls out of him, had plungedhim into such a state of fury that he had, for one wild instant, meditated a leap at his master's throat. He had seen his master leap uponhis mistress and raise his hand to strike her. If the blow had beenstruck--Nig would have leaped, then, no matter what the consequences. 

Catherson had not struck. But one great, dominating passion was in hismind at this moment--the yearning to slay! The dog had seen him, twiceduring the last half hour, draw out his heavy six-shooter and examine it, and each time the dog had growled his disapproval of the action. And onboth occasions Catherson had muttered thickly: "I wish I knowed, forsure. A man can't do nothin' if he don't know. But I reckon it was him!"

He looked up to see Ruth coming toward him. The girl had seen himtwice--had spoken to him. He was a bearded giant, grizzled, unkempt, withhairy arms, massive and muscled superbly, and great hands, burned brownby the sun, that were just now clenched, forming two big fists. There hadbeen a humorous, tolerant twinkle in his eyes on the other occasions thatRuth had seen him; it was as though he secretly sympathized with herefforts to do something for his girl, though he would not openly approve. But now she saw that his eyes were blazing with an insane frenzy, thathis lips were working, and that the muscles of his neck stood out likegreat cords, strained to the bursting point. 

He got up when he saw Ruth, and stood on the sand at the edge of theporch, swaying back and forth, and Ruth's first thought was that he hadbeen drinking. But his first words to her revealed her mistake. It wasthe light, dry voice of a violent passion that greeted her, a passionthat was almost too great for words. He ran to her pony and seized it bythe bridle:

"You know, ma'am. Tell me who treated my li'l gal like that?" His greathands writhed in the reins. "I'll twist his buzzard's head off hisshoulders. "

"What do you mean?" Ruth's own voice startled her, for the spirit of alie had issued from her mouth; she knew what he meant; she realized thatUncle Jepson had told the truth. 

"Don't you know, ma'am?" There was wild derision in his voice, insanemirth. "You've been comin' here; she's been goin' to your place! An' youdon't know! You're blinder than me--an' I couldn't see at all!" He wentoff into a gale of frenzied laughter, at which the dog began to bark. Then Catherson's eyes glared cunningly. "But you've seen who's beencomin' here; you know the man's name, ma'am; an' you're goin' to tell me, ain't you? So's I c'n talk to him--eh?"

"I don't know, Mr. Catherson. " Ruth got a firm grip on herself before sheanswered, and it was to save a life that she lied again, for she sawmurder in Catherson's eyes. "Where is Hagar?" she asked. 

At his jerk of the head toward the cabin door Ruth got down from herpony. She was trembling all over, but at Catherson's words all thought ofself had been banished. The effect of Masten's deed on her own life, hisduplicity, his crimes--all were forgotten. Here was her friend who hadbeen sinned against, needing the comfort of her presence. And in aninstant she was inside the cabin, leaning over the little figure that wascurled up in a bunk in a corner, speaking low words of cheer andforgiveness. 

Outside, Catherson paced back and forth, his lips forming soundlesswords, his big hands working as though the fingers were at the throat ofthe thief that had stolen into his home. His mind was going over certainwords that Hagar had answered to his questions, just before Ruth'scoming. He dwelt upon every slight circumstance that had occurred duringthe past few months. There were the tracks of horse's hoofs about thecabin, in the paths and trails leading to it. Hagar had refused to tellhim. But he figured it all out for himself, as he walked. When had thisthing started? At about the time that Randerson had taken Vickers' placeat the Flying W! Why had not there been trouble between him and theFlying W, as under previous range bosses? What had Randerson given himmoney for, many times? Ah, he knew now!

"The black-hearted hound!" he gritted. 

He reeled, and held to a corner of the cabin to steady himself, for thislast access of rage came near to paralyzing him. When he recovered hedrew back out of sight, and leaning against the wall of the cabin, with apencil and a small piece of paper taken from a note book in a pocket, hewrote. He laid the piece of paper on the edge of the porch, ran to thecorral and caught his pony, mounted, and rode drunkenly down the narrowpath toward the break in the canyon. 

 CHAPTER XXIII

 BANISHING A SHADOW

Randerson could not adjust his principles to his purpose to do Masten todeath while working for Ruth, and so, in the morning following hismeeting with the Easterner on the trail leading to Chavis' shack, heannounced to the men of the outfit that he was going to quit. He told RedOwen to take charge until Ruth could see him. 

Glum looks followed his announcement. They tried to dissuade him, forthey did not know his thoughts, and perhaps would not have given himcredit for them if they had. 

"Don't the outfit suit you?" asked one gently. "If it don't, we'll try todo better!"

"Your conduct has been amazin' good--considerin', " grinned Randerson, light-hearted for the time; for this mark of affection was not lost uponhim. 

"If there's anybody in the outfit that's disagreeable to you, why, saythe word an' we'll make him look mighty scarce!" declared another, glancing belligerently around him. 

"Shucks, this outfit'll be a blamed funeral!" said Blair. "We'll begettin' to think that we don't grade up, nohow. First Vickers packs hislittle war-bag an' goes hittin' the breeze out; an' now you've got somefool notion that you ought to pull _your_ freight. If it's anythingbotherin' you, why, open your yap, an' we'll sure salivate that thing!"

"I ain't mentionin', " said Randerson. "But it ain't you boys. You'vesuited me mighty well. I'm sure disturbed in my mind over leavin' you. "

"Then why leave at all?" said Owen, his face long. 

But Randerson evaded this direct question. "An' you standin' in line formy job?" he said in pretended astonishment. "Why, I reckon you ought tobe the most tickled because I'm goin'!"

"Well, if it's a go, I reckon we'll have to stand for it, " said Blair alittle later, as Randerson mounted his pony. Their parting words wereshort, but eloquent in the sentiment left unsaid. 

"So long, " Randerson told them as he rode away. And "so long" came thechorus behind him, not a man omitting the courtesy. 

They stood in a group, watching him as he faded into the distance towardthe ranchhouse. 

"Somethin' is botherin' him mighty bad, " said Owen, frowning. 

"He's made the outfit feel like a lost doggie, " grumbled Blair. "Theblamed cuss is grievin' over somethin'. " And they went disconsolately totheir work. 

Randerson rode on his way. He felt a little relieved. No longer was hebound by his job; he was now a free agent and could do as he pleased. Andit would please him to settle his differences with Masten. He would "gogunnin' for him" with a vengeance. 

It was about noon when he rode in to the ranchhouse. He did not turn hispony into the corral, but hitched it to one of the columns of the porch, for he intended to go on to the Diamond H as soon as he could get hisbelongings packed. If his old job was still open (he had heard that itwas) he would take it, or another in case the old one had been filled. Inany event, he would leave the Flying W. 

Dejection was heavy in his heart when he crossed the porch to go to hisroom, for he had liked it here; it had been more like the home of hisideals than any he had yet seen. For his imagination and affection hadbeen at work, and in Aunt Martha he had seen a mother--such a mother ashe could have wished his own to be, had she lived. And Uncle Jepson! Thedirect-talking old gentleman had captivated him; between them wasrespect, understanding, and admiration that could hardly have been deeperbetween father and son. 

But he felt reluctant to tell them of his decision to go, he wanted todelay it--if possible, he did not want to let them know at all, for hecould come here, sometimes, to see them, when Ruth had gone. And so hewas much pleased when, entering the house, he did not see them. But helooked for them, to be certain, going into all the rooms. And finallyfrom a kitchen window he saw them out in the cottonwood back of thehouse, walking arm in arm, away, deeper into the wood. He turned with agentle smile, and went upstairs to his room. 

 * * * * *

Shortly after Abe Catherson's departure from the cabin, Ruth came to thedoor and looked out. Her face was whiter than it had been when she hadreached the cabin, she was more composed, and her eyes were alight withmingled resignation and thankfulness. For Hagar had yielded her secret, and Ruth had realized how near she had come to linking her life with thatof the despicable creature who had preyed on her friend. The son of thisgreat waste of world loomed big in her thoughts as she stood in thedoorway; she saw now that those outward graces which had charmed her, inMasten, had been made to seem mockeries in contrast to the inwardcleanness and manliness of the man that she had condemned for merelydefending himself when attacked. 

She went back into the cabin and sat beside Hagar, a queer sensation ofjoy possessing her, despite her pity for Hagar and her disgust forMasten, for she knew in this instant that she would never allow Randersonto quit the Flying W. Her joy was infectious; it brought a fugitive smileto the face of the nester's daughter, and as Ruth led her out upon theporch, her arms around her, Hagar looked at her worshipfully. 

