CHAPTER XXIIIBANISHING A SHADOW
Randerson could not adjust his principles to his purpose to do Masten to death while working for Ruth, and so, in the morning following his meeting with the Easterner on the trail leading to Chavis’ shack, he announced to the men of the outfit that he was going to quit. He told Red Owen to take charge until Ruth could see him.
Glum looks followed his announcement. They tried to dissuade him, for they did not know his thoughts, and perhaps would not have given him credit for them if they had.
“Don’t the outfit suit you?” asked one gently. “If it don’t, we’ll try to do better!”
“Your conduct has been amazin’ good—considerin’,” grinned Randerson, light-hearted for the time; for this mark of affection was not lost upon him.
“If there’s anybody in the outfit that’s disagreeable to you, why, say the word an’ we’llmake him look mighty scarce!” declared another, glancing belligerently around him.
“Shucks, this outfit’ll be a blamed funeral!” said Blair. “We’ll be gettin’ to think that we don’t grade up, nohow. First Vickers packs his little war-bag an’ goes hittin’ the breeze out; an’ now you’ve got some fool notion that you ought to pullyourfreight. If it’s anything botherin’ you, why, open your yap, an’ we’ll sure salivate that thing!”
“I ain’t mentionin’,” said Randerson. “But it ain’t you boys. You’ve suited me mighty well. I’m sure disturbed in my mind over leavin’ you.”
“Then why leave at all?” said Owen, his face long.
But Randerson evaded this direct question. “An’ you standin’ in line for my job?” he said in pretended astonishment. “Why, I reckon you ought to be the most tickled because I’m goin’!”
“Well, if it’s a go, I reckon we’ll have to stand for it,” said Blair a little later, as Randerson mounted his pony. Their parting words were short, but eloquent in the sentiment left unsaid.
“So long,” Randerson told them as he rode away. And “so long” came the chorus behind him, not a man omitting the courtesy.
They stood in a group, watching him as he faded into the distance toward the ranchhouse.
“Somethin’ is botherin’ him mighty bad,” said Owen, frowning.
“He’s made the outfit feel like a lost doggie,” grumbled Blair. “The blamed cuss is grievin’ over somethin’.” And they went disconsolately to their work.
Randerson rode on his way. He felt a little relieved. No longer was he bound by his job; he was now a free agent and could do as he pleased. And it would please him to settle his differences with Masten. He would “go gunnin’ for him” with a vengeance.
It was about noon when he rode in to the ranchhouse. He did not turn his pony into the corral, but hitched it to one of the columns of the porch, for he intended to go on to the Diamond H as soon as he could get his belongings packed. If his old job was still open (he had heard that it was) he would take it, or another in case the old one had been filled. In any event, he would leave the Flying W.
Dejection was heavy in his heart when he crossed the porch to go to his room, for he had liked it here; it had been more like the home ofhis ideals than any he had yet seen. For his imagination and affection had been at work, and in Aunt Martha he had seen a mother—such a mother as he could have wished his own to be, had she lived. And Uncle Jepson! The direct-talking old gentleman had captivated him; between them was respect, understanding, and admiration that could hardly have been deeper between father and son.
But he felt reluctant to tell them of his decision to go, he wanted to delay it—if possible, he did not want to let them know at all, for he could come here, sometimes, to see them, when Ruth had gone. And so he was much pleased when, entering the house, he did not see them. But he looked for them, to be certain, going into all the rooms. And finally from a kitchen window he saw them out in the cottonwood back of the house, walking arm in arm, away, deeper into the wood. He turned with a gentle smile, and went upstairs to his room.
Shortly after Abe Catherson’s departure from the cabin, Ruth came to the door and looked out. Her face was whiter than it had been when she had reached the cabin, she was more composed,and her eyes were alight with mingled resignation and thankfulness. For Hagar had yielded her secret, and Ruth had realized how near she had come to linking her life with that of the despicable creature who had preyed on her friend. The son of this great waste of world loomed big in her thoughts as she stood in the doorway; she saw now that those outward graces which had charmed her, in Masten, had been made to seem mockeries in contrast to the inward cleanness and manliness of the man that she had condemned for merely defending himself when attacked.
She went back into the cabin and sat beside Hagar, a queer sensation of joy possessing her, despite her pity for Hagar and her disgust for Masten, for she knew in this instant that she would never allow Randerson to quit the Flying W. Her joy was infectious; it brought a fugitive smile to the face of the nester’s daughter, and as Ruth led her out upon the porch, her arms around her, Hagar looked at her worshipfully.
Out at the edge of the porch, Hagar shot a dreading glance around. She started, and her eyes filled with anxiety as her gaze rested on the corral. She seized Ruth’s arm tightly.
“Dad’s gone!” she said gulpingly.
“Well, perhaps it is all for the best, Hagar,” consoled Ruth. “He will ride for a while, and he will come back to forgive you.”
