Taylor landed a little off balance, and before he could set himself, Carrington threw himself forward. He swung malignantly, the blow landing glancingly on Taylor’s head, staggering him. His feet struck an obstruction and he went to one knee, Carrington striking at him as he tried to rise.
The blow missed, Carrington turning clear around from the force of the blow and tumbling headlong into the dust near Taylor.
They clambered to their feet at the same instant, and in the next they came together with a shock that made them both reel backward. And then, still grinning, Taylor stepped lightly forward. Paying no attention to Carrington’s blows, he shot in several short, terrific, deadening uppercuts that landed fairly on the big man’s chin. Carrington’s hands dropped to his sides, his knees doubled and he fell limply forward into the dust of the street where he lay, huddled and unconscious, while turmoil raged over him.
For the Danforth men in the crowd had yielded to rage over the defeat of their favorites. They had seen Danforth go down under the terrific punishment meted out to him by Taylor; they had seen Carrington suffer the same fate. Several of them drove forward, muttering profane threats.
Norton, pale and watchful, fearing just such a contingency, shoved forward to the center, shouting:
“Hold on, men! None of that! It’s a fair fight! Keep off, there—do you hear?”
A score of Taylor men surged forward to Norton’s side; the crowd split, forming two sections—one group of men massing near Norton, the other congregating around a tall man who seemed to be the leader of their faction. A number of other men—the cautious and faint-hearted element which had no personal animus to spur it to participation in what seemed to threaten to develop into a riot—retreated a short distance up the street and stood watching, morbidly curious.
But though violence, concerted and deadly, was imminent, it was delayed. For Taylor had not yet finished, and the crowd was curiously following his movements.
Taylor was a picturesquely ludicrous figure. He was covered with dust from head to foot; his face was streaked with it; his hair was full of it; it had been ground into his cheeks, and where blood from a cut on his forehead had trickled to his right temple, the dust was matted until it resembled crimson mud.
And yet the man was still smiling. It was not a smile at which most men care to look when its owner’s attention is definitely centered upon them; it was a smile full of grimly humorous malice and determination; the smile of the fighting man who cares nothing for consequences.
The concerted action which had threatened was, by the tacit consent of the prospective belligerents, postponedfor the instant. The gaze of every partisan—and of all the non-partisans—was directed at Taylor.
He had not yet finished. For an instant he stood looking down at Carrington and Danforth—both now beginning to recover from their chastisement, and sitting up in the dust gazing dizzily about them—then with a chuckle, grim and malicious, Taylor dove toward the door of the courthouse, where Littlefield was standing.
The judge had been stunned by the ferocity of the action he had witnessed. Whatever judicial dignity had been his had been whelmed by the paralyzing fear that had gripped him, and he stood, holding to the door-jambs, nerveless, motionless.
He saw Taylor start toward him; he saw a certain light leaping in the man’s eyes, and he cringed and cried out in dread.
But he had not the power to retreat from the menace that was approaching him. He threw out his hands impotently as Taylor reached him, as though to protest physically. But Taylor ignored the movement, reaching upward, a dusty finger and thumb closing on the judge’s right ear.
There was a jerk, a shrill cry of pain from the judge, and then he was led into the street, near where Carrington and Danforth had fallen, and twisted ungently around until he faced the crowd.
“Men,” said Taylor, in the silence that greeted him ashe stood erect, his finger and thumb still gripping the judge’s ear, “Judge Littlefield is going to say a few words to you. He’s going to tell you who started this ruckus—so there won’t be any nonsense about actions in contempt of court. Deals like this are pulled off better when the court takes the public into its confidence. Who started this thing, judge? Did I?”
“No—o,” was Littlefield’s hesitating reply.
“Who did start it?”
“Mr. Carrington.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“He—er—struck at you.”
“And Danforth?”
“He attacked you while you were in the street.”
“And I’m not to blame?”
“No.”
Taylor grinned and released the judge’s ear. “That’s all, gentlemen,” he said; “court is dismissed!”
The judge said nothing as he walked toward the door of the courthouse. Nor did Carrington and Danforth speak as they followed the judge. Both Carrington and Danforth seemed to have had enough fighting for one day.
The victor looked around at the faces in the crowd that were turned to his, and his grin grew eloquent.
“Looks like we’re going to have a mighty peaceable administration, boys!” he said. His grin included Norton, at whom he deliberately winked. Then he turned, mounted his horse—which had stood docilely near by during the excitement, and which whinnied as he approached it—and rode down the street to the Dawes bank, before which he dismounted. Then he went to his rooms on the floor above, washed and changed his clothes, and attended to the bruises on his face. Later, looking out of the window, he saw the crowd slowly dispersing; and still later he opened the door on Neil Norton, who came in, deep concern on his face.
“You’ve started something, Squint. After you left I went into theEagleoffice. The partition is thin, and I could hear Carrington raising hell in there. You look out; he’ll try to play some dog’s trick on you now! There’s going to be the devil to pay in this man’s town!”
Taylor laughed. “How long does it take for a sprained ankle to mend, Norton?”
Norton looked sharply at Taylor’s feet.
“You sprain one of yours?” he asked.
“Lord, no!” denied Taylor. “I was just wondering. How long?” he insisted.
“About two weeks. Say, Squint, your brain wasn’t injured in that ruckus, was it?” he asked solicitously.
“It’s as good as it ever was.”
“I don’t believe it!” declared Norton. “Here you’ve started something serious, and you go to rambling about sprained ankles.”
“Norton,” said Taylor slowly, “a sprained ankle is a mighty serious thing—when you’ve forgotten which one it was!”
“What in——”
“And,” resumed Taylor, “when you don’t know but that she took particular pains to make a mental note of it. If I’d wrap the left one up, now, and she knew it was the right one that had been hurt—or if I’d wrap up the right one, and she knew it was the wrong one, why she’d likely——”
“She?”groaned Norton, looking at his friend with bulging eyes that were haunted by a fear that Taylor’s brainhadcracked under the strain of the excitement he had undergone. He remembered now, that Taylorhadacted in a peculiar manner during the fight; that he had grinned all through it when he should have been in deadly earnest.
“Plumb loco!” he muttered.
And then he saw Taylor grinning broadly at him; and he was suddenly struck with the conviction that Taylor was not insane; that he was in possession of some secret that he was trying to confide to his friend, and that he had begun obliquely. Norton drew a deep breath of relief.
“Lord!” he sighed, “you sure had me going. And you don’t know which ankle you sprained?”
“I’ve clean forgot. And now she’ll find out that I’ve lied to her.”
“She?” said Norton significantly.
“Marion Harlan,” grinned Taylor.
