It staggered Masten, sent him back several feet, and his legs shook under him, 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, and he knew that if he accepted rough and tumble tactics he would be beaten quickly. So he trusted to his agility, which, though waning, answered well until he recovered from the effects of the blow.

And then, with the realization that he was weakening, that the last blow had hurt him badly, came to Masten the sickening knowledge that Randerson was 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 paralyzed muscles as marks of their force.

Masten began to give way. Half a dozen times he broke ground, or slipped to one side or the other. It was unavailing. Blows were coming at him now from all angles, ripping, tearing, crashing blows that seemed to increase in force as the fight went on. One of them caught Masten just below the ear 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 in his vision, for it was all awry—trees, the plains, himself—all were dancing. Dimly he sensed the form of Randerson looming over him. He still was able to grasp the danger that menaced him, and reeling, he threw himself headlong, to escape Randerson, landing on his side on the ground, and with an inarticulate shriek of fury, he pulled the small caliber pistol from his hip pocket, aimed it at the shadowy form of his adversary and pressed the trigger.

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

Evidently he had been buried for a long time, for when he opened his eyes the 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 been crushed. He laid the hand down again, with a groan, and then he heard a voice. Looking up, he saw the shadowy figure of his conqueror standing over him.

"I reckon I've handed it to you pretty bad," said Randerson. "But you had it comin' to you. If you hadn't tried to play the skunk at the last minute, you'd have got off easier. I reckon your hand ain't so active as it's been—I had to pretty near stamp it off of you—you would keep pullin' 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 saddle under him; he made an effort and steadied himself. Then, still only half conscious he rode, reeling in the saddle, toward a light that he saw in the distance, which, he dimly felt, must come from the Flying W ranchhouse.



CHAPTER XIV

THE ROCK AND THE MOONLIGHT

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

"Did the dresses have anything to do with it?" he asked himself, standing there in the darkness. "New dresses might have—puttin' foolish notions in her head. But I reckon the man—" He laughed grimly. He had thought it all over before, back there on the path when he had been talking to Masten and Hagar. He reflected again on it now. "Lookin' it square in the face, 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 a boy, now, not realizin', there'd be excuses. But he's wised up.... If his intentions had been honorable—but he's engaged to Ruth, an' they couldn't. I reckon he'll pull his freight now. Catherson would sure muss him up some."

He mounted his pony and rode toward the Flying W ranchhouse. Halfway there he passed Masten. The moon had risen; by its light he could see the Easterner, who had halted his horse and was standing beside it, watching him. 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 beside his horse.

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

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

In a brief time Randerson learned that Ruth had gone riding—alone—about noon, and had not returned. Randerson also discovered that the girl had questioned a puncher who had ridden in—asking him about Chavis' shack and the basin. Randerson's face, red from the blows that had landed on it, paled quickly.

"I reckon she's takin' her time about comin' in," he said. "Mebbe her cayuse has broke a leg—or somethin'." He grinned at Uncle Jepson. "I expect 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 the elderly couple rode his pony down past the bunkhouse at a pace that was little faster than a walk. He urged Patches to slightly greater speed as he skirted the corral fence, but once out on the plains he loosened the reins, spoke sharply to the pony and began to ride in earnest.

Patches responded nobly to the grim note in his master's voice. With stretching neck and flying hoofs he swooped with long, smooth undulations that sent him, looking like a splotched streak, splitting the night. He ran at his own will, his rider tall and loose in the saddle, speaking no further word, but thinking thoughts that narrowed his eyes, made them glint with steely hardness whenever the moonlight struck them, and caused his lips to part, showing the clenched teeth between them, and shoved his chin 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 to see Chavis' shack, and Chavis—

One mile, two, three, four; Patches covered them in a mad riot of recklessness. Into depressions, over rises, leaping rocks and crashing through chaparral clumps, scaring rattlers, scorpions, toads, and other denizens to wild flight, he went, with not a thought for his own or his rider'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 the effort, but he was well warmed to his work now and he loped, though with many a snort of impatience and toss of the head, by which he tried to convey 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 scanned the country around him. Then, when the word came again to go, he was off with a rush and a snort of delight, as wildly reckless as he had been when he had discovered what was expected of him.

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

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

Randerson had seen her first. She was sitting on the top of a gigantic rock not more than fifty feet from him; she was facing him, had evidently been watching him; and in the clear moonlight he could see that she was pale and frightened—frightened at him, he knew, fearful that he might not be a friend.

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

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

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

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

"Gone," she said dolorously. "He fell—over there—and threw me. I saw Chavis—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't catch him—my pony, I mean; he was too obstinate—I could have killed him! I couldn't walk, you know—my ankle, and the snakes—and the awful darkness, and—Oh, Randerson," she ended, with a gulp of gratitude, "I never was so glad to see you—anybody—in my life!"

"I reckon it was kind of lonesome for you out here alone with the snakes, 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, "for they're natural mean. But I reckon the moon made such an awful darkness on 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 glad to 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 him plaintively. "It is so swollen I can't get my boot off. And the leather seems like an iron band around it." She looked pleadingly at him. "Won't you 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 heap of experience—" His pause was eloquent, and he finished lamely "with boots—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 boot and 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 in hand again, this time giving it a slight twist; "men are such awkward creatures!"

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

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

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

"It's awful, ma'am," he sympathized. "Over at the Diamond H, one of the boys got his leg broke, last year, ridin' an outlaw, or tryin' to ride him, which ain't quite the same thing—an' we had to get his boot off before we could set the break. Why, ma'am; we had to set on his head to keep 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 going to sit on her head—and that she would "screech" if she chose. And then she 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 sit here and endure this awful m-m-misery!"

The break in her voice brought him on his knees at her side. "Why, I reckon it must hurt like the devil, ma'am." He looked around helplessly.