But the girl’s eyes grew wide with fear. “Oh, I’m afraid he’ll do somethin’ terrible!” she faltered. “Before you came, he asked me if—if it had been Randerson. I told him no, but he didn’t seem satisfied, an’ when I wouldn’t tell him who it was, he went out, cursin’ Rex. I’m afraid, Ruth—I’m afraid!” She glanced wildly around, and her gaze rested on the piece of paper that Catherson had left on the edge of the porch. In an instant she had pounced upon it.
“He’s gone to kill Randerson!” she screamed shrilly. She did not seem to see Ruth; the madness of hysterical fear was upon her; her eyes were brilliant, wide and glaring. She was in her bare feet, but she darted past Ruth, disregarding the rocks and miscellaneous litter that stretched before her, reached Ruth’s pony and flung herself into the saddle, her lips moving soundlessly as she set the animal’s head toward the path.
“You stay here!” she shouted to Ruth as the Flying W girl, stunned to inaction by the other’s manner, watched her. “I’m goin’ to ketch dad. Oh, durn him, the mis’able hot head!”
She hit the pony a vicious slap with a bare hand. It lunged, as the reins loosened, reaching its best speed within a hundred yards, but urged to increasing effort by voice and hand and heel, the girl leaning far over its mane, riding as she had never ridden before. But up at the Flying W ranchhouse, a tall, grim, bearded giant of a horseman was just dismounting, his pony trembling because of heart-breaking effort.
Randerson had not seen Ruth, of course. But he had wondered much over her whereabouts when he had been looking through the house for Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha. And when he had seen them out in the cottonwoods, back of the house, he had supposed her to be with them. He was glad she was not here, to make these last moments embarrassing. He would not disturb her.
He found pencil and paper and wrote his resignation, sitting long over it, but making it brief. It read:
“I’m going, ma’am. I’ve left Red Owen in charge. I’m wishing you luck.”
“There, that’s settled,” he said, rising. “But I was hopin’ it would be different. Dreams aresilly things—when they don’t come true. I’ll be soured on girls, hereafter,” he told himself, morosely.
He packed his war-bag. While engaged in this work he heard the sound of hoofbeats, but he paid no attention, though he colored uncomfortably, for he thought he had been wrong in thinking that Ruth had been in the cottonwood grove, and that she had been away and was just returning. And when he heard a soft tread downstairs he was certain that it was she, and he reddened again. He stopped his work and sat silent, then he caught the sound of footsteps on the stairs, for now he would have to face her. When he saw the door of his room begin to swing slowly back, he got up, his face grave, ready to deliver his resignation in person. And when the door swung almost open, and he saw Abe Catherson standing in the opening, his heavy pistol in hand, cocked, a finger on the trigger, he stiffened, standing silent, looking at the intruder.
Abe’s eyes still wore the frenzy that had been in them when he had been speaking with Ruth. If anything, the frenzy was intensified. His legs were trembling, the big finger on the trigger of his weapon was twitching; his lips, almost hiddenby the beard, were writhing. He was like a man who had been seized by some terrible illness fighting it, resolved to conquer it through sheer effort. His voice stuck in his throat, issuing spasmodically:
“I’ve got you, Randerson,” he said, “where—I want you! I’m goin’ to kill you, empty my gun in you! You mis’able whelp!” He took two steps into the room and then halted, tearing at the collar of his shirt with his free hand, as though to aid his laboring lungs to get the air they demanded.
Randerson’s face was white and set, now. He was facing death at the hands of a man whom he had befriended many times. He did not know Catherson’s motive in coming here, but he knew that the slightest insincere word; a tone too light or too gruff, the most insignificant hostile movement, would bring about a quick pressure of the trigger of Catherson’s pistol. Diplomacy would not answer; it must be a battle of the spirit; naked courage alone could save him, could keep that big finger on the trigger from movement until he could discover Catherson’s motive in coming to kill him.
He had faced death many times, but never hadhe faced it at the hands of a friend, with the strong drag of regard to keep his fingers from his own weapons. Had Catherson been an enemy, he would have watched him with different feelings; he would have taken a desperate chance of getting one of his own pistols to work. But he could not kill Catherson, knowing there was no reason for it.
He had no difficulty in getting genuine curiosity into his voice, and he kept it to just the pitch necessary to show his surprise over Catherson’s threat and manner:
“What you reckonin’ to kill me for, Abe?”
“For what you done to my Hagar!” The convulsive play of Catherson’s features betrayed his nearness to action. His gun arm stiffened. He spoke in great gasps, like a man in delirium. “I want you to know—what for. You come—sneakin’—around—givin’ me—money—”
“Steady, there, Abe!”
Randerson’s sharp, cold voice acted with the effect of a dash of water in Catherson’s face. He started, his big hand trembling, for though he had come to kill, he unknowingly wanted to hear some word from Randerson’s lips in proof of his innocence. Had Randerson flinched, he wouldhave taken that as a sign of guilt, as he now took the man’s sternness as an indication of his innocence. He stepped forward until he was no more than a foot from Randerson, and searched his face with wild intentness. And then, suddenly, the weapon in his hand sank down, his legs wavered, he leaned against the wall while his chin dropped to his chest.