Norton caught his breath with a gasp. “You mean you’ve fallen in love with her? And that you’ve made her—Oh, Lord! What a situation! Don’t you know her uncle and Carrington are in cahoots in this deal?”
“It’s my recollection that I told you about that the day I got back,” Taylor reminded him. And then Taylor told him the story of the bandaged ankle.
When Taylor concluded, Norton lay back in his chair and regarded his friend blankly.
“And you mean to tell me that all the time you were fighting Carrington and Danforth you were thinking about that ankle?”
“Mostly all the time,” Taylor admitted.
Norton made a gesture of impotence. “Well,” he said, “if a man can keep his mind on a girl while two men are trying to knock hell out of him, he’s sure got a bad case. And all I’ve got to say is that you’re going to have a lovely ruckus!”
Elam Parsons sat all day on the wide porch of the big house nursing his resentment. He was hunched up in the chair, his shoulders were slouched forward, his chin resting on the wings of his high, starched collar, his lips in a pout, his eyes sullen and gleaming with malevolence.
Parsons was beginning to recover from his astonishment over the attack Carrington had made on him. He saw now that he should have known Carrington was the kind of man he had shown himself to be; for now that Parsons reflected, he remembered little things that Carrington had done which should have warned him.
Carrington had never been a real friend. Carrington had used him—that was it; Carrington had made him think he was an important member of the partnership, and he had thought so himself. Now he understood Carrington. Carrington was selfish and cruel—more, Carrington was a beast and an ingrate. For it had been Parsons who had made it possible for Carrington to succeed—for he had used Parsons’ money all along—having had very little himself.
So Parsons reflected, knowing, however, that he had not the courage to oppose Carrington. He feared Carrington; he had always feared him, but now his fear had become terror—and hate. For Parsons could still feel the man’s fingers at his throat; and as he sat there on the porch his own fingers stroked the spot, while in his heart flamed a great yearning for vengeance.
Marion Harlan had got up this morning feeling rather more interested in the big house than she had felt the day before—or upon any day that she had occupied it. She, like Parsons, had awakened with a presentiment of impending pleasure. But, unlike Parsons, she found it impossible to definitely select an outstanding incident or memory upon which to base her expectations.
Her anticipations seemed to be broad and inclusive—like a clear, unobstructed sunset, with an effulgent glow that seemed to embrace the whole world, warming it, bringing a great peace.
For upon this morning, suddenly awakening to the pure, white light that shone into her window, she was conscious of a feeling of satisfaction with life that was strange and foreign—a thing that she had never before experienced. Always there had been a shadow of the past to darken her vision of the future, but this morning that shadow seemed to have vanished.
For a long time she could not understand, and shesnuggled up in bed, her brow thoughtfully furrowed, trying to solve the mystery. It was not until she got up and was looking out of the window at the mighty basin in which—like a dot of brown in a lake of emerald green—clustered the buildings of the Arrow ranch, that knowledge in an overwhelming flood assailed her. Then a crimson flush stained her cheeks, her eyes glowed with happiness, and she clasped her hands and stood rigid for a long time.
She knew now. A name sprang to her lips, and she murmured it aloud, softly: “Quinton Taylor.”
Later she appeared to Martha—a vision that made the negro woman gasp with amazement.
“What happen to you, honey? You-all git good news? You look light an’ airy—like you’s goin’ to fly!”
“I’ve decided to like this place—after all, Martha. I—I thought at first that I wouldn’t, but I have changed my mind.”
Martha looked sharply at her, a sidelong glance that had quite a little subtle knowledge in it.
“I reckon that ‘Squint’ Taylor make a good many girls change their mind, honey—he, he, he!”
“Martha!”
“Doan you git ’sturbed, now, honey. Martha shuah knows the signs. I done discover the signs a long while ago—when I fall in love with a worfless nigger in St. Louis. He shuah did captivate me, honey. I done try towiggle out of it—but ’tain’t no use. Face the fac’s, Martha, face the fac’s, I tell myself—an’ I done it. Ain’t no use for to try an’ fool the fac’s, honey—not one bit of use! The ol’ fac’ he look at you an’ say: ‘Doan you try to wiggle ’way from me; I’s heah, an’ heah I’s goin’ to stay!’ That Squint man ain’t no lady-killer, honey, but he’s shuah a he-man from the groun’ up!”
Marion escaped Martha as quickly as she could; and after breakfast began systematically to rearrange the furniture to suit her artistic ideals.
Martha helped, but not again did Martha refer to Quinton Taylor—something in Marion’s manner warned her that she could trespass too far in that direction.
Some time during the morning Marion saw Parsons ride up and dismount at the stable door; and later she heard him cross the porch. She looked out of one of the front windows and saw him huddled in a big rocking-chair, and she wondered at the depression that sat so heavily upon him.
The girl did not pause in her work long enough to partake of the lunch that Martha set for her—so interested was she; and therefore she did not know whether or not Parsons came into the house. But along about four o’clock in the afternoon, wearied of her task, Marion entered the kitchen. From Martha she learned that Parsons had not stirred from the chair on the porch during the entire day.
Concerned, Marion went out to him.
Parsons did not hear her; he was still moodily and resentfully reviewing the incident of the morning.
He started when the girl placed a gentle hand on one of his shoulders, seeming to cringe from her touch; then he looked up at her suddenly.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“Don’t you feel well, Uncle Elam?” she inquired. Her hand rose from his shoulder to his head, and her fingers ran through his hair with a light, gentle touch that made him shiver with repugnance. There were times when Parsons hated this living image of his brother-in-law with a fervor that seemed to sear his heart. Now, however, pity for himself had rather dulled the edge of his hatred. A calamity had befallen him; he was crushed under it; and the sympathy of one whom he hated was not entirely undesirable.
No sense of guilt assailed the man. He had never betrayed his hate to her, and he would not do so now. That wasn’t his way. He had always masked it from her, making her think he felt an affection for her which was rather the equal of that which custom required a man should feel for a niece. Yet he had always hated her.
“I’m not exactly well,” he muttered. “It’s the damned atmosphere, I suppose.”
“Martha tells me that itdoesaffect some persons,”said the girl. “And lack of appetite seems to be one of the first symptoms—in your case. For Martha tells me you have not eaten.”
The girl’s soft voice irritated Parsons.
“Go away!” he ordered crossly; “I want to think!”
It was not the first time the girl had endured his moods. She smiled tolerantly, and softly withdrew, busying herself inside the house.
Parsons did not eat supper; he slunk off to bed and lay for hours in his room brooding over the thing that had happened to him.