Out at the edge of the porch, Hagar shot a dreading glance around. Shestarted, and her eyes filled with anxiety as her gaze rested on thecorral. She seized Ruth's arm tightly. 

"Dad's gone!" she said gulpingly. 

"Well, perhaps it is all for the best, Hagar, " consoled Ruth. "He willride for a while, and he will come back to forgive you. "

But the girl's eyes grew wide with fear. "Oh, I'm afraid he'll dosomethin' terrible!" she faltered. "Before you came, he asked me if--ifit had been Randerson. I told him no, but he didn't seem satisfied, an'when I wouldn't tell him who it was, he went out, cursin' Rex. I'mafraid, Ruth--I'm afraid!" She glanced wildly around, and her gaze restedon the piece of paper that Catherson had left on the edge of the porch. In an instant she had pounced upon it. 

"He's gone to kill Randerson!" she screamed shrilly. She did not seem tosee Ruth; the madness of hysterical fear was upon her; her eyes werebrilliant, wide and glaring. She was in her bare feet, but she dartedpast Ruth, disregarding the rocks and miscellaneous litter that stretchedbefore her, reached Ruth's pony and flung herself into the saddle, herlips moving soundlessly as she set the animal's head toward the path. 

"You stay here!" she shouted to Ruth as the Flying W girl, stunned toinaction by the other's manner, watched her. "I'm goin' to ketch dad. Oh, durn him, the mis'able hot head!"

She hit the pony a vicious slap with a bare hand. It lunged, as the reinsloosened, reaching its best speed within a hundred yards, but urged toincreasing effort by voice and hand and heel, the girl leaning far overits mane, riding as she had never ridden before. But up at the Flying Wranchhouse, a tall, grim, bearded giant of a horseman was justdismounting, his pony trembling because of heart-breaking effort. 

 * * * * *

Randerson had not seen Ruth, of course. But he had wondered much over herwhereabouts when he had been looking through the house for Uncle Jepsonand Aunt Martha. And when he had seen them out in the cottonwoods, backof the house, he had supposed her to be with them. He was glad she wasnot here, to make these last moments embarrassing. He would not disturbher. 

He found pencil and paper and wrote his resignation, sitting long overit, but making it brief. It read:

"I'm going, ma'am. I've left Red Owen in charge. I'm wishing you luck. "

"There, that's settled, " he said, rising. "But I was hopin' it would bedifferent. Dreams are silly things--when they don't come true. I'll besoured on girls, hereafter, " he told himself, morosely. 

He packed his war-bag. While engaged in this work he heard the sound ofhoofbeats, but he paid no attention, though he colored uncomfortably, forhe thought he had been wrong in thinking that Ruth had been in thecottonwood grove, and that she had been away and was just returning. Andwhen he heard a soft tread downstairs he was certain that it was she, andhe reddened again. He stopped his work and sat silent, then he caught thesound of footsteps on the stairs, for now he would have to face her. Whenhe saw the door of his room begin to swing slowly back, he got up, hisface grave, ready to deliver his resignation in person. And when the doorswung almost open, and he saw Abe Catherson standing in the opening, hisheavy pistol in hand, cocked, a finger on the trigger, he stiffened, standing silent, looking at the intruder. 

Abe's eyes still wore the frenzy that had been in them when he had beenspeaking with Ruth. If anything, the frenzy was intensified. His legswere trembling, the big finger on the trigger of his weapon wastwitching; his lips, almost hidden by the beard, were writhing. He waslike a man who had been seized by some terrible illness fighting it, resolved to conquer it through sheer effort. His voice stuck in histhroat, issuing spasmodically:

"I've got you, Randerson, " he said, "where--I want you! I'm goin' to killyou, empty my gun in you! You mis'able whelp!" He took two steps into theroom and then halted, tearing at the collar of his shirt with his freehand, as though to aid his laboring lungs to get the air they demanded. 

Randerson's face was white and set, now. He was facing death at the handsof a man whom he had befriended many times. He did not know Catherson'smotive in coming here, but he knew that the slightest insincere word; atone too light or too gruff, the most insignificant hostile movement, would bring about a quick pressure of the trigger of Catherson's pistol. Diplomacy would not answer; it must be a battle of the spirit; nakedcourage alone could save him, could keep that big finger on the triggerfrom movement until he could discover Catherson's motive in coming tokill him. 

He had faced death many times, but never had he faced it at the hands ofa friend, with the strong drag of regard to keep his fingers from his ownweapons. Had Catherson been an enemy, he would have watched him withdifferent feelings; he would have taken a desperate chance of getting oneof his own pistols to work. But he could not kill Catherson, knowingthere was no reason for it. 

He had no difficulty in getting genuine curiosity into his voice, and hekept it to just the pitch necessary to show his surprise over Catherson'sthreat and manner:

"What you reckonin' to kill me for, Abe?"

"For what you done to my Hagar!" The convulsive play of Catherson'sfeatures betrayed his nearness to action. His gun arm stiffened. He spokein great gasps, like a man in delirium. "I want you to know--what for. You come--sneakin'--around--givin' me--money--"

"Steady, there, Abe!"

Randerson's sharp, cold voice acted with the effect of a dash of water inCatherson's face. He started, his big hand trembling, for though he hadcome to kill, he unknowingly wanted to hear some word from Randerson'slips in proof of his innocence. Had Randerson flinched, he would havetaken that as a sign of guilt, as he now took the man's sternness as anindication of his innocence. He stepped forward until he was no more thana foot from Randerson, and searched his face with wild intentness. Andthen, suddenly, the weapon in his hand sank down, his legs wavered, heleaned against the wall while his chin dropped to his chest. 

"You didn't do it, Rex, you couldn't do it!" he muttered hoarsely. "Noman who'd done a thing like that could look back at me like you looked. But I'm goin' to git--" He stopped, for there was a rapid patter of feeton the stairs, and a breathless voice, crying wildly:

"Dad! _Dad! Dad!_"

And while both men stood, their muscles tensed to leap into action inresponse to the voice, Hagar burst into the room, looked at them both;saw Catherson's drawn pistol, and then threw herself upon her father, hidher face on his breast and sobbed: "It wasn't Rex, dad; it was Masten!"

Catherson's excitement was over. The first terrible rage had expendeditself on Randerson, and after a violent start at Hagar's words he grewcold and deliberate. Also, the confession seemed to make his resentmentagainst his child less poignant, for he rested his hand on her head andspoke gently to her:

"It's all right, Hagar--it's all right. Your old dad ain't goin' to holdit ag'in you too hard. We all make mistakes. Why, I was just goin' tomake a mighty whopper myself, by killing Rex, here. You leave this tome. " He pushed her toward Randerson. "You take her back to the shack, Rex. I reckon it won't take me long to do what I'm goin' to do. I'll beback afore dark, mebbe. "

The girl clung to him for an instant. "Dad, " she said. "What _are_ yougoin' to do?"

"If you was a good guesser--" said Catherson coldly. And then he grinnedfelinely at Randerson and went out. They could hear him going down thestairs. They followed presently, Hagar shrinking and shuddering underRanderson's arm on her shoulders, and from the porch they saw Catherson, on his pony, riding the trail that Ruth had taken on the day she had goneto see Chavis' shack. 

Randerson got Hagar into the saddle, recognizing the pony and speakingabout it. When she told him that Ruth was at her cabin, his face lighted. He thought about the written resignation lying in his room, and hesmiled. 

"I come mighty near not havin' to use it, " he said to himself. 

 CHAPTER XXIV

 REALIZING A PASSION

Ruth stood for a long time on the porch after Hagar's departure, grippedby emotions, that had had no duplicates in all her days. Never before hadshe thought herself capable of experiencing such emotions. For the manshe loved was in danger. She knew at this minute that she loved him, thatshe had loved him all along. And she was not able to go to him; she couldnot even learn, until Hagar returned, whether the girl had been in time, or whether he had succumbed to the blind frenzy of the avenger. Theimpotence of her position did much to aggravate her emotions, and theysurged through her, sapping her strength. It was hideous--the dread, theuncertainty, the terrible suspense, the dragging minutes. She walked backand forth on the porch, her hands clenched, her face drawn and white, praying mutely, fervently, passionately, that Hagar might be in time. 

Thinking to divert her mind, she at last went into the cabin and began towalk about, looking at various objects, trying to force herself to takean interest in them. 

She saw, back of a curtain, a number of the dresses and other garmentsshe had given Hagar, and she could not disperse the thought that perhapsif she had not given the clothing to Hagar, Masten might not have beenattracted to her. She drew the curtain over them with something near ashudder, considering herself not entirely blameless. 