“You didn’t do it, Rex, you couldn’t do it!” he muttered hoarsely. “No man who’d done a thing like that could look back at me like you looked. But I’m goin’ to git—” He stopped, for there was a rapid patter of feet on the stairs, and a breathless voice, crying wildly:
“Dad!Dad! Dad!”
And while both men stood, their muscles tensed to leap into action in response to the voice, Hagar burst into the room, looked at them both; saw Catherson’s drawn pistol, and then threw herself upon her father, hid her face on his breast and sobbed: “It wasn’t Rex, dad; it was Masten!”
Catherson’s excitement was over. The first terrible rage had expended itself on Randerson, and after a violent start at Hagar’s words he grew cold and deliberate. Also, the confessionseemed to make his resentment against his child less poignant, for he rested his hand on her head and spoke gently to her:
“It’s all right, Hagar—it’s all right. Your old dad ain’t goin’ to hold it ag’in you too hard. We all make mistakes. Why, I was just goin’ to make a mighty whopper myself, by killing Rex, here. You leave this to me.” He pushed her toward Randerson. “You take her back to the shack, Rex. I reckon it won’t take me long to do what I’m goin’ to do. I’ll be back afore dark, mebbe.”
The girl clung to him for an instant. “Dad,” she said. “Whatareyou goin’ to do?”
“If you was a good guesser—” said Catherson coldly. And then he grinned felinely at Randerson and went out. They could hear him going down the stairs. They followed presently, Hagar shrinking and shuddering under Randerson’s arm on her shoulders, and from the porch they saw Catherson, on his pony, riding the trail that Ruth had taken on the day she had gone to see Chavis’ shack.
Randerson got Hagar into the saddle, recognizing the pony and speaking about it. When she told him that Ruth was at her cabin, his facelighted. He thought about the written resignation lying in his room, and he smiled.
“I come mighty near not havin’ to use it,” he said to himself.
CHAPTER XXIVREALIZING A PASSION
Ruth stood for a long time on the porch after Hagar’s departure, gripped by emotions, that had had no duplicates in all her days. Never before had she thought herself capable of experiencing such emotions. For the man she loved was in danger. She knew at this minute that she loved him, that she had loved him all along. And she was not able to go to him; she could not even learn, until Hagar returned, whether the girl had been in time, or whether he had succumbed to the blind frenzy of the avenger. The impotence of her position did much to aggravate her emotions, and they surged through her, sapping her strength. It was hideous—the dread, the uncertainty, the terrible suspense, the dragging minutes. She walked back and forth on the porch, her hands clenched, her face drawn and white, praying mutely, fervently, passionately, that Hagar might be in time.
Thinking to divert her mind, she at last wentinto the cabin and began to walk about, looking at various objects, trying to force herself to take an interest in them.
She saw, back of a curtain, a number of the dresses and other garments she had given Hagar, and she could not disperse the thought that perhaps if she had not given the clothing to Hagar, Masten might not have been attracted to her. She drew the curtain over them with something near a shudder, considering herself not entirely blameless.
She endeavored to interest herself in Catherson’s pipe and tobacco, on a shelf near the stove; wondering over the many hours that he had smoked in this lonesome place, driving away the monotony of the hours. What a blow this must be to him! She began to understand something of the terrible emotions that must have seized him with the revelation. Andshehad brought Masten here, too! Innocent, she was to blame there! And she unconsciously did something, as she walked about, that she had never before attempted to do—to put herself into other persons’ positions, to try to understand their emotions—the motives that moved them to do things which she had considered vicious and inhuman.She had forced her imagination to work, and she succeeded in getting partial glimpses of the viewpoints of others, in experiencing flashes of the passions that moved them. She wondered what she would do were Hagarherdaughter, and for an instant she was drunken with the intensity of the passion that gripped her.
Before her trip around the interior of the cabin was completed, she came upon a six-shooter—heavy, cumbersome, like the weapon she had used the day Randerson had taught her to shoot. It reposed on a shelf near the door that led to the porch, and was almost concealed behind a box in which were a number of miscellaneous articles, broken pipes, pieces of hardware, buckles, a file, a wrench. She examined the weapon. It was loaded, in excellent condition. She supposed it was left there for Hagar’s protection. She restored it to its place and continued her inspection.
She had grown more composed now, for she had had time to reflect. Catherson had not had much of a start; he would not ride so fast as Hagar; he did not know where, on the range, he might find Randerson. Hagar was sure to catch him; shewouldcatch him, because of her deepaffection for Randerson. And so, after all, there was nothing to worry about.
She was surprised to discover that she could think of Masten without the slightest regret; to find that her contempt for him did not cause her the slightest wonder. Had she always known, subconsciously, that he was a scoundrel? Had that knowledge exerted its influence in making her reluctant to marry him?
Standing at a rear window she looked out at the corral, and beyond it at a dense wood. She had been there for about five minutes, her thoughts placid, considering the excitement of the day, when at a stroke a change came over her. At first a vague disquiet, which rapidly grew into a dread fear, a conviction, that some danger lurked behind her.