He got up early the next morning, mounted his horse and left the house before Marion could get a glimpse of him. It was still rather early when he reached Dawes. There, in a saloon, he overheard the story of the fight in the street in front of the courthouse, and with tingling eagerness and venomous satisfaction he listened to a man telling another of the terrible punishment inflicted upon Carrington by Quinton Taylor.
Parsons did not go to see Carrington, for he feared a repetition of Carrington’s savage rage, should he permit the latter to observe his satisfaction over the incident of yesterday. He knew he could not face Carrington and conceal the gloating triumph that gripped him.
So he returned to the big house. And for the greater part of the day he sat in the rocker on the porch, his soul filled with a vindictive joy.
He ate heartily, too; and his manner indicated that he had quite recovered from the indisposition that had affected him the previous day. He even smiled at Marion when she told him he was “looking better.”
But his bitter yearning for vengeance had not been satisfied by the knowledge that Taylor had thrashed Carrington. He knew, now that Carrington had ruthlessly cast him aside, that he was no longer to figure importantly in the scheme to loot the town; he knew that it was Carrington’s intention to rob him of every dollar he had entrusted to the man. He knew, too, that Carrington would not hesitate to murder him should he offer the slightest objection, or should he make any visible resistance to Carrington’s plans.
But Parsons was determined to be revenged upon Carrington, and he was convinced that he could secure his revenge without boldly announcing his plans.
As for that, he had no plans. But while sitting in the rocker on the porch during the long afternoon, the vindictive light in his eyes suddenly deepened, and he grinned evilly.
That night after supper he exerted himself to be agreeable to Marion. During the interval between sunset and darkness he walked with the girl along the edge of the butte above the big valley which held the irrigation dam. And while standing in a timber grove at the edge of the butte, he questioned her deftly about the news she hadreceived of her father, and she told him of her visits to the Arrow.
He had watched her narrowly, and he saw the flush that came into her cheeks each time Taylor was mentioned.
“He is a remarkably forceful man,” he observed once, when he mentioned Taylor. “And if I am not mistaken, Carrington is going to have his hands full with him.”
“What do you mean? Do you mean that Mr. Taylor is not in sympathy with Carrington’s plans concerning Dawes?”
“I mean just that. And if you had happened to be in Dawes yesterday you might have witnessed a demonstration of Taylor’s lack of sympathy with Carrington’s plans. For”—and now Parsons’ eyes gleamed maliciously—“after Judge Littlefield, acting under instructions from the governor, had refused to administer the oath of office to Taylor—inducting his rival, Danforth, into the position instead——”
Here the girl interrupted, and Parsons was forced to relate the tale in its entirety.
“Uncle Elam,” she said when Parsons paused, “are you certain that Carrington’s intentions toward Dawes are honorable?”
Parsons smiled crookedly behind a palm, and then uncertainly at the girl.
“I don’t know, Marion. Carrington is a rather hardman to gauge. He has always been mighty uncommunicative and headstrong. He is getting ruthless and domineering, too. I am rather afraid—that is, my dear, I am beginning to believe we made a mistake in Carrington. He doesn’t seem to be the sort of man we thought him to be. If he were like that man Taylor, now——” He paused and glanced covertly at the girl, noting the glow in her eyes.
“Yes,” he resumed, “Taylorisa man. My dear,” he added confidentially, “there is going to be trouble in Dawes—I am convinced of that; trouble between Carrington and Taylor. Taylor thrashed Carrington yesterday, but Carrington isn’t the kind to give up. I have withdrawn from active participation in the affairs that brought me here. I am not going to take sides. I don’t care who wins. That may sound disloyal to you—but look here!” He showed her several black and blue marks on his throat. “Carrington did that—the day before yesterday. Choked me.” His voice quavered with self-pity, whereat the girl caught her breath in quick sympathy and bent to examine the marks. When she stood erect again Parsons saw her eyes flashing with indignation, and he knew that whatever respect the girl had had for Carrington had been forever destroyed.
“Oh!” she said, “why did he choke you?”
“Because I frankly told him I did not approve of his methods,” lied Parsons, smirking virtuously. “Heshowed his hand, unmistakably, and his methods mean evil to Dawes.”
The girl stiffened. “I shall go directly to Dawes and tell Carrington what I think of him!” she declared.
“No—for God’s sake!” protested Parsons. “He would kill me! He would know, instantly, that I had been talking. My life would not be worth a snap of your fingers! Don’t let on that I have saidanythingto you! Let him come here, and treat him as you have always treated him. But warn Taylor. Taylor may know something—it is certain he suspects something—but Taylor will not know everything. Make a friend of Taylor, my dear. Go to him—visit his ranch—as much as you like. But if Carrington says anything to you about going there, tell him I opposed it. That will mislead him.”
When Parsons and the girl reached the house, Parsons stood near the kitchen door and watched her enter. He did not go in, himself; he walked around to the front and sat on the edge of the porch, grinning maliciously. For he knew something of the tortures of jealousy, and he was convinced that he had added something to the antagonism that already had been the cause of one clash between Carrington and Taylor. And Parsons was convinced that both he and Carrington had made a mistake in planning to loot Dawes; that despite the connivance of the governor and Judge Littlefield, Quinton Taylor would defeat them.
Parsons might lose his money; but the point was that Carrington would also lose. And if Parsons was wise and cautious—and did not antagonize Taylor—there was a chance that he might gain more through his friendship—a professed friendship—for Taylor, than he would have won had he been loyal to Carrington. At the least, he would have the satisfaction of working against Carrington in the dark. And to a man of Parsons’ character that was a satisfaction not to be lightly considered.
During the days that Parsons had passed nursing his resentment, Carrington had been busy. Despite the bruises that marked his face (which, by the way, a clever barber had disguised until they were hardly visible) Carrington appeared in public as though nothing had happened.
The fight at the courthouse had aroused the big man to the point of volcanic action. The lust for power that had seized him; the implacable resolution to rule, to win, to have his own way in all things; his passionate hatred of Taylor; his determination to destroy anyone who got in his path—these were the forces that drove him.
Taylor had brought matters to a sudden and unexpected crisis. Carrington had planned to begin his campaign differently, to insinuate himself into the political life of Dawes; and he had gone to the courthouse intending to keep in the background, but Taylor had forced him into the open.
Therefore, Carrington had no choice, and he instantly accepted Taylor’s challenge. After reentering the courthouse,following the departure of Taylor, Carrington had insisted that Judge Littlefield have Taylor taken into custody on a contempt of court charge. Littlefield had flatly refused, and the resulting argument had been what Neil Norton had overheard. But Littlefield had not yielded to Carrington’s insistence.