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

He reddened guiltily. "I clean forgot it ma'am." He laughed with embarrassment. "I expect I'd never do for a doctor, ma'am; I'm so excited an' forgetful. An' I recollect, now that you mention it, that we had to cut 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 much delicacy as the circumstances would permit, he accomplished the destruction of the boot. Then, after many admonitions for him to be careful, and numerous sharp intakings of her breath, the boot was withdrawn, 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 after pressing 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. I reckon it ought to be rubbed—so's to bring back the blood that couldn't get in while the boot was on."

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

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

"Why, sure, ma'am." He started again for Patches, but halted and looked back 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 of a hill near by in hopes of getting a view of the recreant pony. He got a glimpse of it, far back on the plains near some timber, and he was about to shout the news to Ruth, who was watching him intently, when he thought better 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 see Ruth, but the third time he had swerved so that some bushes concealed him from 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 from her position.

It was more than a mile to where the animal stood, and curiously, as though to make amends for his previous bad behavior to Ruth, he came trotting 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 said severely, "runnin' away from your mistress that-a-way. Is that the way for 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 what you 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 pony tied 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 sure that 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, his expression one of grave worry.

"That outlaw of yours ain't anywhere in sight, ma'am," he said. "I reckon he's stampeded back to the ranchhouse. You sure you ain't seen him go past 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. But you can't walk, you know," he added after a silence; "I reckon you'll have to ride Patches."

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

"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, leaped into his eyes.

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

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

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

"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; "I beg your pardon for speaking to you the way I did, back there. But my foot did hurt terribly."

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

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

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

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

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

"You'll shape up real western—give you time," he assured. "You'll be ready to take your own part, without dependin' on laws to do it for you—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 that if I'd gone to the sheriff at Las Vegas, an' told him about Pickett, he'd have done anything but poke fun at me? An' that word would have gone all over the country—that I was scared of Pickett—an' I'd have had to pull my freight. I had to stand my ground, ma'am. Mebbe I'd have been a hero if I'd have let him shoot me, but I wouldn't have been here any more to know 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't there. Then I come on over to the ranchhouse, an' Uncle Jepson told me about 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 had been strong enough, and that he had been close enough to her, to permit her to see.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I really don't blame you so much—about Pickett. I suppose it was necessary."

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

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

"Where is Willard?"

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

Randerson saw Ruth's frown. He also saw Aunt Martha looking intently through 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 Aunt Martha 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 minutes later he followed the range boss out on the porch. He grinned at Randerson suspiciously. "Throwed twice, eh?" he repeated. "Masten's face looks like some one had danced a jig on it. Huh! I cal'late that if you was 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 Uncle Jepson. "An' if I don't miss my reckonin', she'll listen to you, some day."



CHAPTER XV

THE RUNAWAY COMES HOME

Masten's note to Ruth contained merely the information that he was going to Lazette, and that possibly he might not return for two weeks. He hinted that he would probably be called upon to go to Santa Fe on business, but if so he would apprise her of that by messenger. He gave no reason for his sudden leave-taking, or no explanation of his breach of courtesy in not waiting to see her personally. The tone of the note did not please Ruth. It had evidently been written hurriedly, on a sheet of paper torn from a pocket notebook. That night she studied it long, by the light from the kerosene lamp in her room, and finally crumpled it up and threw it from her. Then she sat for another long interval, her elbows on the top of the little stand that she used as a dressing table, her chin in her hands, staring with unseeing eyes into a mirror in front of her—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 and Randerson gone. Later in the morning she saw Uncle Jepson waving a hand to her from the corral, and she ran down there, to find her pony standing outside 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 she showed it to her also. And then she saw a soiled blue neckerchief twisted and curled in the knot, and she examined it with wide eyes.

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

And now her face crimsoned, for illumination had come to her. She placed the neckerchief behind her, with a quick hope that her relatives had not seen it, nor had paid any attention to her exclamation. But she saw Uncle Jepson 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 piece away 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 girl as Uncle Jepson went away, chuckling. "Why, girl," she went on, smiling at Ruth's crimson face, "you don't blame him, do you? If you don't know he 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 a gentleman, in spite of that."

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

She was filled with a delightful dread against the day when he would discover 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 days passed and he did not come in. She did not know that on his way out to join the outfit the next morning he had noticed that he had lost the neckerchief, and that he remembered it flapping loose around his neck when he had gone toward the timber edge for her pony. He had searched long 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 neckerchief dangling from the knot, Aunt Martha had spoken again to Uncle Jep concerning it.

"Jep Coakley," she said earnestly; "you like your joke, as well as any man. But if I ever hear of you mentioning anything to Randerson about that 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 in Randerson's heart against Chavis and Kester. He had shown no indication of it when she had related to him the story of her adventure with the men, nor did he mention it to any of his associates. There had been a time in his life when he would have brought the men to a quick and final accounting, for their offense was one that the laws governing human conduct in this country would not condone; but he was not the man he had been before the coming of Ruth; her views on the taking of human life—no matter what the provocation—were barriers that effectively restrained his desires.

Yet he could not permit Kester and Chavis to think they could repeat the offense with impunity. That would be an indication of impotence, of servile yielding to the feminine edict that had already gone forth, and behind which Chavis and his men were even now hiding—the decree of the Flying W owner that there should be no taking of human life. His lips twisted crookedly as on the morning of the day following his adventure with Ruth and the recreant pony he mounted his own animal and rode away from the outfit without telling any of them where he was going. Two or three hours later, in a little basin near the plateau where Ruth had overheard the men talking, Chavis and Kester were watching the crooked smile; their own faces as pale as Randerson's, their breath swelling their lungs as the threat of impending violence assailed them; their muscles rippling and cringing in momentary expectation of the rapid movement 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 halt within ten feet of them a decision to adhere to the principles that had governed him all his days, and they knew that a woman's order would not stay 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. I reckon you know I ain't got no such nice scruples, an' a funeral more or less won't set so awful heavy on my conscience. There's goin' to be more mourners 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's the verdict?"