She was afraid to turn. She did not turn, at once, listening instead for any sound that might confirm her premonition. No sound came. The silence that reigned in the cabin was every bit as intense as that which surrounded it. But the dread grew upon her; a cold chill raced up her spine, spreading to her arms and to her hands, making them cold and clammy; to her head, whitening her face, making her temples throb.And then, when it seemed that she must shriek in terror, she turned. In the doorway, leaning against one of the jambs, regarding her with narrowed, gleaming eyes, a pleased, appraising smile on his face, was Tom Chavis.
Her first sensation was one of relief. She did not know what she had expected to see when she turned; certainly something more dire and terrible than Tom Chavis. But when she thought of his past actions, of his cynical, skeptical, and significant looks at her; of his manner at this minute; and reflected upon the fact that she was alone, she realized that chance could have sent nothing more terrible to her.
He noted her excitement, and his smile broadened. “Scared?” he said. “Oh, don’t be.” His attitude toward her became one of easy assurance. He stepped inside and walked to the rough table that stood near the center of the room, placing his hands on it and looking at her craftily.
“Nobody here,” he said, “but you—eh? Where’s Catherson? Where’s Hagar?”
“They’ve gone to the Flying W,” she answered, trying to make her voice even, but not succeeding. There was a quaver in it. “Youmust have seen them,” she added, with a hope that some one at the ranchhouse might have seenhim. She would have felt more secure if she had known that someonehadseen him.
“Nothin’ doin’,” he said, a queer leap in his voice. “I come straight from the shack, by the Lazette trail. How does it come that you’re here, alone? What did Catherson an’ Hagar go to the Flyin’ W for? How long will they be gone?”
“They will be back right away,” she told him, with a devout hope that they would.
“You’re lyin’, Ruth,” he said familiarly. “You don’t know when they’ll be back.” He grinned, maliciously. “I reckon I c’n tell you why you’re here alone, too. Hagar’s took your cayuse. Hagar’s is in the corral. You see,” he added triumphantly as he saw the start that she could not repress. “I’ve been nosin’ around a little before I come in. I wasn’t figgerin’ on runnin’ into Abe Catherson.” He laughed thickly, as though some sort of passion surged over him. “So you’re all alone here—eh?”
She grew weak at the significance of his words, and leaned against the window-sill for support. And then with the realization that she must notseem to quail before him, she stood erect again and forced her voice to steadiness.
“Yes,” she said, “I am alone. Is there any need to repeat that? And being alone, I am in charge, here, and I don’t want you here for company.”
He laughed, making no move to withdraw.
“I’m here on business.”
“You can’t have any business with me. Come when the Cathersons are here.”
“The waitin’s good,” he grinned. He walked around to the side of the table, and with one hand resting on its top, looked closely at her, suspicion in his eyes. “Say,” he said in a confidential whisper, “it looks peculiar to me. Catherson an’ Hagar both gone. Hagar’s got your cayuse, leavin’ you here alone. Has ol’ Catherson tumbled to Masten bein’ thick with Hagar?”
“I don’t know,” she said, flushing. “It is no affair of mine!”
“It ain’t—eh?” he said with a laugh, low and derisive. “You don’t care what Masten does-eh? An’ you’re goin’ to marry him, Monday. Masten’s lucky,” he went on, giving her a look that made her shudder; “he’s got two girls. An’one of them don’t care how much he loves the other.” He laughed as though the matter were one of high comedy.
His manner, the half-veiled, vulgar significance of his words and voice, roused her to a cold fury. She took a step toward him and stood rigid, her eyes flashing.
“You get out of this cabin, Tom Chavis!” she commanded. “Get out—instantly!” No longer was she afraid of him; she was resolute, unflinching.
But Chavis merely smiled—seemingly in huge enjoyment. And then, while he looked at her, his expression changed to wonder. “Holy smoke!” he said. “Where’s Masten’s eyes? He said you didn’t have any spirit, Ruth, that you was too cold an’ distant. I reckon Masten don’t know how to size up a girl—a girl, that is, which is thoroughbred. Seems as though his kind is more like Hagar!” He grinned cunningly and reached into a pocket, drawing out a paper. He chuckled over it, reading it. Then, as though she were certain to appreciate the joke, he held it out to her. “Read it, Ruth,” he invited, “it’s from Masten, askin’ Hagar to meet him, tomorrow, down the crick a ways. He’s dead scaredto come here any more, since Randerson’s aimin’ to perforate him!”
Only one conscious emotion afflicted her at this minute: rage over Chavis’ inability to understand that she was not of the type of woman who could discuss such matters with a man. Evidently, in his eyes, all women were alike. She knew that such was his opinion when, refusing to take the paper, she stepped back, coldly, and he looked at her in surprise, a sneer following instantly.