“That would be ridiculous, after what has happened,” the judge declared. “The whole country would be laughing at us. More, you can see that public sentiment is with Taylor. And he forced me to publicly admit that you were to blame. I simply won’t do it!”
“All right,” grinned Carrington, darkly; “I’ll find another way to get him!”
And so for the instant Carrington dismissed Taylor from his thoughts, devoting his attention to the task of organizing his forces for the campaign he was to make against the town.
He held many conferences with Danforth and with three of five men who had been elected to the new city council—that political body having also been provided under the new charter. Three of the members—Cartwright, Ellis, and Warden—were Danforth men, cogs of that secret machine which for more than a year Danforth had been perfecting at Carrington’s orders.
Some officials were appointed by Mayor Danforth—at Carrington’s direction; a chief of police, a municipal judge, a town clerk, a treasurer—and a host of otheroffice-holders inevitable to a system of government which permits the practice.
Carrington dominated every conference; he made it plain that he was to rule Dawes—that Danforth and all the others were subject to his orders.
Only one day was required to perfect Carrington’s organization, and on Thursday evening, with everything running smoothly, Carrington appeared in the palm-decorated foyer of the Castle, a smugly complacent smile on his face. For he had won the first battle in the war he was to wage. To be sure, he had been worsted in a physical encounter with Taylor, as the bruises still on his face indicated, but he intended to repay Taylor for that thrashing—and his lips went into an ugly pout when his thoughts dwelt upon the man.
He had almost forgotten Parsons; he did not think of the other until about eight o’clock in the evening, when, with Danforth in the barroom of the Castle, Danforth mentioned his name. Then Carrington remembered that he had not seen Parsons since he had throttled the man. He ordered another drink, not permitting Danforth to see his eyes, which were glowing with a flame that would have betrayed him.
“This is good-night,” he said to Danforth as he raised his glass. “I’ve got to see Parsons tonight.”
Yet it was not Parsons who was uppermost in his mind when he left the Castle, mounted on his horse; the faceof Marion Harlan was in the mental picture he drew as he rode toward the Huggins house, and there ran in his brain a reckless thought—which had been uttered to Parsons at the instant before his fingers had closed around the latter’s throat a few days before:
“I was born a thousand years too late, Parsons! I am a robber baron brought down to date—modernized. I believe that in me flows the blood of a pirate, a savage, or an ancient king. I have all the instincts of a tribal chief whose principles are to rule or ruin! I’ll have no law out here but my own desires!”
And tonight Carrington’s desires were for the girl who had accompanied him to Dawes; the girl who had stirred his passions as no woman had ever stirred them, and who—now that he had seized the town’s government—was to be as much his vassal as Parsons, Danforth—or any of them. He grinned as he rode toward the Huggins house—a grin that grew to a laugh as he rode up the drive toward the house; low, vibrant, hideous with its threat of unrestrained passion.
The night had been too beautiful for Marion Harlan to remain indoors, and so, after darkness had swathed the big valley back of the house, she had slipped out, noting that her uncle had gone again to the chair on the front porch. She had walked with Parsons along the butte above the valley, but she wanted to be alone now, toview the beauties without danger of interruption. Above all, she wanted to think.
For the news that Parsons had communicated to her had affected her strangely; she felt that her uncle’s revelations of Carrington’s character amounted to a vindication of her own secret opinion of the man.
He had been a volcanic wooer, and she had distrusted him all along. She had never permitted that distrust to appear on the surface, however, out of respect for her uncle—for she had always thought he and Carrington were firm friends. She saw now, though, that she had always suspected Carrington of being just what her uncle’s revelation had proved him to be—a ruthless, selfish, domineering brute of a man, who would have no mercy upon any person who got in his way.
Reflecting upon his actions during the days she had known him in Westwood—and upon his glances when sometimes she had caught him looking at her, and at other times when his gaze—bold, and flaming with naked passion—had been fixed upon her, she shuddered, comparing him with Quinton Taylor, quiet, polite, and considerate.
Loyally, she hated Carrington now for the things he had done to Parsons. She mentally vowed that the next time she saw Carrington she would tell him exactly what she thought of him, regardless of the effect her frank opinion might have on her uncle’s fortunes.
But still she had not come to the edge of the butte for the purpose of devoting her entire thoughts to Carrington; there was another face that obtruded insistently in the mental pictures she drew—Quinton Taylor’s. And she found a grass knoll at the edge of the butte, twisted around so that she could look over the edge of the butte and into the big basin that slumbered somberly in the mysterious darkness, staring intently until she discovered a pin-point of light gleaming out of it. That light, she knew, came from one of the windows of the Arrow ranchhouse, and she watched it long, wondering what Taylor would be doing about now.
For she was keeping no secrets from herself tonight. She knew that she liked Taylor better than she had ever liked any man of her acquaintance.
At first she had told herself that her liking for the man had been aroused merely because he had been good to her father. But she knew now that she liked Taylor for himself. There was no mistaking the nameless longing that had taken possession of her; the insistent and yearning desire to be near him; the regret that had affected her when she had left the Arrow at the end of her last visit. Taylor would never know how near she had come to accepting his invitation to share the Arrow with him. Had it not been for propriety—the same propriety which had inseparably linked itself with all her actions—which she must observe punctiliously despite the fact that girls ofher acquaintance had violated it openly without hurt or damage to their reputations; had it not been that she must bend to its mandates, because of the shadow that had always lurked near her, she would have gone to live at the Arrow.
For she knew that she could have stayed at the Arrow without danger. Taylor was a gentleman—she knew—and Taylor would never offend her in the manner the world affected to dread—and suspect. But she could not do the things other girls could do—that was why she had refused Taylor’s invitation.
She had thought she had conquered her aversion for the big house—the aversion that had been aroused because of the story Martha had told her regarding its former inhabitants, but that aversion recurred to her with disquieting insistence as she sat there on the edge of the butte.
It seemed to her that the serpent of immorality which had dragged its trail across hers so many times was never to leave her, and she found herself wondering about the house and about Carrington and her uncle.
Carrington had bought the horse for her—Billy; and she had accepted it after some consideration. But what if Carrington had bought the house? That would mean—why, the people of Dawes, if they discovered it—if Carrington had bought it—might place their own interpretation upon the fact that she was living in it.And the interpretation of the people of Dawes would be no more charitable than that of the people of Westwood! They would think——
She got up quickly, her face pale, and started toward the house, determined to ask her uncle.
Walking swiftly toward the front porch, where she had seen Parsons go, she remembered that Parsons had told her he had arranged for the house, but that might not mean that he had personally bought it.
She meant to find out, and if Carrington owned the house, she would not stay in it another night—not even tonight.