She endeavored to interest herself in Catherson's pipe and tobacco, on ashelf near the stove; wondering over the many hours that he had smoked inthis lonesome place, driving away the monotony of the hours. What a blowthis must be to him! She began to understand something of the terribleemotions that must have seized him with the revelation. And _she_ hadbrought Masten here, too! Innocent, she was to blame there! And sheunconsciously did something, as she walked about, that she had neverbefore attempted to do--to put herself into other persons' positions, totry to understand their emotions--the motives that moved them to dothings which she had considered vicious and inhuman. She had forced herimagination to work, and she succeeded in getting partial glimpses of theviewpoints of others, in experiencing flashes of the passions that movedthem. She wondered what she would do were Hagar _her_ daughter, and foran instant she was drunken with the intensity of the passion that grippedher. 

Before her trip around the interior of the cabin was completed, she cameupon a six-shooter--heavy, cumbersome, like the weapon she had used theday Randerson had taught her to shoot. It reposed on a shelf near thedoor that led to the porch, and was almost concealed behind a box inwhich were a number of miscellaneous articles, broken pipes, pieces ofhardware, buckles, a file, a wrench. She examined the weapon. It wasloaded, in excellent condition. She supposed it was left there forHagar's protection. She restored it to its place and continued herinspection. 

She had grown more composed now, for she had had time to reflect. Catherson had not had much of a start; he would not ride so fast asHagar; he did not know where, on the range, he might find Randerson. Hagar was sure to catch him; she _would_ catch him, because of her deepaffection for Randerson. And so, after all, there was nothing to worryabout. 

She was surprised to discover that she could think of Masten without theslightest regret; to find that her contempt for him did not cause her theslightest wonder. Had she always known, subconsciously, that he was ascoundrel? Had that knowledge exerted its influence in making herreluctant to marry him?

Standing at a rear window she looked out at the corral, and beyond it ata dense wood. She had been there for about five minutes, her thoughtsplacid, considering the excitement of the day, when at a stroke a changecame over her. At first a vague disquiet, which rapidly grew into a dreadfear, a conviction, that some danger lurked behind her. 

She was afraid to turn. She did not turn, at once, listening instead forany sound that might confirm her premonition. No sound came. The silencethat reigned in the cabin was every bit as intense as that whichsurrounded it. But the dread grew upon her; a cold chill raced up herspine, spreading to her arms and to her hands, making them cold andclammy; to her head, whitening her face, making her temples throb. Andthen, when it seemed that she must shriek in terror, she turned. In thedoorway, leaning against one of the jambs, regarding her with narrowed, gleaming eyes, a pleased, appraising smile on his face, was Tom Chavis. 

Her first sensation was one of relief. She did not know what she hadexpected to see when she turned; certainly something more dire andterrible than Tom Chavis. But when she thought of his past actions, ofhis cynical, skeptical, and significant looks at her; of his manner atthis minute; and reflected upon the fact that she was alone, she realizedthat chance could have sent nothing more terrible to her. 

He noted her excitement, and his smile broadened. "Scared?" he said. "Oh, don't be. " His attitude toward her became one of easy assurance. Hestepped inside and walked to the rough table that stood near the centerof the room, placing his hands on it and looking at her craftily. 

"Nobody here, " he said, "but you--eh? Where's Catherson? Where's Hagar?"

"They've gone to the Flying W, " she answered, trying to make her voiceeven, but not succeeding. There was a quaver in it. "You must have seenthem, " she added, with a hope that some one at the ranchhouse might haveseen _him_. She would have felt more secure if she had known that someone_had_ seen him. 

"Nothin' doin', " he said, a queer leap in his voice. "I come straightfrom the shack, by the Lazette trail. How does it come that you're here, alone? What did Catherson an' Hagar go to the Flyin' W for? How long willthey be gone?"

"They will be back right away, " she told him, with a devout hope thatthey would. 

"You're lyin', Ruth, " he said familiarly. "You don't know when they'll beback. " He grinned, maliciously. "I reckon I c'n tell you why you're herealone, too. Hagar's took your cayuse. Hagar's is in the corral. You see, "he added triumphantly as he saw the start that she could not repress. "I've been nosin' around a little before I come in. I wasn't figgerin' onrunnin' into Abe Catherson. " He laughed thickly, as though some sort ofpassion surged over him. "So you're all alone here--eh?"

She grew weak at the significance of his words, and leaned against thewindow-sill for support. And then with the realization that she must notseem to quail before him, she stood erect again and forced her voice tosteadiness. 

"Yes, " she said, "I am alone. Is there any need to repeat that? And beingalone, I am in charge, here, and I don't want you here for company. "

He laughed, making no move to withdraw. 

"I'm here on business. "

"You can't have any business with me. Come when the Cathersons are here. "

"The waitin's good, " he grinned. He walked around to the side of thetable, and with one hand resting on its top, looked closely at her, suspicion in his eyes. "Say, " he said in a confidential whisper, "itlooks peculiar to me. Catherson an' Hagar both gone. Hagar's got yourcayuse, leavin' you here alone. Has ol' Catherson tumbled to Masten bein'thick with Hagar?"

"I don't know, " she said, flushing. "It is no affair of mine!"

"It ain't--eh?" he said with a laugh, low and derisive. "You don't carewhat Masten does-eh? An' you're goin' to marry him, Monday. Masten'slucky, " he went on, giving her a look that made her shudder; "he's gottwo girls. An' one of them don't care how much he loves the other. " Helaughed as though the matter were one of high comedy. 

His manner, the half-veiled, vulgar significance of his words and voice, roused her to a cold fury. She took a step toward him and stood rigid, her eyes flashing. 

"You get out of this cabin, Tom Chavis!" she commanded. "Getout--instantly!" No longer was she afraid of him; she was resolute, unflinching. 

But Chavis merely smiled--seemingly in huge enjoyment. And then, while helooked at her, his expression changed to wonder. "Holy smoke!" he said. "Where's Masten's eyes? He said you didn't have any spirit, Ruth, thatyou was too cold an' distant. I reckon Masten don't know how to size up agirl--a girl, that is, which is thoroughbred. Seems as though his kind ismore like Hagar!" He grinned cunningly and reached into a pocket, drawingout a paper. He chuckled over it, reading it. Then, as though she werecertain to appreciate the joke, he held it out to her. "Read it, Ruth, "he invited, "it's from Masten, askin' Hagar to meet him, tomorrow, downthe crick a ways. He's dead scared to come here any more, sinceRanderson's aimin' to perforate him!"

Only one conscious emotion afflicted her at this minute: rage overChavis' inability to understand that she was not of the type of woman whocould discuss such matters with a man. Evidently, in his eyes, all womenwere alike. She knew that such was his opinion when, refusing to take thepaper, she stepped back, coldly, and he looked at her in surprise, asneer following instantly. 

"Don't want to read it--eh? Not interested? Jealous, mebbe--eh?" Hegrinned. "Sure--that's it, you're jealous. " He laughed gleefully. "Youwomen are sure jokes. Masten can't wake you up--eh? Well, mebbe Masten--"He paused and licked his lips. "I reckon I don't blame you, Ruth. Mastenain't the sort of man. He's too cold-blooded, hisself to make a womansort of fan up to him. But there's other guys in this country, Ruth, an'--"

She had seized the first thing that came to her hands, a glass jar thathad set on the window sill behind her, and she hurled it furiously andaccurately. It struck him fairly on the forehead and broke into manypieces, which clattered and rang on the bare board floor. The sound theymade, the smashing, dull impact as the jar had struck Chavis, caused herheart to leap in wild applause--twanging a cord of latent savagery in herthat set her nerves singing to its music. It was the first belligerentact of her life. It awakened in her the knowledge that she could defendherself, that the courage for which she had prayed that night when on therock where Randerson had found her, was lurking deep, ready to answer hersummons. She laughed at Chavis, and when she saw him wipe the blood fromhis face and look at her in bewilderment, she challenged himperemptorily:

"Go--now, you beast!"

His answer was a leering grin that made his face hideous. He looked likea wounded animal, with nothing but concentrated passion in his eyes. Heract had maddened him. 

"I'll fix you, you hussy!" he sneered cursing. 

She saw now that he was aroused past all restraint, and when he cametoward her, crouching, she knew that other missiles would not suffice, that to be absolutely safe she must get possession of the big pistol thatreposed on the shelf near the door. So when he came toward her sheslipped behind the table. He grasped it by its edge and tried to swing itout of the way, and when she held it he suddenly swooped down, seizing itby the legs and overturning it. As it fell he made a lunge at her, butshe eluded him and bounded to the door. The box holding the miscellaneousarticles she knocked out of its place, so that it fell with a tinklingcrash, throwing its contents in all directions. Her fingers closed on thestock of the pistol, and she faced Chavis, who was a few feet away, leveling the big weapon at him. Her voice came firmly; she was surprisedat her own calmness:

"Don't move, Chavis, don't dare to take a step, or I'll kill you!"