“Don’t want to read it—eh? Not interested? Jealous, mebbe—eh?” He grinned. “Sure—that’s it, you’re jealous.” He laughed gleefully. “You women are sure jokes. Masten can’t wake you up—eh? Well, mebbe Masten—” He paused and licked his lips. “I reckon I don’t blame you, Ruth. Masten ain’t the sort of man. He’s too cold-blooded, hisself to make a woman sort of fan up to him. But there’s other guys in this country, Ruth, an’—”
She had seized the first thing that came to her hands, a glass jar that had set on the window sill behind her, and she hurled it furiously and accurately. It struck him fairly on the forehead and broke into many pieces, which clattered and rangon the bare board floor. The sound they made, the smashing, dull impact as the jar had struck Chavis, caused her heart to leap in wild applause—twanging a cord of latent savagery in her that set her nerves singing to its music. It was the first belligerent act of her life. It awakened in her the knowledge that she could defend herself, that the courage for which she had prayed that night when on the rock where Randerson had found her, was lurking deep, ready to answer her summons. She laughed at Chavis, and when she saw him wipe the blood from his face and look at her in bewilderment, she challenged him peremptorily:
“Go—now, you beast!”
His answer was a leering grin that made his face hideous. He looked like a wounded animal, with nothing but concentrated passion in his eyes. Her act had maddened him.
“I’ll fix you, you hussy!” he sneered cursing.
She saw now that he was aroused past all restraint, and when he came toward her, crouching, she knew that other missiles would not suffice, that to be absolutely safe she must get possession of the big pistol that reposed on the shelf near the door. So when he came toward her sheslipped behind the table. He grasped it by its edge and tried to swing it out of the way, and when she held it he suddenly swooped down, seizing it by the legs and overturning it. As it fell he made a lunge at her, but she eluded him and bounded to the door. The box holding the miscellaneous articles she knocked out of its place, so that it fell with a tinkling crash, throwing its contents in all directions. Her fingers closed on the stock of the pistol, and she faced Chavis, who was a few feet away, leveling the big weapon at him. Her voice came firmly; she was surprised at her own calmness:
“Don’t move, Chavis, don’t dare to take a step, or I’ll kill you!”
Chavis halted, his face a dirty, chalkish white. Twice his lips opened, in astonishment or fear, she could not tell which, but no sound came from them. He stood silent, watching her, furtive-eyed, crouching.
In this interval her thoughts rioted in chaos, like dust before a hurricane. But a question dominated all: could she carry out her threat to kill Chavis, if he took the step?
She knew she would. For in this crisis she had discovered one of nature’s first laws. She hadnever understood, before, but in the last few minutes knowledge had come to her like a burst of light in the darkness. And a voice came to her also—Randerson’s; she mentally repeated the words he had spoken on the day he had told her about the rustlers: “I reckon you’d fight like a tiger, ma’am, if the time ever come when you had to.”
Yes, she would fight. Not as a tiger would fight, but as Randerson himself had fought—not with a lust to do murder, but in self-protection. And in this instant the spirit of Randerson seemed to stand beside her, applauding her, seeming to whisper words of encouragement to her. And she caught something of his manner when danger threatened; his cold deliberation, his steadiness of hand and eye, his grim alertness. For she had unconsciously studied him in the few minutes preceding the death of Pickett, and she was as unconsciously imitating him now.
Her thoughts ceased, however, when she saw Chavis grin at her, mockingly.
“It’s a bluff!” he said. “You couldn’t hit the ground, if you had a-hold of the gun with both hands!” He moved slightly, measuring the distance between them.
Plainly, she saw from his actions, from his tensed muscles, her threat would not stop him. She was very pale, and her breast heaved as though from a hard run; Chavis could hear the sound of her breathing as he set himself for a leap; but her lips were pressed tightly together, her eyes glowed and widened as she followed the man’s movements. She was going to kill; she had steeled her mind to that. And when she saw the man’s muscles contract for the rush that he hoped would disconcert her, she fired, coolly and deliberately.
With the deafening roar of the weapon in her ears, a revulsion, swift, sickening, overcame her. The report reverberated hideously; she seemed to hear a thousand of them. And the smoke billowed around her, strong, pungent. Through it she saw Chavis stagger, clap one hand to his chest and tumble headlong, face down, at her feet. The interior of the cabin whirled in mad circles; the floor seemed to be rising to meet her, and she sank to it, the six-shooter striking the bare boards with a thud that sounded to her like a peal of thunder. And then oblivion, deep and welcome, descended.
Coming down through the break in the canyon,riding slightly in advance of Hagar, Randerson heard the report of a pistol, distant and muffled. He turned in the saddle and looked at Hagar questioningly.
“That come from your shack!” he said shortly; “Ruth there alone?”
He caught the girl’s quick affirmative, and Patches leaped high in the air from pain and astonishment as the spurs pressed his flanks. When he came down it was to plunge forward with furious bounds that sent him through the water of the river, driving the spume high over his head. He scrambled up the sloping further bank like a cat, gained the level and straightened to his work. Twice that day had riders clattered the narrow trail with remarkable speed, but Patches would have led them.
He was going his best when within fifty feet of the shack he heard Randerson’s voice and slowed down. Even then, so great was his impetus, he slid a dozen feet when he felt the reins, rose to keep from turning a somersault, and came down with a grunt.
In an instant Randerson was inside the cabin. Ruth lay prone, where she had fallen. Randerson, pale, grim-lipped, leaned over her.
“Fainted!” he decided. He stepped to the man and turned him over roughly.