She was walking fast when she reached the edge of the porch—almost running; and when she got to the nearest corner, she saw that the porch was quite vacant; Parsons must have gone in.
She stood for an instant at the porch-edge, a beam of silvery moonlight streaming upon her through a break in the trees overhead, convinced that Parsons had gone to bed; and convinced, likewise, that, were she to disturb him now to ask the question that was in her mind, he would laugh at her.
She decided she would wait until the morning, and she was about to return to the edge of the butte, when she realized that it had grown rather late. She had not noticed how quickly the time had fled.
She turned, intending to enter the house from one ofthe rear doors through which she had emerged, when a sound reached her ears—the rapid drumming of a horse’s hoofs. She wheeled, facing the direction from which the sound came—and saw Carrington riding toward her, not more than fifty feet distant.
He saw her at the instant her gaze rested on him—an instant before, she surmised, for there was a huge grin on his face as she turned to him.
He was at her side before she could obey a sudden impulse to run—for she did not wish to talk to him tonight—and in another instant he had dismounted and was standing close to her.
“All alone, eh?” he laughed. “And enjoying the moon? Do you know that you made a ravishing picture, standing there with the light shining on you? I saw you as you started to turn, and I shall remember the picture all my life! You are more beautiful than ever, girl!”
Carrington was breathing fast. The girl thought he had been riding hard. But, despite that explanation for the repressed excitement under which he seemed to be laboring, the girl thought she detected the presence of restrained passion in his eyes, and she shrank back a little.
She had often seen passion in his eyes, identical with what glowed in them now, but she had always felt a certain immunity, a masterfulness over him that had permitted her to feel that she could repulse him at will. Now, however, she felt a sudden, cringing dread of him.The dread, no doubt, was provoked by her uncle’s revelation of the man’s character; and, for the first time during her acquaintance with Carrington, she felt a fear of him, and became aware of the overpowering force and virility of the man.
Her voice was a little tremulous when she answered:
“I was looking for Uncle Elam. He must have gone in.”
His face was not very distinct to her, for he was standing in a shadow cast by a near-by tree, and she could not see the bruises that marred the flesh, but it seemed to her that his face had never seemed so repulsive. And the significance of his grin made her gasp.
“That’s good. I’m glad he did go in; I did not come to see Parsons.”
She had meant to take him to task for what he had done to her uncle, but there was something in his voice that made thoughts of defending Parsons seem futile—a need gone in the necessity to conserve her voice and strength for an imminent crisis.
For Carrington’s voice, thick and vibrant, smote her with a presentiment of danger to herself. She looked sharply at him, saw that his face was red and bloated with passion and, taking a backward step, she said shortly:
“I must go in. I—I promised Martha——”
His voice interrupted her; she felt one of his hands on her arm, the fingers gripping it tightly.
“No, you don’t,” he said, hoarsely; “I came here to have a talk with you, and I mean to have it!”
“What do you mean?” she asked. She was rigid and erect, but she could not keep the quaver out of her voice.
“Playing the innocent, eh?” he mocked, his voice dry and light. “You’ve played innocent ever since I saw you the first time. It doesn’t go anymore. You’re going to face the music.” He thrust his face close to hers and the expression of his eyes thrilled her with horror.
“What do you suppose I brought you here for?” he demanded. “I’ll tell you. I bought the house for you. Parsons knows why—Dawes knows why—everybody knows. You ought to know—you shall know.” He laughed, sneeringly. “Westwood could tell you, or the woman who lived in the Huggins house before you came. Martha could tell you—she lived here——”
He heard her draw her breath sharply and he mocked her, gloating:
“Ah, Martha has told you! Well, you’ve got to face the music, I tell you! I’ve got things going my way here—the way I’ve wanted things to go since I’ve been old enough to realize what life is. I’ve got the governor, the mayor, the judges—everything—with me, and I’m going to rule. I’m going to rule, my way! If you are sensible, you’ll have things pretty easy; but if you’re going to try to balk me you’re going to pay—plenty!”
She did not answer, standing rigid in his grasp, herface chalk-white. He did not notice her pallor, nor how she stood, paralyzed with dread; and he thought because of her silence that she was going to passively submit. He thought victory was near, and he was going to be magnanimous in his moment of triumph.
His grip on her arm relaxed and he leaned forward to whisper:
“That’s the girl. No fuss, no heroics. We’ll get along; we’ll——”
Her right hand struck his face—a full sweep of the arm behind it—burning, stinging, sending him staggering back a little from its very unexpectedness. And before he could make a move to recover his equilibrium she had gone like a flash of light, as elusive as the moonbeam in which she had stood when he had first come upon her.
He cursed gutturally and leaped forward, running with great leaps toward the rear of the house, where he had seen her vanish. He reached the door through which she had gone, finding it closed and locked against him. Stepping back a little, he hurled himself against the door, sending it crashing from its hinges, so that he tumbled headlong into the room and sprawled upon the floor. He was up in an instant, tossing the wreck of the door from him, breathing heavily, cursing frightfully; for he had completely lost his senses and was in the grip of an insane rage over the knowledge that she had tricked him.
Parsons heard the crash as the door went from its hinges. He got out of bed in a tremor of fear and opened the door of his room, peering into the big room that adjoined the dining-room. From the direction of the kitchen he caught a thin shaft of light—from the kerosene-lamp that Martha had placed on a table for Marion’s convenience. A big form blotted out the light, casting a huge, gigantic shadow; and Parsons saw the shadow on the ceiling of the room into which he looked.
Huge as the shadow was, Parsons had no difficulty in recognizing it as belonging to Carrington; and with chattering teeth Parsons quickly closed his door, locked it, and stood against it, his knees knocking together.
Martha, too, had heard the crash. She bounded out of bed and ran to the door of her room, swinging it wide, for instinct told her something had happened to Marion. Her room was closer to the kitchen, and she saw Carrington plainly, as he was rising from the débris. And she was just in time to see Marion slipping through the doorway of her own room. And by the time Carrington got to his feet, Martha had heard Marion’s door click shut, heard the lock snap home.
Martha instantly closed the door of her own room, fastened it and ran to another door that connected her room with Marion’s. She swung that door open and looked into the girl’s room; heard the girl stifle a shriek—for the girl thought Carrington was coming upon herfrom that direction—and then Martha was at the girl’s side, whispering to her—excitedly comforting her.
“The damn trash—houndin’ you this way! He ain’ goin’ to hurt you, honey—not one bit!”
