"You've had a fallin' out, eh?" he said; "an' you're doin' this to get even with him."
"No!" she said violently; "that isn't so! Rand—" she added, trying to get closer to him. Her eyes were glowing with a light that he could not mistake, and his lips straightened as he seized her by the shoulders and held her off.
She looked downward for an instant, plainly disappointed; and then up again, her eyes searching his.
"You like another girl?" she asked slowly.
He shook his head; but at the instant he thought of Eleanor Seddon. She saw the glow in his eyes and her own flashed.
"Yes," she said; "you like another girl. Who is she?"
He laughed lightly, though his face grew flushed.
"Shucks!" he said, "you women have sure got keen eyes. But you're hittin' the wrong trail now, Lucia — there ain't no girl that would take a shine to me. Anyway," he went on sharply as she essayed to interrupt, "there ain't no time to do any love gassin' tonight! You hop right on your cayuse an' get back to the Gilt Edge before anybody gets wise that you left."
"Well," she said, looking defiantly up at him, her lips pursed; "you might kiss me — once — for visiting you at this time of the night."
He bent toward her, grinning, and lightly brushed her cheek. He would have stepped back, then, but she slipped suddenly sidewise, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him fervently half a dozen times on the lips — holding him tightly to her, her lithe form writhing in the effort to draw his head down so that she might hold it captive.
He freed himself, and stepped back, holding her off at arm's length to look at her. Her eyes were aflame, and she laughingly backed away from him, saying:
"There, now! Do you think another girl could love you like that?"
"Shucks!" he said, grinning; "I didn't think you was goin' to herd-ride me!"
Her laugh came back to him as he stood on the porch watching her as she rode toward town; and he stood there for some minutes after she had vanished, thinking of her.
"I reckon she's holdin' somethin' against Compton that ain't forgivable—to make her act like that to me," he reflected. "Women like that has a mighty hard time of it — gettin' a man to love them like they want to be loved. I reckon no man is doin' it!"
Entering the house, his face setting into hard, grim lines as he crossed the threshold, he went to his room, pulled on his boots, and got into the garments that he had neglected to put on when aroused by Lucia Morell, moving stealthily, lest he awaken Bud and Aunt Betsey and Uncle Ephraim.
Fully dressed, he buckled on his cartridge belt, swinging a pistol at each hip — low down; and carefully tying the bottoms of the holsters to the legs of his leather chaparajos —a precaution of the careful gunman against the accidental snagging of the weapon when rapid drawing is necessary.
Noiselessly crossing the floor, he went out, carefully closing the door behind him. Then he went to the horse corral, roped Midnight, threw saddle and bridle on him, leaped into the saddle, and rode down the river trail.
With the first streak of dawn Amos Seddon was riding his horse along the corral fence, making for the gate, where he intended to turn in the animal.
Seddon had not been able to sleep after Link Comptoa had left him; he had sat glumly near the fire, thinking of Eleanor and her meeting with Rand.
And when the other men had wrapped themselves in their blankets, stretching out, their feet toward the fire, Seddon had sat there still, a sullen gleam in his eyes, his thoughts centering heavily upon Rand and his daughter.
At last, about one o'clock in the morning, he had not been able to endure the mental misery any longer. He had aroused the cook, telling him to inform the men that he had gone back to the ranchhouse; then he had caught up his horse, mounted him, and set out for home.
For the first time since Eleanor had been home he felt a glow of rage toward the girl. She had disobeyed him; she had deliberately thrown herself into Rand's company. For he had not failed to note her interest in the man when he had been telling her about him, and he meant to take her to task for her disobedience.
But his rage against his daughter detracted nothing from the fury he felt over the thought that perhaps Rand might have met her purposely, by design. Rand was none too good to do a thing like that, he told himself; Rand was a miserable, sneaking coyote, or he would not have stepped in when he had to take the boy away from him.
It is one of the grotesque truths that a thing is never so valuable as when it is unattainable — and at this moment Seddon felt that he wanted the boy more than ever before — even though he had not had courage enough to take him when he had had an opportunity. It was not until Rand had taken the boy that Seddon had realized he wanted the youngster himself.
Dismounting at the corral gate, his thoughts were yiciously centered upon Rand. He drew mental pictures of Rand talking with his daughter; he could even see Rand's crooked smile as he watched the girl's face, while he meditated over the secret he possessed. He even debated the impulse that, he felt, must have been in Rand's mind when he had been in the girl's presence: "Should he tell her?"
Rand would tell her, of course, for Rand was that kind; he would tell her just to be mean — just to bring confusion upon him. He'd have to kill Rand now; he wouldn't even wait until Compton could frame up on Rand; he would see Eleanor first, to tell her he knew she had been talking to Rand, and then he would ride over to the Three Bar to kill Rand.
So terrible was his rage that when he passed the stable door he had to stop there and stand for a time, lest he lose his self-control entirely. He waited, calming himself a little, for he did not want Eleanor to see him in his present temper.
And while he stood there a tremor of fear ran over him. He thought it was a reaction from his rage. But it was not. He knew that presently, when his thoughts went again to Rand. He knew he would not ride over to the Three Bar to kill Rand, for even now, standing there, the fear he felt for Rand increased.
It whitened his face, it made his breath labor and lag in his throat, so that he reached up and clawed at the collar of his shirt in an effort to lessen the constriction that seemed to be there.
Then he shuddered, seized with one of those inexplicable and compelling presentiments which seem to warn one of an evil presence. He yielded to it, wheeling swiftly, his right hand on the butt of his pistol — to see Rand standing at a corner of the stable watching him.
Chapter VII. Waiting
SEDDON did not know how long Rand had been there — many minutes, he supposed, judging from Rand's attitude. For Rand was standing with legs asprawl, his arms folded, the fingers of his right hand gently caressing his chin. There was a curious half-smile on Rand's face — it was as though an evil passion in Rand's heart was engaged in a mighty battle with the grim humor that seemed to dominate him.
And Seddon found himself hoping that the humor would continue to dominate; for he had never seen Rand in that mood. For in Rand's attitude, in the smile, in the atmosphere around him, in some intangible something that seemed to linger about him, was a slumbering threat of destroying violence.
Seddon did not draw the pistol that reposed so near his limp fingers; he knew he could not do it. A gleam in Rand's eyes told him that Rand was waiting for just such a movement; and though he knew that Rand's hands would have to travel farther than his own to reach the pistols at his hips, he dared not take the chance.
And, so great was the tension that held him, he started and flung his hands upward when Rand spoke:
"Thinkin' mean thoughts about me, wasn't you, Seddon? Oh, don't!"
His voice was a curious, slow drawl — vibrating a little,