“Chavis,” he ejaculated, his lips hardening. “Bored a-plenty!” he added, with vindictive satisfaction. He saw Ruth’s weapon, noted the gash in Chavis’ forehead, and smiled. “I reckon she fit like a tiger, all right!” he commented admiringly. And now he stood erect and looked down at Ruth compassionately. “She’s killed him, but she’ll die a-mournin’ over it!” Swift resolution made his eyes flash. He looked again at Ruth, saw that she was still in a state of deep unconsciousness. Running out of the cabin, he drew one of his six-shooters. When he had gone about twenty-five feet from the edge of the porch, he wheeled, threw the gun to a quick level, and aimed at the interior of the cabin. At the report he ran toward the cabin again, to meet Hagar, just riding up, wide-eyed and wondering.
“What is goin’ on?” she demanded. “What you doin’?”
“Killin’ a man,” he told her grimly. He seized her by the shoulders. “Understand,” he said sternly; “Ikilled him, no matter what happens. I’d just got here.”
With Hagar at his heels he entered the cabinagain. While the girl worked with Ruth, he went to the rear wall of the cabin and examined it. When shooting from the outside he had aimed at the wall near a small mirror that was affixed there, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction when, embedded in one of the logs that formed the wall, he found the bullet.
Five minutes later he and Hagar led Ruth out on the porch. The girl was shaking and cringing, but trying hard to bear up under the recollection of her terrible experience. She had looked, once, at Chavis, on the floor of the cabin, when she had recovered, and her knees had sagged. But Randerson had gone to her assistance. She had looked at him, too, in mute agony of spirit, filled with a dull wonder over his presence, but gaining nothing from his face, sternly sympathetic. Outside, in the brilliant sunshine, a sense of time, place, and events came back to her, and for the first time since her recovery she thought of Abe Catherson’s note, which Hagar had read.
“Oh,” she said, looking at Randerson with luminous eyes, joy flashing in them, “he didn’t shoot you!”
“I reckon not, ma’am,” he grinned. “I’m still able to keep on range bossin’ for the Flyin’ W.”
“Yes, yes!” she affirmed with a gulp of delight. And she leaned her head a little toward him, so that it almost touched his arm. And he noted, with a pulse of pleasure, that the grip of her hand on the arm tightened.
But her joy was brief; she had only put the tragedy out of her mind for an instant. It returned, and her lips quavered.
“I killed Chavis, Randerson,” she said, looking up at him with a pitiful smile. “I have learned what it means to—to take—human life. I killed him, Rex! I shot him down just as he was about to spring upon me! But I had to do it—didn’t I?” she pleaded. “I—I couldn’t help it. I kept him off as long as I could—and nobody came—and he looked so terrible—”
“I reckon you’ve got things mixed, ma’am.” Randerson met her puzzled look at him with a grave smile. “It was me, ma’am, killed him.”
She drew a sharp breath, her cheeks suddenly flooded with color; she shook Hagar’s arm from around her waist, seized Randerson’s shoulders, gripping the sleeves of his shirt hard and staring at him, searching his eyes with eager, anxious intensity.
“Don’t lie to me, Randerson,” she pleaded. “Oh,” she went on, reddening as she thought of another occasion when she had accused him, “I know you wouldn’t—I know youneverdid! But I killed him; I know I did! For I shot him, Randerson, just as he started to leap at me. And I shall never forget the look of awful surprise and horror in his eyes! I shall never get over it—I will never forgive myself!”
“Shucks, ma’am, you’re plumb excited. An’ I reckon you was more excited then, or you’d know better than to say you did it. Me an’ Hagar was just gettin’ off our horses here at the door—after comin’ from the Flyin’ W. An’ I saw Tom Chavis in the cabin. He was facin’ the door, ma’am,” he said at a venture, and his eyes gleamed when he saw her start, “an’ I saw what he was up to. An’ I perforated him, ma’am. From outside, here. Your gun went off at the same time. But you ain’t learned to shoot extra good yet, an’ your bullet didn’t hit him. I’ll show you where it’s stuck, in the wall.”
He led her inside and showed her the bullet. And for a short space she leaned her head against the wall and cried softly. And then, her eyes filled with dread and doubt, she looked up at him.
“Are you sure that is my bullet?” she asked, slowly. She held her breath while awaiting his answer.
It was accompanied by a short laugh, rich in grave humor:
“I reckon you wouldn’t compare your shootin’ withmine, ma’am. Me havin’ so much experience, an’ you not bein’ able to hit a soap-box proper?”
She bowed her head and murmured a fervent:
“Thank God!”
Randerson caught Hagar’s gaze and looked significantly from Ruth to the door. The girl accepted the hint, and coaxed Ruth to accompany her to the door and thence across the porch to the clearing. Randerson watched them until, still walking, they vanished among the trees. Then he took Chavis’ body out. Later, when Ruth and Hagar returned, he was sitting on the edge of the porch, smoking a cigarette.
To Ruth’s insistence that Hagar come with her to the house, the girl shook her head firmly.
“Dad will be back, most any time. He’ll feel a heap bad, I reckon. An’ I’ve got to be here.”
