The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “That is a highly original view,” she said, laughing, feeling that she ought to be offended, but disarmed by his ingenuousness. “And so you think that love and hate are inseparable passions.”

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

  “Don’t you think I love Mr. Masten?” she said, looking at him unwaveringly.

  He looked as fairly back at her. “I don’t reckon you do, ma’am. Mebbe you think so, but you don’t.”

  “What makes you think so?” she demanded, defiantly.

  “Why, the way you look at him, ma’am. If I was engaged to a girl an’ she looked at me as critical as you look at him, sometimes, I’d sure feel certain that I’d drawed the wrong card.”

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

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

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

  But he grinned. “You’re true blue,” he said, “an’ you’ve got the grit to tell where you stand. But you’re mistaken. You couldn’t love Masten.”

  “Why?” she said, so intensely curious that she entirely forgot to think of his impertinence in talking thus to her. “Why can’t I love Mr. Masten?”

  He laughed, and reddened. “Because you’re goin’ to love me, ma’am,” he said, gently.

  She would have laughed if she had not felt so indignant. She would have struck him as she had struck Chavis had she not been positive that behind his words was the utmost respect—that he did not intend to be impertinent—that he seemed as natural as he had been all along. She would have exhibited scorn if she could have summoned it. She did nothing but stare at him in genuine amazement. She was going to be severe with him, but the mild humor of his smile brought confusion upon her.

  “You don’t lack conceit, whatever your other shortcomings,” she managed, her face rosy.

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

  “So that is where the picture went!” she said. “I have been hunting high and low for it. Who gave it to you?”

  “Wes Vickers, ma’am.” There was disgust in his eyes. “I never meant to mention it, ma’am; that was a slip of the tongue. But when I saw the picture, I knowed I was goin’ to love you. There ain’t nothin’ happened yet to show that you won’t think a lot of me, some day.”

  “You frighten me,” she mocked.

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

  “So you’re sure that I’m going to break my engagement with Masten, are you?” she queried, trying her best to be scornful, but not succeeding very well. “How do you know that?”

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

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

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

  CHAPTER XI

  HAGAR’S EYES

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

  He had seen little of the Easterner during the past two or three weeks. Masten rarely showed himself on the range any more—to Randerson’s queries about him the men replied that they hadn’t seen him. But Randerson was thinking very little about Masten as he rode through the brilliant sunshine this afternoon. He was going again to Catherson’s, to see Hagar. Recollections of the change that had come over the girl were disquieting, and he wanted to talk to her again to determine whether she really had changed, or whether he had merely fancied it.

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

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

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

  “Abe’s out putterin’ around, an’ Hagar’s nappin’, I reckon—or tryin’ on her new dresses,” he added as an after-thought.

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

  The perfect silence of the timber was unbroken. He had almost decided that his ears had played him a trick when the sound came again, nearer than before—the sound of voices. Quickly and accurately he determined from which direction they came, and he faced that way, watching a narrow path that led through the timber to a grass plot not over a hundred feet from him, from which he was screened by some thick-growing brush at his side.

  He grinned, fully expecting
to see Abe and Hagar on the path presently. “Abe’s behavin’ today,” he told himself as he waited. “I’ll sure surprise them, if—”

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

  The color slowly left Randerson’s face as he watched. He had no nice scruples about eavesdropping at this moment—here was no time for manners; the cold, contemptuous rage that fought within him was too deep and gripping to permit of any thought that would not center about the two figures on the path. He watched them, screened by the brush, with the deadly concentration of newly aroused murder-lust. Once, as he saw them halt at the edge of the grass plot, and he observed Masten draw Hagar close to him and kiss her, his right hand dropped to the butt of his pistol at his right hip, and he fingered it uncertainly. He drew the hand away at last, though, with a bitter, twisting smile.

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

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

  Evidently Masten had likewise expected the horseman to be her father, for at her exclamation he turned swiftly. His gaze met Randerson’s, his shoulders sagged a little, his eyes wavered and shifted from the steady ones that watched him.

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

  “You’ve strayed off your range, haven’t you, Randerson?” he said smoothly.

  “Why, I reckon I have.” Randerson’s voice was low, almost gentle, and he smiled mildly at Hagar, who blushingly returned it but immediately looked downward.

  “I expect dad must be gone somewhere—that you’re lookin’ for him,” Randerson said. “I thought mebbe I’d ketch him here.”

  “He went to Red Rock this mornin’,” said the girl. She looked up, and this time met Randerson’s gaze with more confidence, for his pretense of casualness had set her fears at rest. “Mr. Masten come over to see him, too.”

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

  “Catherson is hard to catch,” he said. “I’ve been over here a number of times, trying to see him.” His voice was a note too high, and Randerson wondered whether, without the evidence of his eyes, he would have suspected Masten. He decided that he would, and his smile was a trifle grim.