Chavis halted, his face a dirty, chalkish white. Twice his lips opened, in astonishment or fear, she could not tell which, but no sound came fromthem. He stood silent, watching her, furtive-eyed, crouching. 

In this interval her thoughts rioted in chaos, like dust before ahurricane. But a question dominated all: could she carry out her threatto kill Chavis, if he took the step?

She knew she would. For in this crisis she had discovered one of nature'sfirst laws. She had never understood, before, but in the last few minutesknowledge had come to her like a burst of light in the darkness. And avoice came to her also--Randerson's; she mentally repeated the words hehad spoken on the day he had told her about the rustlers: "I reckon you'dfight like a tiger, ma'am, if the time ever come when you had to. "

Yes, she would fight. Not as a tiger would fight, but as Randersonhimself had fought--not with a lust to do murder, but in self-protection. And in this instant the spirit of Randerson seemed to stand beside her, applauding her, seeming to whisper words of encouragement to her. And shecaught something of his manner when danger threatened; his colddeliberation, his steadiness of hand and eye, his grim alertness. For shehad unconsciously studied him in the few minutes preceding the death ofPickett, and she was as unconsciously imitating him now. 

Her thoughts ceased, however, when she saw Chavis grin at her, mockingly. 

"It's a bluff!" he said. "You couldn't hit the ground, if you had a-holdof the gun with both hands!" He moved slightly, measuring the distancebetween them. 

Plainly, she saw from his actions, from his tensed muscles, her threatwould not stop him. She was very pale, and her breast heaved as thoughfrom a hard run; Chavis could hear the sound of her breathing as he sethimself for a leap; but her lips were pressed tightly together, her eyesglowed and widened as she followed the man's movements. She was going tokill; she had steeled her mind to that. And when she saw the man'smuscles contract for the rush that he hoped would disconcert her, shefired, coolly and deliberately. 

With the deafening roar of the weapon in her ears, a revulsion, swift, sickening, overcame her. The report reverberated hideously; she seemed tohear a thousand of them. And the smoke billowed around her, strong, pungent. Through it she saw Chavis stagger, clap one hand to his chestand tumble headlong, face down, at her feet. The interior of the cabinwhirled in mad circles; the floor seemed to be rising to meet her, andshe sank to it, the six-shooter striking the bare boards with a thud thatsounded to her like a peal of thunder. And then oblivion, deep andwelcome, descended. 

Coming down through the break in the canyon, riding slightly in advanceof Hagar, Randerson heard the report of a pistol, distant and muffled. Heturned in the saddle and looked at Hagar questioningly. 

"That come from your shack!" he said shortly; "Ruth there alone?"

He caught the girl's quick affirmative, and Patches leaped high in theair from pain and astonishment as the spurs pressed his flanks. When hecame down it was to plunge forward with furious bounds that sent himthrough the water of the river, driving the spume high over his head. Hescrambled up the sloping further bank like a cat, gained the level andstraightened to his work. Twice that day had riders clattered the narrowtrail with remarkable speed, but Patches would have led them. 

He was going his best when within fifty feet of the shack he heardRanderson's voice and slowed down. Even then, so great was his impetus, he slid a dozen feet when he felt the reins, rose to keep from turning asomersault, and came down with a grunt. 

In an instant Randerson was inside the cabin. Ruth lay prone, where shehad fallen. Randerson, pale, grim-lipped, leaned over her. 

"Fainted!" he decided. He stepped to the man and turned him over roughly. 

"Chavis, " he ejaculated, his lips hardening. "Bored a-plenty!" he added, with vindictive satisfaction. He saw Ruth's weapon, noted the gash inChavis' forehead, and smiled. "I reckon she fit like a tiger, all right!"he commented admiringly. And now he stood erect and looked down at Ruthcompassionately. "She's killed him, but she'll die a-mournin' over it!"Swift resolution made his eyes flash. He looked again at Ruth, saw thatshe was still in a state of deep unconsciousness. Running out of thecabin, he drew one of his six-shooters. When he had gone abouttwenty-five feet from the edge of the porch, he wheeled, threw the gun toa quick level, and aimed at the interior of the cabin. At the report heran toward the cabin again, to meet Hagar, just riding up, wide-eyed andwondering. 

"What is goin' on?" she demanded. "What you doin'?"

"Killin' a man, " he told her grimly. He seized her by the shoulders. "Understand, " he said sternly; "_I_ killed him, no matter what happens. I'd just got here. "

With Hagar at his heels he entered the cabin again. While the girl workedwith Ruth, he went to the rear wall of the cabin and examined it. Whenshooting from the outside he had aimed at the wall near a small mirrorthat was affixed there, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction when, embedded in one of the logs that formed the wall, he found the bullet. 

Five minutes later he and Hagar led Ruth out on the porch. The girl wasshaking and cringing, but trying hard to bear up under the recollectionof her terrible experience. She had looked, once, at Chavis, on the floorof the cabin, when she had recovered, and her knees had sagged. ButRanderson had gone to her assistance. She had looked at him, too, in muteagony of spirit, filled with a dull wonder over his presence, but gainingnothing from his face, sternly sympathetic. Outside, in the brilliantsunshine, a sense of time, place, and events came back to her, and forthe first time since her recovery she thought of Abe Catherson's note, which Hagar had read. 

"Oh, " she said, looking at Randerson with luminous eyes, joy flashing inthem, "he didn't shoot you!"

"I reckon not, ma'am, " he grinned. "I'm still able to keep on rangebossin' for the Flyin' W. "

"Yes, yes!" she affirmed with a gulp of delight. And she leaned her heada little toward him, so that it almost touched his arm. And he noted, with a pulse of pleasure, that the grip of her hand on the arm tightened. 

But her joy was brief; she had only put the tragedy out of her mind foran instant. It returned, and her lips quavered. 

"I killed Chavis, Randerson, " she said, looking up at him with a pitifulsmile. "I have learned what it means to--to take--human life. I killedhim, Rex! I shot him down just as he was about to spring upon me! But Ihad to do it--didn't I?" she pleaded. "I--I couldn't help it. I kept himoff as long as I could--and nobody came--and he looked so terrible--"

"I reckon you've got things mixed, ma'am. " Randerson met her puzzled lookat him with a grave smile. "It was me, ma'am, killed him. "

She drew a sharp breath, her cheeks suddenly flooded with color; sheshook Hagar's arm from around her waist, seized Randerson's shoulders, gripping the sleeves of his shirt hard and staring at him, searching hiseyes with eager, anxious intensity. 

"Don't lie to me, Randerson, " she pleaded. "Oh, " she went on, reddeningas she thought of another occasion when she had accused him, "I know youwouldn't--I know you _never_ did! But I killed him; I know I did! For Ishot him, Randerson, just as he started to leap at me. And I shall neverforget the look of awful surprise and horror in his eyes! I shall neverget over it--I will never forgive myself!"

"Shucks, ma'am, you're plumb excited. An' I reckon you was more excitedthen, or you'd know better than to say you did it. Me an' Hagar was justgettin' off our horses here at the door--after comin' from the Flyin' W. An' I saw Tom Chavis in the cabin. He was facin' the door, ma'am, " hesaid at a venture, and his eyes gleamed when he saw her start, "an' I sawwhat he was up to. An' I perforated him, ma'am. From outside, here. Yourgun went off at the same time. But you ain't learned to shoot extra goodyet, an' your bullet didn't hit him. I'll show you where it's stuck, inthe wall. "

He led her inside and showed her the bullet. And for a short space sheleaned her head against the wall and cried softly. And then, her eyesfilled with dread and doubt, she looked up at him. 

"Are you sure that is my bullet?" she asked, slowly. She held her breathwhile awaiting his answer. 

It was accompanied by a short laugh, rich in grave humor:

"I reckon you wouldn't compare your shootin' with _mine_, ma'am. Mehavin' so much experience, an' you not bein' able to hit a soap-boxproper?"

She bowed her head and murmured a fervent:

"Thank God!"

Randerson caught Hagar's gaze and looked significantly from Ruth to thedoor. The girl accepted the hint, and coaxed Ruth to accompany her to thedoor and thence across the porch to the clearing. Randerson watched themuntil, still walking, they vanished among the trees. Then he took Chavis'body out. Later, when Ruth and Hagar returned, he was sitting on the edgeof the porch, smoking a cigarette. 

To Ruth's insistence that Hagar come with her to the house, the girlshook her head firmly. 