A little later, riding back toward the Flying W—when they had reached the timber-fringedlevel where, on another day, Masten had received his thrashing, Ruth halted her pony and faced her escort.
“Randerson,” she said, “today Uncle Jepson told me some things that I never knew—about Masten’s plots against you. I don’t blame you for killing those men. And I am sorry that I—I spoke to you as I did—that day.” She held out a hand to him.
He took it, smiling gravely. “Why, I reckoned you never meant it,” he said.
“And,” she added, blushing deeply; “you are not going to make it necessary for me to find another range boss, are you?”
“I’d feel mighty bad if you was to ask me to quit now,” he grinned. And now he looked at her fairly, holding her gaze, his eyes glowing. “But as for bein’ range boss—” He paused, and a subtle gleam joined the glow in his eyes. “There’s a better job—that I’m goin’ to ask you for—some day. Don’t you think that I ought to be promoted, ma’am?”
She wheeled her pony, blushing, and began to ride toward the ranchhouse. But he urged Patches beside her, and, reaching out, he captured the hand nearest him. And in this manner theyrode on—he holding the hand, a thrilling exultation in his heart, she with averted head and downcast eyes, filled with a deep wonder over the new sensation that had come to her.
Uncle Jepson, in the doorway of the house, eagerly watching for the girl’s return, saw them coming. Stealthily he closed the door and slipped out into the kitchen, where Aunt Martha was at work.
“Women is mighty uncertain critters, ain’t they, Ma?” he said, shaking his head as though puzzled over a feminine trait that had, heretofore, escaped his notice. “I cal’late they never know what they’re goin’ to do next.”
Aunt Martha looked at him over the rims of her spectacles, wonderment in her gaze—perhaps a little belligerence.
“Jep Coakley,” she said severely, “you’re always runnin’ down the women! What on earth do you live with one for? What are the women doin’ now, that you are botherin’ so much about?”
He gravely took her by the arm and pointed out of a window, from which Ruth and Randerson could be seen.
Aunt Martha looked, long and intently. Andwhen she finally turned to Uncle Jepson, her face was radiant, and she opened her arms to him.
“Oh, Jep!” she exclaimed lowly, “ain’t that wonderful!”
“I cal’late I’ve been expectin’ it,” he observed.
CHAPTER XXVA MAN IS BORN AGAIN
The meeting between Catherson and Randerson had taken the edge off Catherson’s frenzy, but it had not shaken his determination. He had been in the grip of an insane wrath when he had gone to see the Flying W range boss. His passions had ruled him, momentarily. He had subdued them, checked them; they were held in the clutch of his will as he rode the Lazette trail. He did not travel fast, but carefully. There was something in the pony’s gait that suggested the mood of his rider—a certain doggedness of movement and demeanor which might have meant that the animal knew his rider’s thoughts and was in sympathy with them. They traveled the trail that Randerson had taken on the night he had found Ruth on the rock; they negotiated the plain that spread between the ranchhouse and the ford where Randerson had just missed meeting Ruth that day; they went steadily over the hilly country and passed through the section of brokenland where Ruth’s pony had thrown her. Reaching the hills and ridges beyond, Catherson halted and scrutinized the country around him. When he observed that there was no sign of life within range of his vision, he spoke to the pony and they went forward.
Catherson’s lips were set in a heavy, ugly pout. His shaggy brows were contracted; somber, baleful flashes, that betrayed something of those passions that he was subduing, showed in his eyes as the pony skirted the timber where Randerson had tied Ruth’s horse. When he reached the declivity where Ruth had overheard Chavis and Kester, he dismounted and led his pony down it, using the utmost care. He was conserving the pony’s strength. For he knew nothing of what might be required of the animal, and this thing which he had determined to do must not be bungled.
He was still in no hurry, but he grew cautious now, and secretive. He made a wide circuit of the basin, keeping out of sight as much as possible, behind some nondescript brush, riding in depressions; going a mile out of his way to follow the sandy bed of a washout. His objective was Chavis’ shack, and he wanted to come upon itunnoticed. Or, if that failed, he desired to make his visit appear casual.
But in Chavis’ shack was a man who of late had formed the habit of furtive watchfulness. He wore a heavy six-shooter at his waist, but he knew better than to try to place any dependence upon his ability as a marksman. A certain meeting with a grim-faced man on the Lazette trail the night before, a vivid recollection of the grim-faced man’s uncanny cleverness with a weapon, demonstrated upon two occasions, worried him, as did also some words that kept running through his mind, asleep or awake, and would not be banished. He could even hear the intonations of the voice that had uttered them: “This country is too crowded for both of us.”
Masten was beginning to believe that. He had thought that very morning, of leaving, of escaping, rather. But Chavis had reassured him, had ridiculed him, in fact.
“Randerson’s four-flushin’,” Chavis had laughed. “He’s took a shine to Ruth, an’ he’s aimin’ to scare you out. He’d sooner shoot a foot off than bore you. ’Cause why? ’Cause if he bored you he’d never have no chance to get nextto Ruth. She’s some opposed to him killin’ folks promiscuous. You lay low, that’s all. An’ I’ll rustle up a guy one of these days which will put a crimp in Randerson. If he comes snoopin’ around here, why, there’s a rifle handy. Let him have it, sudden—before he can git set!”