Chavis sighed. "We wasn't meanin' no harm," he apologized, some color coming 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 a hint of belligerence, a single hostile movement, would have precipitated the clash they knew Randerson had come to force—a clash which they knew would end badly for them. For Randerson had chosen his position when halting Patches—it was strategic, and they knew his fingers were itching for 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'!" He lounged in the saddle, watching them as they rode away, not looking back. When they reached the far slope of the basin he turned Patches and sniffed disgustedly. Five minutes later he was at the crest of the back slope, riding toward the outfit, miles away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hell!" he snapped an instant later; "she's gettin' off her horse!" He raised his voice in a shout, that fell flat and futile on the dead desert air, and he leaned forward in the saddle and drove the spurs deep as he saw the range steer nearest the rider raise its head inquiringly and look toward the rider—for she had dismounted and was walking away from her horse 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 his rider was urging him on with voice and spur and hand, his teeth set, his eyes 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, and Randerson was still fully half a mile distant.

He groaned audibly as he saw the steer take a few tentative steps toward her, his head raised, tail erect, his long horns glinting in the white sunlight. 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 an instant there was no movement in the vast realm of space except the terrific thunder of Patches' hoofs as they spurned the hard alkali level over which he was running; the squeaking protests of the saddle leather, and Randerson's low voice as he coaxed the pony to greater speed. But Patches had reached the limit of effort, was giving his rider his last ounce of strength, and he closed the gap between himself and the girl with whirlwind rapidity.

But it seemed he would be too late. The girl had sensed her danger. She had caught the stealthy movement of the steer; she had glimpsed the unmistakable malignance of his blood-shot eyes, and had stood for an instant in the grip of a dumb, paralyzing terror. She had dismounted to gather some yellow blossoms of soap-weed that had looked particularly inviting from the saddle, and too late she had become aware of the belligerent actions of the steer.

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

She gained a considerable distance in this manner, for during the first few 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 steer charged, 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 between her and the steer—so close to her that the thunder of his hoofs roared deafening in her ears, and the wind from his passing almost drew her off her balance as amazed, stunned, nerveless, she halted. She caught a glimpse of Randerson's profile as he swept into a circle and threw his rope. There must be no missing—there was none. The sinuous loop went out, fell over the steer's head. Thereafter there was a smother of dust in which the girl could see some wildly waving limbs. Outside of the smother she saw the pony swing off for a short distance and stiffen its legs. The rope attached to the pommel of the saddle grew taut as a bow string; there was an instant of strained suspense during which the pony's back arched until the girl thought it must surely break. It was over in an instant, though every detail was vividly impressed upon the girl's mind. For the cold terror that had seized her had fled with the appearance of Patches—she knew there could be no danger to her after that.

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

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

In this minute the girl's chief emotion was one of admiration for the pony. How accurate its movements in this crisis! How unerring its judgment! For though no word had been spoken—at least the girl heard none—the pony kept the rope taut, bracing against its burden as Randerson slid out of the saddle.

The girl's interest left the pony and centered on its rider. Randerson was running toward the fallen steer, and though Ruth had witnessed this operation a number of times since her coming to the Flying W, she had never 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 when he 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, and it 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 her pony, with something of the confusion and guilt that overtakes a recreant child scolded by its parent. She was scarcely in the saddle when she turned to watch Randerson.

He was pulling the loop from the steer's head. He coiled it, with much deliberation, returned to Patches and hung the rope from its hook. Then he walked slowly back to the steer.

The latter had been choked to unconsciousness, but was now reviving. With a quick jerk Randerson removed the rope from its hoofs, retreating to Patches and swinging into the saddle, watching the movements of the steer.

The steer had got to its feet and stood with legs braced in sharp outward angles, trembling, its great head rolling from side to side, lowered almost to the dust, snorting breath into its lungs.

The girl was fascinated, but she heard Randerson's voice again, flung at her this time:

"Get away from here—quick!"

She jerked on the reins, and the pony, wise with the wisdom of experience, knowing the danger that portended, bolted quickly, carrying her some distance before she succeeded in halting him.

When she turned to look back, there was a dust cloud near the spot where the steer had lain. In the cloud she saw the steer, Patches, and Randerson. Patches and the steer were running—Patches slightly in advance. The pony was racing, dodging to the right and left, pursuing a zig-zag course that kept the steer bothered.

As the girl watched she found a vicious rage stealing over her, directed against the steer. Why didn't Randerson kill the beast, instead of running from it in that fashion? Somehow, she did not like to see Randerson in that role; it was far from heroic—it flavored of panic; it made 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 an exhibition of roping that made her gasp. From a point fifteen or twenty feet in advance of the steer, Randerson threw his rope. He had twisted in the saddle, and he gave the lariat a quick flirt, the loop running out perpendicularly, like a rolling hoop, and not more than a foot from the ground, writhing, undulating, the circle constricting quickly, sinuously. The girl saw the loop topple as it neared the steer—it was much like the motion of a hoop falling. It met one of the steer's hoofs as it was flung outward; it grew taut; the rope straightened and Patches swung off to the right at an acute angle. He did not brace his legs, this time. This was a different game. He merely halted, turning his head and watching, with a well-I've-done-it-now expression of the eyes that would have brought a smile to the girl's face at any other time.

Again it was over in an instant; for the second time the steer turned a somersault. Again there followed a space during which there was no movement.

Then Randerson slacked the rope. It seemed to Ruth that Patches did this of 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—again the girl thought Randerson had no hand in the movement—directly toward the enraged steer, veering sharply as he neared it, and passing to its rear. For the third time the rope grew taut, and this time the pony braced itself and the steer went down with a thud that carried clearly and distinctly to the girl.

She thought the beast must be fatally injured, and felt that it richly deserved its fate. But after a period, during which Patches wheeled to face the beast, Randerson grinning coldly at it, the steer again scrambled to its feet.