"Dad will be back, most any time. He'll feel a heap bad, I reckon. An'I've got to be here. "

A little later, riding back toward the Flying W--when they had reachedthe timber-fringed level where, on another day, Masten had received histhrashing, Ruth halted her pony and faced her escort. 

"Randerson, " she said, "today Uncle Jepson told me some things that Inever knew--about Masten's plots against you. I don't blame you forkilling those men. And I am sorry that I--I spoke to you as I did--thatday. " She held out a hand to him. 

He took it, smiling gravely. "Why, I reckoned you never meant it, " hesaid. 

"And, " she added, blushing deeply; "you are not going to make itnecessary for me to find another range boss, are you?"

"I'd feel mighty bad if you was to ask me to quit now, " he grinned. Andnow he looked at her fairly, holding her gaze, his eyes glowing. "But asfor bein' range boss--" He paused, and a subtle gleam joined the glow inhis eyes. "There's a better job--that I'm goin' to ask you for--some day. Don't you think that I ought to be promoted, ma'am?"

She wheeled her pony, blushing, and began to ride toward the ranchhouse. But he urged Patches beside her, and, reaching out, he captured the handnearest him. And in this manner they rode on--he holding the hand, athrilling exultation in his heart, she with averted head and downcasteyes, filled with a deep wonder over the new sensation that had come toher. 

Uncle Jepson, in the doorway of the house, eagerly watching for thegirl's return, saw them coming. Stealthily he closed the door and slippedout into the kitchen, where Aunt Martha was at work. 

"Women is mighty uncertain critters, ain't they, Ma?" he said, shakinghis head as though puzzled over a feminine trait that had, heretofore, escaped his notice. "I cal'late they never know what they're goin' to donext. "

Aunt Martha looked at him over the rims of her spectacles, wonderment inher gaze--perhaps a little belligerence. 

"Jep Coakley, " she said severely, "you're always runnin' down the women!What on earth do you live with one for? What are the women doin' now, that you are botherin' so much about?"

He gravely took her by the arm and pointed out of a window, from whichRuth and Randerson could be seen. 

Aunt Martha looked, long and intently. And when she finally turned toUncle Jepson, her face was radiant, and she opened her arms to him. 

"Oh, Jep!" she exclaimed lowly, "ain't that wonderful!"

"I cal'late I've been expectin' it, " he observed. 

 CHAPTER XXV

 A MAN IS BORN AGAIN

The meeting between Catherson and Randerson had taken the edge offCatherson's frenzy, but it had not shaken his determination. He had beenin the grip of an insane wrath when he had gone to see the Flying W rangeboss. His passions had ruled him, momentarily. He had subdued them, checked them; they were held in the clutch of his will as he rode theLazette trail. He did not travel fast, but carefully. There was somethingin the pony's gait that suggested the mood of his rider--a certaindoggedness of movement and demeanor which might have meant that theanimal knew his rider's thoughts and was in sympathy with them. Theytraveled the trail that Randerson had taken on the night he had foundRuth on the rock; they negotiated the plain that spread between theranchhouse and the ford where Randerson had just missed meeting Ruth thatday; they went steadily over the hilly country and passed through thesection of broken land where Ruth's pony had thrown her. Reaching thehills and ridges beyond, Catherson halted and scrutinized the countryaround him. When he observed that there was no sign of life within rangeof his vision, he spoke to the pony and they went forward. 

Catherson's lips were set in a heavy, ugly pout. His shaggy brows werecontracted; somber, baleful flashes, that betrayed something of thosepassions that he was subduing, showed in his eyes as the pony skirted thetimber where Randerson had tied Ruth's horse. When he reached thedeclivity where Ruth had overheard Chavis and Kester, he dismounted andled his pony down it, using the utmost care. He was conserving the pony'sstrength. For he knew nothing of what might be required of the animal, and this thing which he had determined to do must not be bungled. 

He was still in no hurry, but he grew cautious now, and secretive. Hemade a wide circuit of the basin, keeping out of sight as much aspossible, behind some nondescript brush, riding in depressions; going amile out of his way to follow the sandy bed of a washout. His objectivewas Chavis' shack, and he wanted to come upon it unnoticed. Or, if thatfailed, he desired to make his visit appear casual. 

 * * * * *

But in Chavis' shack was a man who of late had formed the habit offurtive watchfulness. He wore a heavy six-shooter at his waist, but heknew better than to try to place any dependence upon his ability as amarksman. A certain meeting with a grim-faced man on the Lazette trailthe night before, a vivid recollection of the grim-faced man's uncannycleverness with a weapon, demonstrated upon two occasions, worried him, as did also some words that kept running through his mind, asleep orawake, and would not be banished. He could even hear the intonations ofthe voice that had uttered them: "This country is too crowded for both ofus. "

Masten was beginning to believe that. He had thought that very morning, of leaving, of escaping, rather. But Chavis had reassured him, hadridiculed him, in fact. 

"Randerson's four-flushin', " Chavis had laughed. "He's took a shine toRuth, an' he's aimin' to scare you out. He'd sooner shoot a foot off thanbore you. 'Cause why? 'Cause if he bored you he'd never have no chance toget next to Ruth. She's some opposed to him killin' folks promiscuous. You lay low, that's all. An' I'll rustle up a guy one of these days whichwill put a crimp in Randerson. If he comes snoopin' around here, why, there's a rifle handy. Let him have it, sudden--before he can git set!"

Since he had sent Chavis with the note to Hagar, Masten had been uneasy. He had not stayed inside the shack for more than a minute or two at atime, standing much in the doorway, scanning the basin and the declivitycarefully and fearfully. And he had seen Catherson lead his pony down. Hewent in and took the rifle from its pegs. 

He had had a hope, at first, that it might be Kester or Linton. But whenhe saw that the rider did not come directly toward the shack a cold sweatbroke out on his forehead and he fingered the rifle nervously. When hesaw the rider disappear in the washout, he got a chair from inside and, standing on it, concentrated his gaze at the point where the rider mustemerge. And when, a little later, he caught a glimpse of the rider'shead, appearing for just an instant above the crest of a sand ridge, noting the beard and the shaggy hair, his face turned ashen and the chairrocked under him. For he knew but one man in this country who looked likethat. 

He got down from the chair and glared around, his eyes dilated. Catherson's actions seemed innocent enough. But what could he be doing inthe basin? And, once here, what could he mean by prowling like that, instead of coming directly to the cabin? What could he be looking for?Why did he not show himself?

Masten slipped outside and crept along the wall of the shack to a corner, from which, screened by some alder, he watched breathlessly, a namelessdisquiet oppressing him. Did Catherson know anything?

That question his conscience dinned in his ears. It was answered manytimes, as he stood there--an insistent affirmative, suggested, proven byCatherson's actions, supported by the fact that he had never seenCatherson in the basin before. 

As he watched, he saw Catherson again. He was closer, riding behind athicket of gnarled brush, which was not high enough entirely to concealhim, and he was bending far over in the saddle as though he did not wantto be seen. But Masten could see him, and this last evidence of the man'scaution convinced Masten. Obeying a sudden impulse, he threw the rifle tohis shoulder. The muzzle wavered, describing wide circles, and before hecould steady it enough to be reasonably certain of hitting the target, Catherson had vanished behind a low hill. 

Masten wiped the cold moisture from his forehead. For an instant he stoodirresolute, trembling. And then, panic-stricken over a picture that hisimagination drew for him, he dropped the rifle and ran, crouching, to thecorral. With frenzied haste, urged by the horrible conviction that hadseized him, he threw saddle and bridle on his pony, and clambered, mumbling incoherently, into the saddle. Twice the reins escaped his wildclutches, but finally he caught them and sat erect looking fearfully forCatherson. 

The nester was not visible to him. Gulping hard, Masten sent the ponycautiously forward. He skirted the corral fence, keeping the shackbetween him and the point at which he divined Catherson was then riding, and loped the pony into some sparse timber near the river. 

His panic had grown. He had yielded to it, and it had mastered him. Hislips were twitching; he cringed and shivered as, getting deeper into thetimber, he drove the spurs into the pony's flanks and raced it away fromthe shack. 

He rode for perhaps a mile at break-neck speed. And then, unable to fightoff the fascination that gripped him, doubting, almost ridiculing himselffor yielding to the wild impulse to get away from Catherson, for now thathe was away his action seemed senseless, he halted the pony and turned inthe saddle, peering back through the trees. He had followed a narrowtrail, and its arching green stretched behind him, peaceful, inviting, silent. So calm did it all seem to him now, so distant from that dreaddanger he had anticipated, that he smiled and sat debating an impulse toreturn and face Catherson. The man's intentions could not be what he hadsuspected them to be; clearly, his conscience had played him a trick. 