Since he had sent Chavis with the note to Hagar, Masten had been uneasy. He had not stayed inside the shack for more than a minute or two at a time, standing much in the doorway, scanning the basin and the declivity carefully and fearfully. And he had seen Catherson lead his pony down. He went in and took the rifle from its pegs.
He had had a hope, at first, that it might be Kester or Linton. But when he saw that the rider did not come directly toward the shack a cold sweat broke out on his forehead and he fingered the rifle nervously. When he saw the rider disappear in the washout, he got a chair from inside and, standing on it, concentrated his gaze at the point where the rider must emerge. And when, a little later, he caught a glimpse of the rider’s head, appearing for just an instant above the crest of a sand ridge, noting the beard and the shaggy hair, his face turned ashen and the chair rockedunder him. For he knew but one man in this country who looked like that.
He got down from the chair and glared around, his eyes dilated. Catherson’s actions seemed innocent enough. But what could he be doing in the basin? And, once here, what could he mean by prowling like that, instead of coming directly to the cabin? What could he be looking for? Why did he not show himself?
Masten slipped outside and crept along the wall of the shack to a corner, from which, screened by some alder, he watched breathlessly, a nameless disquiet oppressing him. Did Catherson know anything?
That question his conscience dinned in his ears. It was answered many times, as he stood there—an insistent affirmative, suggested, proven by Catherson’s actions, supported by the fact that he had never seen Catherson in the basin before.
As he watched, he saw Catherson again. He was closer, riding behind a thicket of gnarled brush, which was not high enough entirely to conceal him, and he was bending far over in the saddle as though he did not want to be seen. But Masten could see him, and this last evidence of the man’s caution convinced Masten. Obeyinga sudden impulse, he threw the rifle to his shoulder. The muzzle wavered, describing wide circles, and before he could steady it enough to be reasonably certain of hitting the target, Catherson had vanished behind a low hill.
Masten wiped the cold moisture from his forehead. For an instant he stood irresolute, trembling. And then, panic-stricken over a picture that his imagination drew for him, he dropped the rifle and ran, crouching, to the corral. With frenzied haste, urged by the horrible conviction that had seized him, he threw saddle and bridle on his pony, and clambered, mumbling incoherently, into the saddle. Twice the reins escaped his wild clutches, but finally he caught them and sat erect looking fearfully for Catherson.
The nester was not visible to him. Gulping hard, Masten sent the pony cautiously forward. He skirted the corral fence, keeping the shack between him and the point at which he divined Catherson was then riding, and loped the pony into some sparse timber near the river.
His panic had grown. He had yielded to it, and it had mastered him. His lips were twitching; he cringed and shivered as, getting deeperinto the timber, he drove the spurs into the pony’s flanks and raced it away from the shack.
He rode for perhaps a mile at break-neck speed. And then, unable to fight off the fascination that gripped him, doubting, almost ridiculing himself for yielding to the wild impulse to get away from Catherson, for now that he was away his action seemed senseless, he halted the pony and turned in the saddle, peering back through the trees. He had followed a narrow trail, and its arching green stretched behind him, peaceful, inviting, silent. So calm did it all seem to him now, so distant from that dread danger he had anticipated, that he smiled and sat debating an impulse to return and face Catherson. The man’s intentions could not be what he had suspected them to be; clearly, his conscience had played him a trick.
But he did not wheel his pony. For as he sat there in the silence he heard the rapid drumming of hoofs on the path. Distant they were, but unmistakable. For a moment Masten listened to them, the cold damp breaking out on his forehead again. Then he cursed, drove the spurs deep into the pony and leaning forward, rode frantically away.
Coming out of the timber to a sand plain that stretched in seeming endlessness toward a horizon that was dimming in the growing twilight, Masten halted the pony again, but only for an instant. In the next he was urging it on furiously. For looking back fearfully, he saw Catherson bestriding his pony, a dread apparition, big, rigid, grim, just breaking through the timber edge, not more than two or three hundred feet distant. Masten had hoped he had distanced his pursuer, for he had ridden at least five miles at a pace that he had never before attempted. There had been no way for him to judge the pony’s speed, of course, but when he had halted momentarily he had noted that the animal was quivering all over, that it caught its breath shrilly in the brief interval of rest, and now as he rode, bending far over its mane, he saw that the billowing foam on its muzzle was flecked with blood. The animal was not equal to the demands he had made upon it.
But he forced it on, with spur and voice and hand, muttering, pleading with it incoherently, his own breath coughing in his throat, the muscles of his back cringing and rippling in momentary expectation of a flying missile that would burn and tear its way through them. But no bullet came. There was no sound behind him except, occasionally, the ring of hoofs. At other times silence engulfed him. For in the deep sand of the level the laboring ponies of pursued and pursuer made no noise. Masten could hear a sodden squish at times, as his own animal whipped its hoofs out of a miniature sand hill.