This time it stood motionless, merely trembling a little. The fear of the rope had seized it; this man-made instrument was a thing that could not be successfully fought. That, it seemed to the girl, was the lesson the steer had been taught from its experience. That it was the lesson Randerson had set out to teach the animal, the girl was certain. It explained Randerson's seeming panic; it made the girl accuse herself sharply for doubting him.

She watched the scene to its conclusion. The steer started off, shaking its head from side to side. Plainly, it wanted no more of this sort of work; 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 struggled on the ground, Randerson gave the rope a quick flirt, making undulation that 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, head and 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're raised like that. They don't ever see no man around them unless he's forkin' his pony. No cowpuncher with any sense goes to hoofin' it around a range steer—it ain't accordin' to the rules. Your range steer ain't used to seein' a man walkin'. On his pony he's safe—nine times out of ten. The other time a range steer will tackle a rider that goes to monkeyin' around him promiscuous. But they have to be taught manners, ma'am—the same as human bein's. That scalawag will recognize the rope now, ma'am, the same as a human outlaw will recognize the rope—or the law. Of course both will be outlaws when there's no rope or no law around, but—Why, ma'am," he laughed—"I'm gettin' right clever at workin' my jaw, ain't I? Are you headin' back to the Flyin' W? Because if you are, I'd be sort of glad to go along with you—if you'll promise you won'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 subtle reference to the law and the rope, and wondered if it carried any personal significance to anyone. Twice she looked at him for evidence of that, but could gain nothing from his face—suffused with quiet satisfaction.



CHAPTER XVII

THE TARGET

Earlier in the morning, Ruth had watched Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha ride away in the buckboard toward Lazette. She had stood on the porch, following them with her eyes until the buckboard had grown dim in her vision—a mere speck crawling over a sun-scorched earth, under a clear white sky in which swam a sun that for days had been blighting growing things. But on the porch of the ranchhouse it was cool.

Ruth was not cool. When the buckboard had finally vanished into the distance, with nothing left of it but a thin dust cloud that spread and disintegrated and at last settled down, Ruth walked to a rocker on the porch and sank into it, her face flushed, her eyes glowing with eager expectancy.

A few days before, while rummaging in a wooden box which had been the property of her uncle, William Harkness, she had come upon another box, considerably smaller, filled with cartridges. She had examined them thoughtfully, and at last, with much care and trepidation, had taken one of them, found Uncle Harkness' big pistol, removed the cylinder and slipped the cartridge into one of the chambers. It had fitted perfectly. Thereafter she had yielded to another period of thoughtfulness—longer this time.

A decision had resulted from those periods, for the day before, when a puncher had come in from the outfit, on an errand, she had told him to send Randerson in to the ranchhouse to her, on the following day. And she was expecting him now.

She had tried to dissuade Uncle Jep and Aunt Martha from making the trip to Lazette today, but, for reasons which she would not have admitted—and did not admit, even to herself—she had not argued very strongly. And she had watched them go with mingled regret and satisfaction; two emotions that persisted in battling within her until they brought the disquiet that had flushed her cheeks.

It was an hour before Randerson rode up to the edge of the porch, and when Patches came to a halt, and her range boss sat loosely in the saddle, looking down at her, she was composed, even though her cheeks were still a little red.

"You sent for me, ma'am."

It was the employee speaking to his "boss." He was not using the incident of a few nights before to establish familiarity between them; his voice was low, deferential. But Willard Masten's voice had never made her feel quite as she felt at this moment.

"Yes, I sent for you," she said, smiling calmly—trying to seem the employer but getting something into her voice which would not properly belong there under those circumstances. She told herself it was not pleasure—but she saw his eyes flash. "I have found some cartridges, and I want you to teach me how to shoot."

He looked at her with eyes that narrowed with amusement, after a quick glint of surprise.

"I reckon I c'n teach you. Are you figurin' that there's some one in this country that you don't want here any more?"

"No," she said; "I don't expect to shoot anybody. But I have decided that as long as I have made up my mind to stay here and run the Flying W, I may 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 some shootin' out here. Not at men, especial," he grinned, "but you'll run across 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, not because 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," he said, with slightly reddening cheeks; "but mostly, ma'am, I reckon you'll like shootin' at side-winders best. Sometimes they get mighty full of fight, 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 trigger in 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' they couldn't hit a barn if they was inside of it. There's others that can hit most 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 that way."

"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 without subtlety. But she detected a gleam that seemed far back in his eyes, and she 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, a woman'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 to discover that man's disposition to boast was present in this son of the wilderness. 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 has got as much grit as men. But they show it different. They're quicker to imagine things than men. That makes them see things where there ain't anything to see. A man's mother is always a woman, ma'am, an' if he's got any grit in him he owes a lot of it to her. I reckon I owe more to my mother than to my father."

His gaze was momentarily somber, and she felt a quick, new interest in him. Or had she felt this interest all along—a desire to learn something more of him than he had expressed?

"You might get off your horse and sit in the shade for a minute. It is hot, 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, and then returned to the porch, taking a chair near her.

"Aunt Martha says you were born here," Ruth said. "Have you always been a cowboy?"

A flash that came into his eyes was concealed by a turn of the head. So she had asked Aunt Martha about him.

"I don't remember ever bein' anything else. As far back as I c'n recollect, there's been cows hangin' around."

"Have you traveled any?"

"To Denver, Frisco, Kansas City. I was in Utah, once, lookin' over the Mormons. They're a curious lot, ma'am. I never could see what on earth a man wanted half a dozen wives for. One can manage a man right clever. But half 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 be wantin' him to do another. An' between them, the man would be goin' off to 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 the husbands I've seen seemed to be pretty well managed. You can see samples of it every day, ma'am, if you look around. Young fellows that have acted pretty wild when they was single, always sort of steady down when they're hooked into double harness. They go to actin' quiet an' subdued-like—like they'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, his eyes narrowed, with little wrinkles in the corners. "I'm waitin' for you to 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 succeeding very well. She was trying to show him that there was small hope of him ever realizing his desire to have her "manage" him, but she felt that she did not succeed in that very well either. Perplexity came into her eyes as she watched him.