Outside the door they could hear Carrington walking about in the room. There came to the ears of the two women the scratch of a match, and then a steady glimmer of light streaked into the room from the bottom of the door, and they knew Carrington had lighted a lamp. A little later, while Martha stood, her arms around the girl, who leaned against the negro woman, very white and still, they heard Carrington talking with Parsons. They heard Parsons protesting, Carrington cursing him.
“He ain’ goin’ to git you, honey,” whispered Martha. “That man come heah the firs’ day, an’ I knowed he’s a rapscallion.” She pointed upward, to where a trap-door, partly open, appeared in the ceiling of the room.
“There’s the attic, honey. I’ll boost you, an’ you go up there an’ hide from that wild man. You got to, for that worfless Parsons am tellin’ him which room you’s in. You hurry—you heah me!”
She helped the girl upward, and stood listening until the trap-door grated shut. Then she turned and grinned at the door that led into the big room adjoining the kitchen. Carrington was at it, his shoulder against it; Martha could hear him cursing.
“Open up, here!” came Carrington’s voice throughthe door, muffled, but resonant. “Open the door, damn you, or I’ll tear it down!”
“Tear away, white man!” giggled Martha softly. “They’s a big ’sprise waitin’ you when you git in heah!”
For an instant following Carrington’s curses and demands there was a silence. It was broken by a splintering crash, and the negro woman saw the door split so that the light from the other room streaked through it. But the door held, momentarily. Then Carrington again lunged against it and it burst open, pieces of the lock flying across the room.
This time Carrington did not fall with the door, but reeled through the opening, erect, big, a vibrant, mirthless laugh on his lips.
The light from the other room streamed in past him, shining full upon Martha, who stood, her hands on her hips, looking at the man.
Carrington was disconcerted by the presence of Martha when he had expected to see Marion. He stepped back, cursing.
Martha giggled softly.
“What you doin’ in my room, man; just when I’se goin’ to retiah? You git out o’ heah—quick! Yo’ heah me? Yo’ ain’t got no business bustin’ my door down!”
“Bah!” Carrington’s voice was malignant with baffled rage. With one step he was at Martha’s side, his hands on her throat, his muscles rigid and straining.
“Where’s Marion Harlan?” he demanded. “Tell me, you black devil, or I’ll choke hell out of you!”
Martha was not frightened; she giggled mockingly.
“That girl bust in heah a minute ago; then she bust out ag’in, runnin’ fit to kill herself. I reckon by this time she’s done throw herself off the butte—rather than have you git her!”
Carrington shoved Martha from him, so that she staggered and fell; and with a bound he was through the door that led into Martha’s room.
The negro woman did not move. She sat on the floor, a malicious grin on her face, listening to Carrington as he raged through the house.
Once, about five minutes after he left, Carrington returned and stuck his head into the room. Martha still sat where Carrington had thrown her. She did not care what Carrington did to the house, so long as he was ignorant of the existence of the trap-door.
And Carrington did not notice the door. For an hour Martha heard him raging around the house, opening and slamming doors and overturning furniture. Once when she did not hear him for several minutes, she got up and went to one of the windows. She saw him, out at the stable, looking in at the horses.
Then he returned to the house, and Martha resumed her place on the floor. Later, she heard Carrington enter the house again, and after that she heard Parsons’ voice,raised in high-terrored protest. Then there was another silence. Again Martha looked out of a window. This time she saw Carrington on his horse, riding away.
But for half an hour Martha remained at the window. She feared Carrington’s departure was a subterfuge, and she was not mistaken. For a little later Carrington returned, riding swiftly. He slid from his horse at a little distance from the house and ran toward it. Martha was in the kitchen when he came in. He did not speak to her as he came into the room, but passed her and again made a search of the house. Passing Martha again he gave her a malevolent look, then halted at the outside door.
The man’s wild rage seemed to have left him; he was calm—polite, even.
“Tell your mistress I am sorry for what has occurred. I am afraid I was a bit excited. I shall not harm her; I won’t bother her again.”
He stepped through the doorway and, going again to a window and drawing back the curtain slightly, Martha watched him.
Carrington went to the stable, entered, and emerged again presently, leading two horses—Parsons’ horse and Billy. He led the animals to where his own horse stood, climbed into the saddle and rode away, the two horses following. At the edge of the wood he turned and looked back. Then the darkness swallowed him.
For another half-hour Martha watched the Dawes trailfrom a window. Then she drew a deep breath and went into Marion’s room, standing under the trap-door.
“I reckon you kin come down now, honey—he’s gone.”
A little later, with Marion standing near her in the room, the light from the kerosene-lamp streaming upon them through the shattered door, Martha was speaking rapidly:
“He acted mighty suspicious, honey; an’ he’s up to some dog’s trick, shuah as you’m alive. You got to git out of heah, honey—mighty quick! ‘Pears he thinks you is hid somewhares around heah, an’ he’s figgerin’ on makin’ you stay heah. An’ if you wants to git away, you’s got to walk, for he’s took the hosses!” She shook her head, her eyes wide with a reflection of the complete stupefaction that had descended upon her. “Laws A’mighty, what a ragin’ devil that man is, honey! I’se seen menan’men—an’ I knowed a nigger once that was——”
But Martha paused, for Marion was paying no attention to her. The girl was pulling some articles of wearing apparel from some drawers, packing them hurriedly into a small handbag, and Martha sprang quickly to help her, divining what the girl intended to do.
“That’s right, honey; doan you stay heah in this house another minit! You git out as quick as you kin. You go right over to that Squint man’s house an’ tell him toprotect you. ’Cause you’s goin’ to need protection, honey—an’ don’t you forgit it!”
The girl’s white face was an eloquent sign of her conception of the danger that confronted her. But she spoke no word while packing her handbag. When she was ready she turned to the door, to confront Martha, who also carried a satchel. Together the two went out of the house, crossed the level surrounding it, and began to descend the long slope that led down into the mighty basin in which, some hours before, the girl had seen the pin-point of light glimmering across the sea of darkness toward her. And toward that light, as toward a beacon that promised a haven from a storm, she went, Martha following.
From a window of the house a man watched them—Parsons—in the grip of a paralyzing terror, his pallid face pressed tightly against the glass of the window as he watched until he could see them no longer.
Bud Hemmingway, the tall, red-faced young puncher who had assisted Quinton Taylor in the sprained-ankle deception, saw the dawn breaking through one of the windows of the bunkhouse when he suddenly opened his eyes after dreaming of steaming flapjacks soaked in the sirup he liked best. He stretched out on his back in the wall-bunk and licked his lips.
“Lordy, I’m hungry!”
But he decided to rest for a few minutes while he considered the cook—away with the outfit to a distant corner of the range.