But he did not wheel his pony. For as he sat there in the silence heheard the rapid drumming of hoofs on the path. Distant they were, butunmistakable. For a moment Masten listened to them, the cold dampbreaking out on his forehead again. Then he cursed, drove the spurs deepinto the pony and leaning forward, rode frantically away. 

Coming out of the timber to a sand plain that stretched in seemingendlessness toward a horizon that was dimming in the growing twilight, Masten halted the pony again, but only for an instant. In the next he wasurging it on furiously. For looking back fearfully, he saw Cathersonbestriding his pony, a dread apparition, big, rigid, grim, just breakingthrough the timber edge, not more than two or three hundred feet distant. Masten had hoped he had distanced his pursuer, for he had ridden at leastfive miles at a pace that he had never before attempted. There had beenno way for him to judge the pony's speed, of course, but when he hadhalted momentarily he had noted that the animal was quivering all over, that it caught its breath shrilly in the brief interval of rest, and nowas he rode, bending far over its mane, he saw that the billowing foam onits muzzle was flecked with blood. The animal was not equal to thedemands he had made upon it. 

But he forced it on, with spur and voice and hand, muttering, pleadingwith it incoherently, his own breath coughing in his throat, the musclesof his back cringing and rippling in momentary expectation of a flyingmissile that would burn and tear its way through them. But no bulletcame. There was no sound behind him except, occasionally, the ring ofhoofs. At other times silence engulfed him. For in the deep sand of thelevel the laboring ponies of pursued and pursuer made no noise. Mastencould hear a sodden squish at times, as his own animal whipped its hoofsout of a miniature sand hill. 

[Illustration: The grim, relentless figure behind him grewgrotesque and gigantic in his thoughts]

He did not look around again for a long time. Long ago had he lost allsense of direction, for twilight had come and gone, and blank darkness, except for the stars, stretched on all sides. He had never seen this sandlevel; he knew it must be far off the Lazette trail. And he knew, too, before he had ridden far into it, that it was a desert. For as twilighthad come on he had scrutinized it hopefully in search of timber, bushes, a gorge, a gully--anything that might afford him an opportunity forconcealment, for escape from the big, grim pursuer. He had seen nothingof that character. Barren, level, vast, this waste of world stretchedbefore him, with no verdure save the repulsive cactus, the scraggy yucca, the grease-wood, and occasional splotches of mesquite. 

They raced on, the distance between them lessening gradually. Mastencould feel his pony failing. It tried bravely, but the times when itspurted grew less frequent; it made increasingly harder work of pullingits hoofs out of the deep sand; it staggered and lurched on the hardstretches. 

Masten looked back frequently now. The grim, relentless figure behind himgrew grotesque and gigantic in his thoughts, and once, when he felt thepony beneath him go to its knees, he screamed hysterically. But the ponyclambered to its feet again and staggered on, to fall again a minutelater. Catherson's pony, its strength conserved for this ordeal, came onsteadily, its rider carefully avoiding the soft sand, profiting byMasten's experiences with it. It was not until he saw Catherson withinfifty feet of him that Masten divined that he was not to be shot. For atthat distance he made a fair target, and Catherson made no movementtoward his gun. The nester was still silent; he had spoken no word. Hespoke none now, as he hung relentlessly to his prey, seeming, to Masten'sdistorted mind and vision, a hideous, unnatural and ghastly figure ofdeath. 

Catherson had drawn nearer. He was not more than thirty feet away whenMasten's pony went down again. It fell with a looseness and finality thattold Masten of the end. And Masten slipped his feet out of the stirrups, throwing himself free and alighting on his hands and knees in front ofthe exhausted animal. He got up, and started to run, desperately, sobbing, his lips slavering from terror. But he turned, after running afew feet, to see Catherson coming after him. The nester was uncoiling arope from his saddle horn, and at this sight Masten shrieked and went tohis knees. He heard an answering laugh from Catherson, short, malevolent. And then the rope swished out, its loop widening and writhing. Mastenshrieked again, and threw up his hands impotently. 

 * * * * *

Later, Catherson brought his pony to a halt, far from where the rope hadbeen cast, and looked grimly down at his fellow being, prone andmotionless in the deep sand at his feet. 

Unmoved, remorseless, Catherson had cut short the pleadings, thescreaming, the promises. He had not bungled his work, and it had beendone. But as he looked down now, the muscles of his face quivered. Andnow he spoke the first word that had passed his lips since he had leftthe Flying W ranchhouse:

"I reckon you've got what's been comin' to you!"

He got down, unfastened the rope, deliberately re-coiled it and looped itaround the saddle horn. Then he mounted and rode away. Grim, indistinct, fading into the blackness of the desert night, he went, half a mile, perhaps. And then, halting the pony, he turned in the saddle and lookedback, his head bent in a listening attitude. To his ears came the sharpbark of a coyote, very near. It was answered, faintly, from the vast, yawning distance, by another. Catherson stiffened, and lines of remorsecame into his face. 

"Hell!" he exclaimed gruffly. 

He wheeled the pony and sent it scampering back. A little later he waskneeling at Masten's side, and still later he helped Masten to the saddlein front of him and set out again into the desert blackness toward thetimber from which they both had burst some time before. 

Many hours afterward they came to the river, at the point where theLazette trail intersected. There, in the shallow water of the ford, Masten washed from his body the signs of his experience, Cathersonhelping him. Outwardly, when they had finished, there were few marks onMasten. But inwardly his experience had left an ineffaceable impression. 

After washing, he staggered to a rock and sat on it, his head in hishands, shivers running over him. For a time Catherson paid no attentionto him, busying himself with his pony, jaded from the night's work. Butafter half an hour, just as the first faint shafts of dawn began to stealup over the horizon, Catherson walked close, and stood looking down athis victim. 

"Well, " he said, slowly and passionlessly, "I've got you this far. I'mquittin' you. I reckon I've deviled you enough. I was goin' to kill you. But killin' you wouldn't have made things right. I expect you've learnedsomethin', anyway. You'll know enough to play square, after this. An'wherever you go--"

Masten looked up at him, his face haggard, his eyes brimming, butflashing earnestly. 

"I'm going back to Hagar, " he said. He shivered again. "You're right, Catherson, " he added, his voice quavering; "I learned a lot tonight. I'velearned--" His voice broke, and he sat there grim and white, shudderingas a child shudders when awakened from a nightmare. He almost collapsedwhen Catherson's huge hands fell to his shoulders, but the hands heldhim, the fingers gripping deeply into the flesh. There was a leap inCatherson's voice:

"You're almost a man, after all!" he said. 

They got on the pony after a while, riding as before, Masten in front, Catherson behind him, steadying him. And in this manner they rode ontoward Catherson's shack, miles down the river. 

It was late in the morning when they came in sight of the shack, andseeing them from afar Hagar ran to them. She stopped when she saw Masten, her eyes wide with wonder and astonishment that changed quickly to joy asshe saw a smile gathering on Catherson's face. 

"I've brought you your husband, Hagar, " he told her. 

Hagar did not move. Her hands were pressing her breast; her eyes wereeloquent with doubt and hope. They sought Masten's, searchingly, defiantly. And she spoke directly to him, proudly, her head erect:

"If you've come ag'in your will--If dad had to bring you--" She paused, her lips trembling. 

"Shucks, " said Catherson gently; "he's come on his own hook, Hagar. Why, he asked me to bring him--didn't you, Masten?"

And then he dismounted and helped Masten down, leading his pony forwardtoward the shack, but turning when he reached the porch, to look back atMasten and Hagar, standing together in the shade of the trees, the girl'shead resting on the man's shoulder. 

Catherson pulled the saddle and bridle from the pony, turned him into thecorral, and then went into the house. A little later he came out again, smoking a pipe. Masten and Hagar were sitting close together on a fallentree near where he had left them. Catherson smiled mildly at them andpeacefully pulled at his pipe. 

 CHAPTER XXVI

 A DREAM COMES TRUE

On the edge of the mesa, from which, on the day of her adventure with theinjured ankle, Ruth had viewed the beautiful virgin wilderness thatstretched far on the opposite side of the river, she was riding, theafternoon of a day a week later, with Randerson. She had expressed a wishto come here, and Randerson had agreed joyfully. 

Seated on a rock in the shade of some trees that formed the edge of thattimber grove in which he had tied Ruth's pony on a night that held manymemories for both, they had watched, for a long time, in silence, thevast country before them. Something of the solemn calmness of the scenewas reflected in Ruth's eyes. But there was a different expression inRanderson's eyes. It was as though he possessed a secret which, he felt, she ought to know, but was deliberately delaying the telling of it. Butat last he decided, though he began obliquely:

"I reckon there's a set plan for the way things turn out--for folks, " hesaid, gravely. "Things turn out to show it. Everything is fixed. " Hesmiled as she looked at him. "Take me, " he went on. "I saw your picture. If I'd only seen it once, mebbe I wouldn't have fell in love with it. But--"

"Why, Rex!" she reproved with an injured air, "how can you say that? Why, I believe I loved you from the minute I saw you!"