"Why is it that you don't like Willard Masten?" she asked at length. "Why is 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 voice expressionless. 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 came out again, the weapon dangling from her hand.

"Shucks!" he said, when he saw the pistol, comparing its huge bulk to the size of the hand holding it, "you'll never be able to hold it, when it goes off. You ought to have a smaller one."

"Uncle Jep says this ought to stop anything it hits," she declared. "That is just what I want it to do. If I shoot anything once, I don't want to have to shoot again."

"I reckon you're right bloodthirsty, ma'am. But I expect it's so big for you that you won't be able to hit anything."

"I'll show you," she said, confidently. "Where shall we go to shoot? We shall have to have a target, I suppose?"

"Not a movin' one," he said gleefully. "An' I ain't aimin' to hold it for you!"

"Wait until you are asked," she retorted, defiantly. "Perhaps I may be a better shot than you think!"

"I hope so, ma'am."

She looked resentfully at him, but followed him as he went out near the pasture fence, taking with him a soap box that he found near a shed, and standing it up behind a post, first making sure there were no cattle within range in the direction that the bullets would take. Then he stepped off twenty paces, and when she joined him he took the pistol from her hands and loaded it from the box. He watched her narrowly as she took it, and she saw the concern in his eyes.

"Oh, I have used a revolver before," she told him, "not so large a one as this, 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," he remonstrated gently.

He showed her how to hold the weapon, told her to stand sideways to the target, with her right arm extended and rigid, level with the shoulder.

He took some time at this; three times after she extended her arm he seemed to find it necessary to take hold of the arm to rearrange its position, lingering long at this work, and squeezing the pistol hand a little too tightly, she thought.

"Don't go to pullin' the trigger too fast or too hard," he warned; "a little time for the first shot will save you shootin' again, mebbe—until you get used to it. She'll kick some, but you'll get onto that pretty quick."

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 that buzzard up there will be pullin' his freight—if he's got any sense."

She fired again, her lips compressed determinedly. At the report a splinter of wood flew from the top of the post. She looked at him with an exultant 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 new pastime. She hit the target often, and toward the end she gained such confidence and proficiency that her eyes glowed proudly. Then, growing tired, she invited him to the porch again, and until near noon they talked 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 him sitting on the porch alone. When she called Randerson in, and he took a chair across from her, she felt a distinct embarrassment. It was not because she was there alone with him, for he had a right to be there; he was her range boss and his quarters were in the house; he was an employee, and no conventions were being violated. But the embarrassment was there.

Did Randerson suspect her interest in him? That question assailed her. She studied him, and was uncertain. For his manner had not changed. He was still quiet, thoughtful, polite, still deferential and natural, with a quaintness of speech and a simplicity that had gripped her, that held her captive.

But her embarrassment fled as the meal progressed. She forgot it in her interest for him. She questioned him again; he answered frankly. And through her questions she learned much of his past life, of his hopes and ambitions. They were as simple and natural as himself.

"I've been savin' my money, ma'am," he told her. "I'm goin' to own a ranch of my own, some day. There's fellows that blow in all their wages in 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 to get 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 she discovered that there was little frivolity in his make-up, and pleasure stirred her. And then he showed her another side of his character—his respect for public opinion.

"But I ain't stingy, ma'am. I reckon I've proved it. There's a difference between 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 from Hagar Catherson. She mentally applauded his reticence.

She learned that he had read—more than she would have thought, from his speech—and that he had profited thereby.

"Books give the writer's opinion of things," he said. "If you read a thoughtful book, you either agree with the writer, or you don't, accordin' to your nature an' understandin'. None of them get things exactly right, I reckon, for no man can know everything. He's got to fall down, somewhere. An' so, when you read a book, you've got to do a heap of thinkin' on your own hook, or else you'll get mistaken ideas an' go to gettin' 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' a thing, an' then along will come somethin' else, an' I'll have to start all over again. Or, I'll talk to somebody, an' find that they've got a better 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 swim low in the sky.

At last he got up, grinning.

"I've done a heap of loafin' today, ma'am. But I've certainly enjoyed myself, talkin' to you. But if you ain't goin' to try to hit the target any 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 lonesome here, without aunt and uncle."

"I saw them goin'," he informed her.

"And," she continued, smiling, "I am going to ask you to come again, very soon, to teach me more about shooting."

"Any time, ma'am." He still held her hand. And now he looked at it with a blush, and dropped it gently. Her face reddened a little too, for now she realized that he had held her hand for quite a while, and she had made no motion to withdraw it. Their eyes met eloquently. The gaze held for an instant, and then both laughed, as though each had seen something in the eyes of the other that had been concealed until this moment. Then Ruth's drooped. Randerson smiled and stepped off the porch to get his pony.

A little later, after waving his hand to Ruth from a distance, he rode away, 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?" He gulped over a thought that came to him.

"She was shootin' at the target, Patches," he mused. "But do you reckon she was aimin' at me?"



CHAPTER XVIII

THE GUNFIGHTER

Red Owen, foreman of the Flying W in place of Tom Chavis, resigned, was stretched out on his blanket, his head propped up with an arm, looking at the lazy, licking flames of the campfire. He was whispering to Bud Taylor, named by Randerson to do duty as straw boss in place of the departed Pickett, and he was referring to a new man of the outfit who had been hired by Randerson about two weeks before because the work seemed to require 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, paying no 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 of monosyllabic conversation, and the perpetual, smiling sneer on his face had gotten on Red Owen's nerves.