  “I reckon Catherson is a regular dodger,” he returned. “He’s always gallivantin’ around the country when somebody wants to see him.” He smiled gently at Hagar, with perhaps just a little pity.

  “It’s getting along in the afternoon, Hagar,” he said. “Dad ought to be amblin’ back here before long.” His face grew grave at the frightened light in her eyes when he continued: “I reckon me an’ Masten better wait for him, so’s he won’t dodge us any more.” He cast a glance around him. “Where’s your cayuse?” he said to Masten.

  “I left him down near the ford,” returned the other.

  “Right on your way back to the Flyin’ W,” said Randerson, as though the discovery pleased him. “I’m goin’ to the Flyin’ W, too, soon as I see Catherson. I reckon, if you two ain’t got no particular yearnin’ to go prowlin’ around in the timber any longer, we’ll all go back to Catherson’s shack an’ wait for him there. Three’ll be company, while it’d be mighty lonesome for one.”

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

  “I don’t think I will wait for Catherson,” he said, “I can see him tomorrow, just as well.”

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

  “I don’t want to force my company on you, Randerson,” laughed Masten nervously. “Besides, I had thought of taking the river trail—back toward Lazette, you know.”

  Randerson looked at him with a cold smile. “The Lazette trail suits me too,” he said; “we’ll go that way.”

  Masten looked at him again. The smile on Randerson’s face was inscrutable. And now the pallor left Masten’s cheeks and was succeeded by a color that burned. For he now was convinced and frightened. He heard Randerson speaking to Hagar, and so gentle was his voice that it startled him, so great was the contrast between it and the slumbering threat in his eyes and manner:

  “Me an’ Masten is goin’ to make a short cut over to where his horse is, Hagar; we’ve changed our minds about goin’ to the shack with you. We’ve decided that we’re goin’ to talk over that business that he come here about—not botherin’ your dad with it.” His lips straightened at the startled, dreading look that sprang into her eyes. “Dad ain’t goin’ to know, girl,” he assured her gravely. “I’d never tell him. You go back to the shack an’ pitch into your work, sort of forgettin’ that you ever saw Mr. Masten. For he’s goin’ away tonight, an’ he ain’t comin’ back.”

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

  “By God, Randerson!” blustered Masten, “what do you mean? This is going too—”

  A look silenced him—choked the words in his throat, and he turned without protest, at Randerson’s jerk of the head toward the ford, and walked without looking back, Randerson following on Patches.

  When they reached the narrow path that led to the crossing, just before entering the brush Randerson looked back. Hagar was still lying in the grass near the path. A patch of sunlight shone on her, and so clear was the light that Randerson could plainly see the spasmodic movement of her shoulders. His teeth clenched tightly, and the muscles of his face corded as they had done in the Flying W ranchhouse the day that Aunt Martha had told him of Pickett’s attack on Ruth.

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

  “We’ll get off here, Masten.”

  Masten turned, his face red with wrath.

  “Look here, Randerson,” he bellowed; “this ridiculous nonsense has gone far enough. I know, now, that you were spying on us. I don’t know why, unless you’d selected the girl yourself—”

  “That’s ag’in you too,” interrupted Randerson coldly. “You’re goin’ to pay.”

  “You’re making a lot of fuss about the girl,” sneered Masten. “A man—”

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

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

  “It don’t make no difference to me how you get off!”

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

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

  “Good Heavens, man, do you mean to shoot me?” he said, the words faltering and scarcely audible.

  “I reckon shootin’ would be too good for you.” Again Randerson’s face had taken on that peculiar stony expression. Inexorable purpose was written on it; what he was to do he was in no hurry to be about, but it would be done in good time.

  “I ain’t never claimed to be no angel,” he said. “I reckon I’m about the average, an’ I’ve fell before temptation same as other men. But I’ve drawed the line where you’ve busted over it. Mebbe if it was some other girl, I wouldn’t feel it like I do about Hagar. But when I tell you that I’ve knowed that girl for about five years, an’ that there wasn’t a mean thought in her head until you brought your dirty carcass to her father’s shack, an’ that to me she’s a kid in spite of her long dresses and her newfangled furbelows, you’ll understand a heap about how I feel right now. Get your paws up, for I’m goin’ to thrash you so bad that your own mother won’t know you—if she’s so misfortunate as to be alive to look at you! After that, you’re goin’ to hit the breeze out of this country, an’ if I ever lay eyes on you ag’in I’ll go gunnin’ for you!”

  While he had been speaking he had holstered the pistol, unstrapped his cartridge belt and let guns and belt fall to the ground. Then without warning he drove a fist at Masten’s face.

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