"You didn't have anything on me there!" he told her. "For I was a gonecoon the first time I set eyes on _you!_ But is it the same withpictures? A picture, now, has to be studied; it ain't like the realarticle, " he apologized. "Anyway, if I hadn't kept lookin' at yourpicture, mebbe things would have been different. But I got it, an' Ilooked at it a lot. That shows that it was all fixed for you an' me. "

She looked mirthfully at him. "Was it all fixed for you to take thepicture from Vickers, by force--as you told me you did?" she demanded. 

He grinned brazenly. "I reckon that was part of the plan, " he contended. "Anyway, I got it. Vickers wouldn't speak to me for a month, but I reckonI didn't lose any sleep over that. What sleep I lost was lost lookin' atthe picture. " The confession did not embarrass him, for he continuedquietly:

"An' there's Masten. " He watched the smile go out of her face with regretin his eyes. But he went on. "I intended to kill him, one night. But hehad no gun, an' I couldn't. That would have spoiled the plan that's fixedfor all of us. I let him live, an' the plan works out. " He took hold ofthe hand nearest him and pressed it tightly. 

"Have you seen Hagar since?" he asked. 

"No, " she told him, looking quickly at him, for she caught an odd note inhis voice. "I just couldn't bear to think of going back there. "

"Well, " he said, "Hagar's happy. I was over there this mornin'. Masten'sthere. " He felt her hand grip his suddenly, and he smiled. He had talkedwith Catherson; the nester had told him the story, but it had been agreedbetween them the real story was not to be told. "They're married--Hagaran' Masten. Masten come to Catherson's shack the day after I--after Ibrought you home from there. An' they rode over to Lazette an' got hookedup. An' Catherson had been lookin' for Masten, figurin' to kill him. Ireckon it was planned for Masten to have a change of heart. Or mebbe itwas gettin' married changed him. For he's a lot different, since. He'squiet, an' a heap considerate of other folks' feelin's. He's got somemoney, an' he's goin' to help Abe to fix up his place. He asked mypardon, for settin' Pickett an' Kelso on me. I shook his hand, Ruth, an'wished him luck an' happiness. Don't you wish him the same, Ruth--both ofthem?"

"Yes, " she said earnestly; "I do!" And now she was looking at him withluminous eyes. "But it was very manly of you to forgive him so fully!"

"I reckon it wasn't so awful manly, " he returned, blushing. "There wasn'tnothin' else to do, I expect. Would you have me hold a grudge againsthim? An' spoil everything--nature's plan included? It was to happen thatway, an' I ain't interferin'. Why, I reckon if I wasn't to forgive him, there'd be another plan spoiled--yours an' mine. An' I'm sure helpin' towork that out. I've thought of the first of the month, " he said, lookingat her, expectantly, and speaking lowly. "The justice of the peace willbe back in Lazette then. "

"So you've been inquiring?" she said, her face suffused with color. 

"Why, sure! Somebody's got to do it. It's my job. "

A little later they mounted their ponies and rode along the edge of thetimber. When they reached the tree to which he had tied her pony on thenight she had hurt her ankle, he called her attention to it. 

"That's where I lost the bandanna, " he told her. "It fell off my neck an'got tangled in the knot. "

"Then you know!" she exclaimed. 

"Sure, " he said, grinning; "Uncle Jepson told me. "

"I think Uncle Jep has been your right hand man all through this, " shecharged. 

"Why shouldn't he be?" he retorted. And she could give him no reason whyit should have been otherwise. 

"It was a rather mean trick to play on me, " she charged pretendingindignation. 

"If you'd have thought it mean, you'd have told me about it before now, "he answered. "Patches was reliable. "

"Kester an' Linton have sloped, " he told her as they rode away from thetrees. "This climate was gettin' unhealthy for them. "

"What makes folks act so foolish?" he questioned, later. "There ain't noway to escape what's got to be. Why can't folks take their medicinewithout makin' faces?"

She knew he referred to Masten, Chavis and Pickett, and she knew thatthis would be all the reference Randerson would ever make to them. But noanswer formed in her mind and she kept silent. 

When they came to the rock upon which he had found her, he halted andregarded it gravely. 

"You had me scared that night, " he said. "Patches had most run his headoff. I was mighty relieved to see you. "

"I treated you miserably that night, " she confessed. 

"Did you hear me complainin'?" he asked with a gentle smile at her. "Iexpect, some day, when we're together more, an' you get to lovin' me lessthan you do now, you'll get peevish ag'in. Married folks always do. But Iwon't notice it. I'll get on Patches--if he's alive, you wantin' to putoff the marriage so long--"

"Until the first!" she laughed, in gentle derision. 

"Well, " he said, with pretended gravity, "when a man has waited, as longas I've waited, he gets sort of impatient. " He grinned again, and gaveher this last shot: "An' mighty _patient_ after!"

And they rode on again, through the white sunlight, close together, dreaming of days to come. 

 THE END

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS

A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontierwarfare Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured bybandits. A surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close. 

THE RAINBOW TRAIL

The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the greatwestern uplands--until at last love and faith awake. 

DESERT GOLD

The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends withthe finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl whois the story's heroine. 

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormonauthority ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme of thestory. 

THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN

This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desertand of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant pines"

THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT

A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a youngNew Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shallbecome the second wife of one of the Mormons--Well, that's the problem ofthis great story. 

THE SHORT STOP

The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame andfortune as a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start arefollowed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honestyought to win. 

BETTY ZANE

This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful youngsister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers. 

THE LONE STAR RANGER

After killing a man in self defense, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw alongthe Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds ayoung girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings downupon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on oneside by honest men, on the other by outlaws. 

THE BORDER LEGION

Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawlessWestern mining camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she lovedhim--she followed him out. On her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots Kells, the leader--and nurses him tohealth again. Here enters another romance--when Joan, disguised as anoutlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gold strike, athrilling robbery--gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly. 

THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTSBy Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey

The life story of Colonel William F Cody, "Buffalo Bill, " as told by hissister and Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his firstencounter with an Indian. We see "Bill" as a pony express rider, thennear Fort Sumter as Chief of the Scouts, and later engaged in the mostdangerous Indian campaigns. There is also a very interesting account ofthe travels of "The Wild West" Show. No character in public life makes astronger appeal to the imagination of America than "Buffalo Bill, " whosedaring and bravery made him famous. 

 Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER

 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

MICHAEL O'HALLORAN. Illustrated by Frances Rogers

Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in NorthernIndiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumes theresponsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and onward. 

LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. 

This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The storyis told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but itis concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs ofolder members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie and thePrincess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood andabout whose family there hangs a mystery. 

THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs. 

"The Harvester, " is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book hadnothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods, " there begins a romanceof the rarest idyllic quality. 

FRECKLES. Illustrated. 

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which hetakes hold of life, the nature friendships he forms in the greatLimberlost Swamp, the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs tothe charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "TheAngel" are full of real sentiment. 

A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated. 

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type ofthe self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindnesstowards all things, her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty ofher soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren andunpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors. 

The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. Thestory is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. Thenovel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and itspathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. 

THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. Profusely illustrated. 

A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy andhumor. 

 Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 MYRTLE REED'S NOVELS

 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. 

LAVENDER AND OLD LACE. 

A charming story of a quaint corner of New England, where bygone romancefinds a modern parallel. The story centers round the coming of love tothe young people on the staff of a newspaper--and it is one of theprettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old-fashioned love stories. 

MASTER OF THE VINEYARD. 

A pathetic love story of a young girl, Rosemary. The teacher of thecountry school, who is also master of the vineyard, comes to know herthrough her desire for books. She is happy in his love till another womancomes into his life. But happiness and emancipation from her many trialscome to Rosemary at last. The book has a touch of humor and pathos thatwill appeal to every reader. 

OLD ROSE AND SILVER. 

A love story, --sentimental and humorous, --with the plot subordinate tothe character delineation of its quaint people and to the exquisitedescriptions of picturesque spots and of lovely, old, rare treasures. 

A WEAVER OF DREAMS. 

This story tells of the love-affairs of three young people, with anold-fashioned romance in the background. A tiny dog plays an importantrole in serving as a foil for the heroine's talking ingeniousness. Thereis poetry, as well as tenderness and charm, in this tale of a weaver ofdreams. 