"Since he's joined the outfit, he's opened his yap about three times a day—usual at grub time, when if a man loosens up at all, he'll loosen up then," Red told Taylor, glaring his disapproval. "I've got an idea that I'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 I had a twistin' upper lip like that, I'd sure plant some whiskers on it. A mustache, now, would hide a lot of the hyena in him."

Owen stared meditatively at the new man through the flames. "Yes," he said expressionlessly, "a mustache would make him look a whole lot different." He was straining his mental faculties in an effort to remember a man of his acquaintance who possessed a lower lip like that of the man opposite him, eyes with the same expression in them, and a nose that was similar. He did not succeed, for memory was laggard, or his imagination was playing him a trick. He had worried over the man's face since 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 your brain-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 been sinking 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 his inability to make his memory do his bidding, was sadly out of order. He had been longing for days to make the new man talk, that he might be enabled to sharpen his memory on the man's words.

He studied the man again. He had been studying him all day, while he and some more of the men had worked the cattle out of some timber near the foothills, to the edge of the basin—where they were now camped. But the face was still elusive. If he could only get the man to talking, to watch the working of that lower lip!

His glance roved around the fire. Seven men, besides the cook—asleep under the wagon—and Randerson, were lying around the fire in positions similar to his own. Randerson, the one exception, was seated on the edge of the chuck box, its canvas cover pushed aside, one leg dangling, his elbow resting on the other.

Randerson had been rather silent for the past few days—since he had ridden in to the ranchhouse, and he had been silent tonight, gazing thoughtfully 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 new man—Dorgan, he called himself. Owen started, and his chin went forward, his lips straightening. For he saw Dorgan watching Randerson with a bitter sneer on his lips, his eyes glittering coldly and balefully!

Evil intent was written largely here—evil intent without apparent reason for it. For the man was a stranger here; Randerson had done nothing—to Owen's knowledge—to earn Dorgan's enmity; Randerson did not deliberately make enemies. Owen wondered if Dorgan were one of those misguided persons who take offense at a look unknowingly given, or a word, spoken during momentary abstraction.

Owen had disliked Dorgan before; he hated him now. For Owen had formed a deep attachment for Randerson. There was a determination in his mind to acquaint the range boss with his suspicions concerning Dorgan's expression, and he got up, after a while, and took a turn around the campfire 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, speculative glance at him. But Owen's determination had not lessened. "If he's suspicious of me, he's figgerin' on doin' some dog's trick to Wrecks. I'm puttin' Wrecks wise a few, an' if Dorgan don't like it, he c'n go to blazes!"

He walked to the rear of the chuck box and stood within half a dozen feet of Randerson.

"Figger we've got 'em all out of the timber?" he asked.

There was no answer from Randerson. He seemed absorbed in contemplation of the fire.

"W-r-e-c-k-s!" bawled Owen, in a voice that brought every man of the circle upright, to look wildly around. Taylor was on his feet, his hair bristling, the pallor of mingled fear, astonishment, and disgust on his face. Owen grinned sardonically at him. "Lay down an' turn over, you wall-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?" he demanded.

"What for are you-all a-yowlin' that-a-way for?" questioned a gentle-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 sank disgustedly 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 of amenities 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. Unless you was figgerin' to use a fine-toothed comb. Why, the boys was all a-nappin', Red," he added gently.

He did not look around, so that Owen might give him the warning wink that would have put him on his guard. Owen would have tapped him on the shoulder, but glancing sidelong, he saw Dorgan watching him, and he did not. A ripple of scornful laughter greeted Randerson's reply, and with a sneering glance around, Owen again sought his blanket.

The reception that had been accorded his effort had made him appear ridiculous, he knew. It would be days before the outfit would cease referring to it.

He stretched himself out on the blanket, but after a few moments of reflection, he sat up, doggedly. He had been imagining all sorts of dire things that Dorgan might have in mind. He had a presentiment of impending trouble, 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 and talking, and when he heard one of the men, named Blair, refer to a gunman, Watt Kelso, who had formerly graced Lazette with his presence, a light leaped into Owen's eyes, his teeth came together with a snap, his lips formed into straight lines, and he drew a slow, deep breath. For that was the word that had eluded him—Kelso! And Kelso—how plain and simple it seemed to him now—Kelso was Dorgan, sitting opposite him now! Kelso minus his mustache, looking much different than when he had seen him last, but Kelso, just the same—undeniably Kelso!

So great was Owen's excitement over this discovery that he was forced to lie down and turn his back to the fire for fear that Kelso might look at him and thus discover that he was recognized.

As he lay there, his brain yielded to a riot of speculation. What was Kelso 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 for him. It showed him a saloon in Lazette, some card tables, with men seated around them. Among the men were Kelso and Randerson. Randerson had been a mere youth. Kelso and Randerson were seated opposite each other, at the same table. Kelso had been losing—was in bad temper. He had charged Randerson with cheating. There had been words, and then Kelso had essayed to draw his pistol. There was a scuffle, a shot, and Kelso had been led away with a broken arm, broken by Randerson's bullet—blaspheming, and shouting threats at Randerson. And now, after years of waiting, Kelso had come to carry out his threats. It was all plain to Owen, now. And with the 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 Watt Kelso, of his deeds and his personality. And Owen saw that for the first time since joining the outfit, Kelso seemed interested in the talk around him. He was watching Blair with narrowed, glittering eyes, in which Owen could see suspicion. It was as though he were wondering if Blair knew that the man of whom he spoke now was at that minute sitting close to him, listening. But presently, Owen became convinced that Kelso thought not, for the suspicion in the gunman's eyes changed to cold, secret amusement.

"Kelso's pulled his freight from Lazette," declared Blair, during the course of his talk. "It's likely he'll drift somewhere where he ain't so well known. It got to be pretty hard pickin' for him around here—folks fight shy of him. But he was sure a killer!"