He reflected bitterly that the cook was away most of the time, and that a man fared considerably better with the outfit than he did by staying at the home ranch. For one thing, when a man was with the outfit he got “grub,” without having to rustle it himself—that was why it was better to be with the outfit.
“A man don’t git nothin’ to eat at all, scarcely—when he’s got to rustle his own grub,” mourned Bud. “He’s got the appetite, all right, but he don’t know how to rassle the ingredients which goes into good grub. Take themflapjacks, now.” (He licked his lips again.) “They’re scrumptuous. But that damned hyena which slings grub for the outfit won’t tell a man how he makes ’em, which greediness is goin’ to git him into a heap of trouble some day—when I git so hungry that I feel a heap reckless!”
Bud watched the dawn broaden. He knew he ought to get up, for this was the day on which Marion Harlan was to visit the Arrow—and Taylor had warned him to be on hand early to bandage the ankle again—Taylor having decided that not enough time had elapsed to effect a cure.
But Bud did not get up until a glowing shaft entering the window warned him that the sun was soon to appear above the horizon. Then he bounded out of the bunk and lurched heavily to an east window.
What he saw when he looked out made him gasp for breath and hang hard to the window-sill, while his eyes bulged and widened with astonishment. For upon the porch of the ranchhouse—seated in the identical chairs in which they had sat during their previous visit, were Marion Harlan and the negro woman!
Bud stepped back from the window and rubbed his eyes. Then he went to the window again and looked with all his vision. And then a grin covered his face.
For the two women seemed to be asleep. Bud would have sworn they were asleep! For the negress was hunched up in her chair—a big, almost shapeless black mass—with her chin hidden in the swell of her amplebosom; while the girl was leaning back, her figure slack with the utter relaxation that accompanies deep sleep, her eyes closed and her hat a little awry. Bud was certainshewas asleep, for no girl in her waking moments would permit her hat to rest upon her head in that negligent manner.
Bad scratched his head many times while hurriedly getting into his clothing.
“I’m bettin’theydidn’t wait for flapjacksthismorning!” he confided to himself, mentally. “Must like it here a heap,” he reflected. “Well, there’s nothin’ like gittin’ an early start when you’re goin’ anywhere!” he grinned.
Stealthily he opened the door of the bunkhouse, watching furtively as he stepped out, lest he be seen; and then when he noted that the women did not move, he darted across the yard, vaulted the corral fence, ran around the corner of the ranchhouse, carefully opened a rear door, and presently stood beside a bed gently shaking its tousled-haired occupant.
“Git up, you sufferin’ fool!” he whispered hoarsely; “they’re here!”
Taylor’s eyes snapped open and were fixed on Bud with a resentful glare, which instantly changed to reserved amusement when he saw Bud’s bulging eyes and general evidence of suppressed excitement.
He yawned sleepily, stretching his arms wide.
“The outfit, eh? Well, tell Bothwell I’ll see him——”
“Bothwell, hell!” sneered Bud. “It ain’t the outfit! It ain’t no damned range boss! It’sher, I tell you! An’ if you’re figgerin’ on gittin’ that ankle bandaged before— That starts you to runnin’, eh?” he jeered.
For Taylor was out of bed with one leap. In another he had Bud by the shoulders and had crowded him back against the wall.
“Bud,” he said, “I’ve a notion to manhandle you! Didn’t I tell you to have me up early?”
“Git your fingers out of my windpipe,” objected Bud. “Early! Sufferin’ shorthorns! Did you want me to git you up last night? It’s only four, now—an’ they’ve been here for hours, I reckon—mebbe all night. How’s a man to know anything about a woman?”
Taylor was getting into his clothes. Bud watched him, marveling at his deft movements. “You’re sure a wolf at hustlin’ whenshe’saround!” he offered.
But he got no reply. Taylor was dressed in a miraculously short time, and then he sat down on the edge of the bed and stuck a foot out toward Bud.
“Shut up, and get the bandage on!” he directed.
Bud dove for a dresser and pulled out a drawer, returning instantly with a roll of white cloth, which he unfolded as he knelt beside the bed. For an instant after kneeling he scratched his head, looking at Taylor’s feet in perplexity, and then he looked up at Taylor, his face thoughtfully furrowed.
“Which ankle was it I bandaged before?” he demanded; “I’ve forgot!”
Taylor groaned. He, too, had forgotten. Since he had talked with Neil Norton about the ankle directly after the fight with Carrington in front of the courthouse he had tried in vain to remember which ankle he had bandaged for Miss Harlan’s benefit. Driven to the necessity of making a quick decision, his brain became a mere muddle of desperate conjecture. Out of the muddle sprang a disgust for Bud forhispoor memory.
“You’ve forgot!” he blurted at Bud. “Why, damn it, you ought to know which one it was—you bandaged it!”
“Well,” grinned Bud gleefully, “it wasyourankle, wasn’t it? Strikes me that if I busted one ofmyankles I wouldn’t forget which one it was! Leastways, if I’d busted it just to hang around a girl!”
Taylor sneered scornfully. “You wouldn’t bust an ankle for a girl—you ain’t got backbone enough. Hell!” he exploded; “do something! Take a chance and bandage one of them—I don’t care a damn which one! If she noticed the other time, I’ll tell her that one was cured and I busted the other one!”
“She’d know you was lyin’,” grinned Bud. He stood erect, his eyes alight with an inspiration. “Wrap up both of ’em!” he suggested. “If she goes to gittin’ curious—which she will, bein’ a woman—tell her you busted both of ’em!”
“It won’t do,” objected Taylor; “I couldn’t lie that heavy an’ keep a straight face.”
Bud began to wrap the left ankle. As he worked, the doubt in his eyes began to fade and was succeeded by conviction. When he finished, he stood up and grinned at Taylor.
“That’s the one,” he said; “the left. I mind, now, that we talked about it. You go right out to her, limpin’, the same as you done before, an’ she’ll not say a word about it. You’ll see.”
Taylor grunted disbelievingly, and hobbled to the front door. He looked back at Bud, who was snickering, made a malicious grimace at him, and softly opened the door.
Miss Harlan had been asleep, but she was not asleep when Taylor opened the door. Indeed, she was never more wide awake in her life. At the sound of the door opening she turned her head and sat stiffly erect, to face Taylor.
Taylor looked apologetically at his ankle, his cheeks tinged with a flush of embarrassment.
“This ankle, ma’am—it ain’t quite well yet. You’ll excuse me not being gone. But Bud—that’s my friend—says it won’t be quite right for a few days yet. But I won’t be in your way—and I hope you enjoy yourself.”