A SPINNER IN THE SUN. 

An old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives in solitude andwhose features her neighbors have never seen. There is a mystery at theheart of the book that throws over it the glamour of romance. 

THE MASTER'S VIOLIN. 

A love story in a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German virtuosoconsents to take for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have anaptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. The youth cannotexpress the love, the passion and the tragedies of life as can themaster. But a girl comes into his life, and through his passionate lovefor her, he learns the lessons that life has to give--and his soulawakes. 

 Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 THE NOVELS OF GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON

 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. 

GRAUSTARK. Illustrated with Scenes from the Play. 

With the appearance of this novel, the author introduced a new type ofstory and won for himself a perpetual reading public. It is the story oflove behind a throne in a new and strange country. 

BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK. Illustrations by Harrison Fisher. 

This is a sequel to "Graustark. " A bewitching American girl visits thelittle principality and there has a romantic love affair. 

PRINCE OF GRAUSTARK. Illustrations by A. I. Keller. 

The Prince of Graustark is none other than the son of the heroine of"Graustark. " Beverly's daughter, and an American multimillionaire with abrilliant and lovely daughter also figure in the story. 

BREWSTER'S MILLIONS. Illustrated with Scenes from the Photo-Play. 

A young man, required to spend one million dollars in one year; in orderto inherit _seven_, accomplishes the task in this lively story. 

COWARDICE COURT. Illus. By Harrison Fisher and decorations by Theodore Hapgood. 

A romance of love and adventure, the plot forming around a social feud inthe Adirondacks in which an English girl is tempted into being a traitorby a romantic young American. 

THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND. Illustrated by A. I. Keller. 

A story of modern New York, built around an ancient enmity; born of thescorn of the aristocrat for one of inferior birth. 

WHAT'S-HIS-NAME. Illustrations by Harrison Fisher. 

"What's-His-Name" is the husband of a beautiful and popular actress whois billboarded on Broadway under an assumed name. The very oppositemanner in which these two live their lives brings a dramatic climax tothe story. 

 Ask for Complete free List of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SEWELL FORD'S STORIES

 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

SHORTY MCCABE. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way. 

SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY. 

Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with humannature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for"side-stepping with Shorty. "

SHORTY MCCABE ON THE JOB. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up tothe minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund, " andgives joy to all concerned. 

SHORTY MCCABE'S ODD NUMBERS. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio for physicalculture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at swellyachting parties. 

TORCHY. Illus. By Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg. 

A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to theyouths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of hisexperiences. 

TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 

Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in theprevious book. 

ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 

Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was, " butthat young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart, which brings about many hilariously funny situations. 

TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 

Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for theCorrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectiousAmerican slang. 

WILT THOU TORCHY. Illus. By F. Snapp and A. W. Brown. 

Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast, incompany with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with hisfriend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to placean engagement ring on Vee's finger. 

 Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 B. M. Bower's Novels Thrilling Western Romances

 Large 12 mos. Handsomely bound in cloth. Illustrated

CHIP, OF THE FLYING U

A breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of Chip and DellaWhitman are charmingly and humorously told. Chip's jealousy of Dr. CecilGrantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is veryamusing. A clever, realistic story of the American Cow-puncher. 

THE HAPPY FAMILY

A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteenjovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. Foremost amongst them, we findAnanias Green, known as Andy, whose imaginative powers cause many livelyand exciting adventures. 

HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT

A realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of Easterners whoexchange a cottage at Newport for the rough homeliness of a Montanaranchhouse. The merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating Beatrice, and theeffusive Sir Redmond, become living, breathing personalities. 

THE RANGE DWELLERS

Here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. Spiritedaction, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo and Julietcourtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dullpage. 

THE LURE OF DIM TRAILS

A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author, among thecowboys of the West, in search of "local color" for a new novel. "Bud"Thurston learns many a lesson while following "the lure of the dimtrails" but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love. 

THE LONESOME TRAIL

"Weary" Davidson leaves the ranch for Portland, where conventional citylife palls on him. A little branch of sage brush, pungent with theatmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large browneyes soon compel his return. A wholesome love story. 

THE LONG SHADOW

A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of amountain ranch. Its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game oflife fearlessly and like men. It is a fine love story from start tofinish. 

 Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction. Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St. , New York

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 THE NOVELS OF STEWARD EDWARD WHITE

 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

THE BLAZED TRAIL. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty. 

A wholesome story with gleams of humor, telling of a young man who blazedhis way to fortune through the heart of the Michigan pines. 

THE CALL OF THE NORTH. Ills with Scenes from the Play. 

The story centers about a Hudson Bay trading post, known as "TheConjuror's House" (the original title of the book. )

THE RIVERMAN. Ills by N. C. Wyeth and C. F. Underwood. 

The story of a man's fight against a river and of a struggle betweenhonesty and grit on the one side, and dishonesty and shrewdness on theother. 

RULES OF THE GAME. Illustrated by Lejaren A. Hiller. 

The romance of the son of "The Riverman. " The young college hero goesinto the lumber camp, is antagonized by "graft, " and comes into theromance of his life. 

GOLD. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty. 

The gold fever of '49 is pictured with vividness. A part of the story islaid in Panama, the route taken by the gold-seekers. 

THE FOREST. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty. 

The book tells of the canoe trip of the author and his companion into thegreat woods. Much information about camping and outdoor life. A splendidtreatise on woodcraft. 

THE MOUNTAINS. Illustrated by Fernand Lungren. 

An account of the adventures of a five months' camping trip in theSierras of California. The author has followed a true sequence of events. 

THE CABIN. Illustrated with photographs by the author. 

A chronicle of the building of a cabin home in a forest-girdled meadow ofthe Sierras. Full of nature and woodcraft, and the shrewd philosophy of"California John. "

THE GRAY DAWN. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty. 

This book tells of the period shortly after the first mad rush for goldin California. A young lawyer and his wife, initiated into the gay lifeof San Francisco, find their ways parted through his downward course, butsucceeding events bring the "gray dawn of better things" for both ofthem. 

 Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE

 HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED. 

 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list

MAVERICKS. 

A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler, " whose depredationsare so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. Oneof the sweetest love stories ever told. 

A TEXAS RANGER. 

How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law intothe mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series ofthrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passedthrough deadly peril to ultimate happiness. 

WYOMING. 

In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured thebreezy charm of "cattleland, " and brings out the turbid life of thefrontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. 

RIDGWAY OF MONTANA. 

The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics andmining industries are the religion of the country. The political contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story greatstrength and charm. 

BUCKY O'CONNOR. 

Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with thedashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbingfascination of style and plot. 

CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT. 

A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitterfeud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusualwoman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittinglycharacteristic of the great free West. 

BRAND BLOTTERS. 

A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life of thefrontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming loveinterest running through its 320 pages. 

 Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 JACK LONDON'S NOVELS

 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

JOHN BARLEYCORN. Illustrated by H. T. Dunn. 

This remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazing experiences. This big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted with alcohol fromboyhood, comes out boldly against John Barleycorn. It is a string ofexciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an unforgetable idea andmakes a typical Jack London book. 

THE VALLEY OF THE MOON. Frontispiece by George Harper. 

The story opens in the city slums where Billy Roberts, teamster and exprize fighter, and Saxon Brown, laundry worker, meet and love and marry. They tramp from one end of California to the other, and in the Valley ofthe Moon find the farm paradise that is to be their salvation. 

BURNING DAYLIGHT. Four illustrations. 

The story of an adventurer who went to Alaska and laid the foundations ofhis fortune before the gold hunters arrived. Bringing his fortunes to theStates he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, and recovers itonly at the muzzle of his gun. He then starts out as a mercilessexploiter on his own account. Finally he takes to drinking and becomes apicture of degeneration. About this time he falls in love with hisstenographer and wins her heart but not her hand and then--but read thestory!

A SON OF THE SUN. Illustrated by A. O. Fischer and C. W. Ashley. 

David Grief was once a light haired, blue eyed youth who came fromEngland to the South Seas in search of adventure. Tanned like a nativeand as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. The lifeappealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy. 

THE CALL OF THE WILD. Illustrations by Philip R Goodwin and CharlesLivingston Bull. Decorations by Charles E Hooper. 

A book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be. Hereis excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color totransport the reader to primitive scenes. 

THE SEA WOLF. Illustrated by W. J. Aylward. 

Told by a man whom Fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life into thepower of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. A novel of adventurewarmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will hail withdelight. 

WHITE FANG. Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull. 

"White Fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozennorth, he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, andsurrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. Thereafter he isman's loving slave. 

 Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

-------------------------------------------------------------------------