Blair paused. "I reckon I might mention a man that he didn't kill," said a man who lay near Blair. "An' he wanted to, mighty bad."

"We're wantin' to know," returned Blair. "He must have been a high-grade gun-slinger."

The man nodded toward Randerson, who apparently was not listening to this conversation. There was a subdued chuckle from the man, and grunts of admiration 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 the gunman's mind. Owen saw him glance covertly at Randerson, observed his lips curl.

One of the other men saw the glance also. Not having the knowledge possessed by Owen, the man guffawed loudly, indicating the gunman.

"Dorgan ain't swallerin' your yarn about Randerson puttin' a kink in Kelso," he said to Blair.

Randerson turned, a mild grin on his face. "You fellows quit your soft-soapin' about that run-in with Kelso," he said. "There ain't any compliments due me. I was pretty lucky to get out of that scrape with a whole hide. They told me Kelso's gun got snagged when he was tryin' to draw it."

So then, Randerson had been listening, despite his apparent abstraction. And Owen sat rigid when he saw the gunman look coldly at Randerson and clear his throat.

Plainly, if Kelso had been awaiting an opportunity to take issue with Randerson, it was now!

"Yes," he said, "you was mighty lucky."

There was a sneer in the words, and malevolence in the twist of his lips as his voice came through them.

A flat, dead silence followed the speech. Every man held the position in which he had been when the gunman had spoken; nothing but their eyes moved, and these were directed from Randerson to the gunman and back again, questioningly, expectantly. For in the hearts of the men who had been talking until now there had been no thought of discord; they had spoken without rancor. But hostility, cold, premeditated, had been in the new man's speech.

Randerson moved his head slightly, and he was looking straight into Kelso'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 thumb of his right hand was hooked in his cartridge belt just above the holster of 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 have affected 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 to fill!"

Again a silence fell, dread, premonitory. It was plain to every man of the outfit, awake and listening, that Dorgan had a grievance—whether real or imaginary, it made little difference—and that he was determined to force trouble. Only Owen, apparently, knowing the real state of affairs, knew that the reference to Randerson's inefficiency was a mere pretext. But that violence, open, deadly, was imminent, foreshadowed by Dorgan's word, every man knew, and all sat tense and pale, awaiting Randerson's reply.

They knew, these men, that it was not Randerson's way to force trouble—that he would avoid it if he could do so without dishonor. But could he avoid it now? The eyes that watched him saw that he meant to try, for a slow, tolerant smile appeared on his lips.

"I reckon you're plumb excited—Owen wakin' you up out of your sleep like he did," said Randerson. "But," he added, the smile chilling a little, "I ain't askin' no man to work for me, if he ain't satisfied. You can draw your time tomorrow, if it don't suit you here."

"I'm drawin' it now!" sneered the gunman. "I ain't workin' for no pussy-kitten specimen which spends his time gallivantin' around the country with a girl, makin' believe he's bossin', when—" Here he added something that made the outfit gasp and stiffen.

As he neared the conclusion of the speech, his right hand fell to his gun-holster. Owen had been watching him, and at the beginning of the movement he shouted a warning:

"Look out, Wrecks!"

He had been afraid to tell Randerson that it was Kelso who was facing him, for fear that the information, bursting upon Randerson quickly, would disconcert him.

But Randerson had been watching, understanding the drift of the gunman's words. And when he saw the shoulder of his gun-arm move, his own right hand dropped, surely, swiftly. Kelso's gun had snagged in its holster years before. It came freely enough now. But its glitter at his side was met by the roar and flame spurt of Randerson's heavy six, the thumb snap on the hammer telling of the lack of a trigger spring, the position of the 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 with which it had been executed. But they saw the red, venomous streak split the night; they heard the gunman's gurgling gasp of amazement, and they watched, with ashen faces, while he dropped his weapon, sagged oddly forward and tumbled headlong into the sand near the fire. Then several of them sprang forward to drag him back.

It had seemed that none of the men had noticed that Randerson had seemed to shoot his pistol while it was still in the holster. One, however, had noticed. It was Red Owen. And while the other men were pulling the gunman back from the fire, Owen stepped close to Randerson, lifted the holster, and examined it quickly. He dropped it, with a low exclamation of astonishment.

"I was wonderin'—Holy smoke! It's a phony holster, fixed on the gun to look 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. I knowed him the day he asked for a job. An' I knowed what he come for—figurin' on settlin' that grudge."

Randerson and Owen started toward the gunman, to determine how badly he had been hit; they were met by Blair. There was amazement and incredulity in the man's eyes.

"He's goin' to cash in—quick," he said. "You got him, pretty nearly proper—just over the heart. But, but, he says he's Watt Kelso! An' that that eastern dude, Masten, sent him over here—payin' him five hundred cold, to perforate you!"

Randerson ran to where Kelso lay, gasping and panting for breath. He knelt beside him.

"You talkin' straight, Kelso?" he asked. "Did Masten hire you to put me out of business?"

"Sure," whispered Kelso.

"Where's Masten stayin'?"

"With Chavis—in the shack. He's been there right along, except," he finished, with a grim attempt at humor, "when he's been rushin' that biscuit-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 spoke grimly to Owen, who was standing beside him.

"Pickett an' then Kelso! Both of them was sure bad enough. But I reckon Masten's got them both roped an' hog-tied for natural meanness." He turned to Owen. "I reckon I had to do it, old man," he said, a quaver in his voice.

"Buck up, Wrecks!" Owen slapped him on the shoulder, and turned toward the men.

Randerson watched him, but his thoughts were elsewhere. "I reckon she'd have wanted it different," he said to himself.