Miss Harlan was enjoying herself. She was enjoying herself despite the shadow of the tragedy that had almost descended upon her. And mirth, routing the bitter,resentful emotions that had dwelt in her heart during the night, twitched mightily at her lips and threatened to curve them into a smile.
For during her last visit to the Arrow she had noted particularly that it had been Taylor’srightankle which had been bandaged, and now he appeared before her with theleftswathed in white cloth!
But even had she not known, Taylor’s face must have told her of the deception. For there was guilt in his eyes, and doubt, and a sort of breathless speculation, and—she was certain—an intense curiosity to discover whether or not she was aware of the trick.
But she looked straight at him, betraying nothing of the emotions that had seized her.
“Does it pain youverymuch?” she inquired.
Had not Taylor been so eager to make his case strong, he might have noted the exceedingly light sarcasm of her voice.
“It hurts a heap, ma’am,” he declared. “Why, last night——”
“I shouldn’t think it would be necessary to lie about an ankle,” she said, coldly.
Taylor’s face went crimson, and in his astonishment he stepped heavily upon the traitor foot and stood, convicted, before her, looking very much like a reproved schoolboy.
She rose from her chair, and now she turned from Taylor and stood looking out over the big level, while behindher Taylor shifted his feet, scowled and felt decidedly uncomfortable.
From where Taylor watched her she looked very rigid and indignant—with her head proudly erect and her shoulders squared; and he could almostfeelthat her eyes were flashing with resentment.
Yet had he been able to see her face, he would have seen her lips twitching and her eyes dancing with a light that might have puzzled him. For she had already forgiven him.
“There’s lies—andlies,” he offered palliatively, breaking a painful silence.
There was no answer, and Taylor, desperately in earnest in his desire for forgiveness, and looking decidedly funny to Bud Hemmingway, who was watching from the interior of the room beyond the open door, walked across the porch with no suspicion of a limp, and halted near the girl.
“Shucks, Miss Harlan,” he said. “I’m sure caught; and I’m admitting it was a sort of mean trick to pull off on you. But if you wanted to be near a girl you’d taken a shine to—that you liked a whole lot, I mean, Miss Harlan—and you couldn’t think of anygoodexcuse to be around her? You couldn’t blame a man for that—could you? Besides,” he added, when peering at the side of her face, he saw the twitching lips, ready to break into a smile, “I’ll make it up to you!”
“How?” It was a strained voice that answered him.
“By manhandling Bud Hemmingway for wrapping up the wrong ankle, ma’am!” he declared.
Both heard a cackle of mirth from the room behind them. And both turned, to see Bud Hemmingway retreating through a door into the kitchen.
It might have been Bud’s action that brought the smile to Miss Harlan’s face, or it might have been that she had forgiven Taylor. But at any rate Taylor read the smile correctly, and he succeeded in looking properly repentant when he felt Miss Harlan’s gaze upon him.
“I won’t play any more tricks—on you,” he declared. “You ain’t holding it against me?”
“If you will promise not to harm Bud,” she said.
“That goes,” he agreed, and went into the house to get his discarded boot.
When he reappeared, Miss Harlan was again seated in the chair. Swiftly her thoughts had reverted to the incident of the night before, and her face was wan and pale, and her lips pressed tightly together in a brave effort to repress the emotions that rioted within her. In spite of her courage, and of her determination not to let Taylor know of what had happened to her, her eyes were moist and her lips quivering.
He stepped close to her and peered sharply at her, standing erect instantly, his face grave.
“Shucks!” he said, accusingly; “I wouldn’t be calledhospitable—now, would I? Standing here, talking a lot of nonsense, and you—you must have startedearlyto get here by this time!” Again he flashed a keen glance at her, and his voice leaped.
“Something has happened, Miss Harlan! What is it?”
She got up again and faced him, smiling, her eyes shining mistily through the moisture in them. She was almost on the verge of tears, and her voice was tremulous when she answered:
“Mr. Taylor, I—I have come to ask if you—still—if your offer about the Arrow is still open—if—I could stay here—myself and Martha; if I could accept the offer you made about giving me father’s share of the Arrow. For—for—I can’t go back East—to Westwood, and I won’t stay in the Huggins house a minute longer!”
“Sure!” he said, with a grim smile, aware of her profound emotion; aware, too, that something had gone terribly wrong with her—to make her accept what she had once considered charity—an offer made out of his regard for her father.
“But, look here,” he added. “What’s wrong? There’s something——”
“Plenty, Mr. Squint.”
This was Martha. She had been awake for some little time, sitting back with her eyes closed, listening. She was now sitting erect, her eyes shining with eagerness to tell all she knew of the night’s happenings.
“Plenty, Mr. Squint,” she repeated, paying no attention to Miss Harlan’s sharp, “Martha!” “That big rapscallion, Carrington, has been makin’ things mighty mis’able for Missy Harlan. He come to the house las’ night an’ bust the door down, tryin’ to git at missy, an’ she’s run away from him like a whitehead. Then, when he finds he can’t diskiver where I hide missy he run the hosses off an’ we have to walk heah. That’s all, Mr. Squint, ’ceptin’ that me an’ missy doan stay in that house no more—if we have to walk East—all the way!”
Miss Harlan saw a flash light Taylor’s eyes; saw the flash recede, to be replaced by a chilling glow. And his lips grew straight and stiff—two hard lines pressed firmly together. She saw his chest swell and noted the tenseness of his muscles as he stepped closer to her.
“Was your uncle there with you, Miss Harlan?”
She nodded, and saw his lips curve with a mirthless smile.
“What did Carrington do?” The passion in his voice made an icy shiver run over her—she felt the terrible earnestness that had come over him, and a pulse of fear gripped her.
She had never felt more like crying than at this instant, and until this minute she had not known how deeply she had been affected by Carrington’s conduct, nor how tired she was, nor how she had yearned for the sympathy Taylor was giving her. But she felt that something inTaylor’s manner portended violence, and she did not want him to risk his life fighting Carrington—for her.
“You see,” she explained, “Mr. Carrington did not reallydoanything. He just came there, and was impertinent, and impudent, and insulting. And he told me that he had bought the house; that it didn’t belong to uncle—though I thought it did; and that the people of Dawes—and everywhere—would think—things—about me—as the people of Westwood had—thought. And I—I—why, I just couldn’t stay——”
“That’s enough, Miss Harlan. So Carrington didn’t do anything.” His voice was vibrant with some sternly repressed passion.
“So you walked all the way here, and you have had no breakfast,” he said, shortly. He turned toward the front door, his voice snapping like the report of a rifle:
“Bud!”
And, looking through the doorway, Miss Harlan saw Bud jump as though he had been shot. He appeared in the doorway, serious-faced and alert.