CHAPTER XIX

READY GUN AND CLEAN HEART

Uncle Jepson understood the cow-punchers because he understood human nature, and because he had a strain of the wild in him that had been retained since his youth. Their simplicity, their directness, had been his own; their frankness and generosity, their warm, manly impulses—all reminded him of the days before age, with its accompanying conservatism of thought and action, had placed a governor upon them. They understood him, too, recognizing him as their kind. Blair, especially, had taken a fancy to him, and therefore it was not many days after the shooting of Kelso 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 not repeat 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 who had stopped for an hour at the ranchhouse. Ruth had confirmed the news through questioning several Flying W men, and, because of their reluctance to answer her inquiries, their expressionless faces, she gathered that the shooting had not met with their approval. She did not consider that they had given her no details, that they spoke no word of blame or praise. She got nothing but the bare fact—that Randerson's gun had again wrought havoc.

She had not seen Masten. A month had slipped by since the day of his departure, when she got a note from him, by messenger, from Lazette, saying that his business was not yet concluded, and that possibly, two weeks 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 shooting of Kelso, known what effect the news would have on Ruth? "I reckon she would have wanted it different," he had reflected, then. And he had been entirely correct, for the news had destroyed something that had been growing and flourishing in her heart. It had filled her soul with disappointment, at least; repugnance and loathing were not very far away. She had almost been persuaded, that day when he had taught her how to use the pistol. The killing of Pickett had grown dim and distant in her mental vision; Randerson had become a compelling figure that dominated her thoughts. But this second killing! She could no longer interpret the steady, serene gleam in his eyes as mild confidence and frank directness; as she saw them now they reflected hypocrisy—the cold, designing cunning of the habitual taker of human life.

She had been very near to making a mistake; she had almost yielded to the lure of the romance that had seemed to surround him; the magnetic personality of him had attracted her. He attracted her no longer—her heart was shut to him. And, during the days of Masten's continuing absence—in the times when she reflected on her feelings toward Randerson on the day he had taught her the use of the pistol, she bitterly reproached herself for her momentary lack of loyalty to the Easterner. She had been weak for an instant—as life is measured—and she would make it up to Masten—by ceasing to be irritated by his moods, through paying no attention to his faults, which, she now saw, were infinitely less grave than those of the man who had impressed her for an instant—and by yielding to his suggestion that she marry him before the fall round-up.

In these days, too, she seriously thought of discharging Randerson, for he had not ridden in to report the killing and to offer a defense for it, but she remembered Vickers' words: "Randerson is square," and she supposed that all cowboys were alike, and would shoot—to kill—if they considered their provocation to be great enough.

But these thoughts did not occupy all of her time. She found opportunities to ride and sew and talk—the latter mostly with Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson. And she kept making her visits to Hagar Catherson.

Of late Ruth had noticed a change in the girl's manner. She seemed to have lost the vivacity that had swept upon her with the coming of her new clothes; she had grown quiet and thoughtful, and had moods of intense abstraction. Ruth rode to the cabin one morning, to find her sitting on the edge of the porch, hugging Nig tightly and whispering to him. Her eyes 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's attempts to release himself.

"Have you been crying, Hagar?" Ruth inquired as she dismounted and sat on the edge of the porch close to the girl.

Hagar smiled wanly and rubbed her eyes vigorously with the back of her free 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 enough friend I've got—that can be depended on not to fool anybody."

"Why, Hagar!" Ruth was astonished and perhaps a little hurt by this pessimistic 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 the deep sand at the edge of the porch and looked down at the miniature hill she was making, her lips set queerly. Ruth had already noticed that she was dressed almost as she had been at their first meeting—a slipover apron that Ruth had given her being the only new garment. It was the lonesomeness, of course, Ruth reflected, and perhaps a vision of the dreary future, prospectless, hopeless, to be filled with the monotony of the 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 half frightened, half dreading look came into her eyes. "Nobody's fooled me," she added with a nervous laugh. "I was just feelin' sorta dumpish, I reckon."

"You mustn't brood, you know," consoled Ruth. "It ruins character."

"What's character?"

"Why—why," hesitated Ruth, "the thing that makes you yourself—apart from every other person; your reputation; the good that is in you—the good 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 on Ruth's shoulder and sobbed.

Perplexed, astonished, almost dismayed, Ruth held her off and tried to look at her face. But the girl only buried it deeper and continued to cry.

"Why, Hagar; whatever is the matter?"

There was no answer, and after holding her for a time, Ruth succeeded in getting a look at her face. It was tear-stained, but dogged in expression, and had Ruth been experienced in reading the human emotions, she could have seen the guilt in the girl's eyes, lurking far back. She also might have seen the determination in them—a determination not to tell her secret. And a sorrow, also, was there—aroused through the thought that she had deceived Ruth, and could not tell her.

Hagar realized now that she had permitted her emotions to carry her too far, that she had aroused Ruth's curiosity. Ruth must never know! She made an effort and sat up, laughing grimly through her tears, shaking her hair back from her eyes, brushing it away fiercely.

"Dad says there's times when I'm half loco," she said. "I reckon he's right." She recovered her composure rapidly, and in a few minutes there were no traces of tears or of mental distress. But Ruth was puzzled, and after she left the cabin she tried in vain to provide an explanation for the girl's strange conduct.

On her next visit to the cabin, Ruth was astonished when Hagar asked her bluntly:

"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 Ruth wonderingly.

The girl reddened, but met Ruth's eyes determinedly. "I've got a book in here, 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 us that-a-way. It's 'Millie's Lovers,' an' it tells how a man deceived a girl, 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 the men who do things like that!" She frowned as she looked at Ruth. "What would 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 shooting of Kelso, she found Hagar standing on the porch. The dog had apprised Hagar 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 queer look at her friend.

"Why," returned Ruth, surprised; "the deed itself! The very thought of one human being taking the life of another!"

"There's worse things than killin' a man that's tryin' to make you shuffle off," declared Hagar evenly. "Rex Randerson wouldn't kill nobody unless they made him do it. An' accordin' to what dad says, Kelso pulled first. Rex ain't lettin' nobody perforate him, you bet!"