But Larry Redfern knew — as Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Betsy knew — that Rand normally was ruled by the better impulses of his nature; they knew, too, that he fought continually to overcome the vicious moods that seized him. Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Betsey, aware of the legacy of savagerj r , pitied him; but Redfern, knowing that in all men reigned much that was elemental—a vicious strain that at times sent their thoughts back to the abysmal period — smiled wisely at Rand's moods.
He was convinced that the impulses of the primal man were somewhat stronger in Rand than in many other men — that was all. Aroused, Rand was cynical, malignant, dangerous; but that mood conquered, he was gravely gentle, soft-spoken, with a slow humor that had endeared him to his relatives and to his men.
Rand spent two or three days overcoming the venomous thoughts that racked his soul. During this time he was absent a great deal from the ranchhouse, spending much of his time with the outfit on the open range.
Several times, brooding over what had happened to him in Ocate, he was on the point of yielding to impulses to return and complete the work he had begun, but each time a recollection of Redfern's words dissuaded him. If Redfern could see nothing shameful in his conduct it must be that his own mental vision was at fault. For Larry had the disturbing habit of speaking plainly, without prejudice.
At any rate, Rand's mood slowly changed. His face, set in grim lines, began to relax; the cold, hard gleam in his eyes began to soften. And one day, on his way to the ranchhouse, he grinned widely at the space and the silence.
He had reflected much over Kinney—he kept seeing the man's face as it had been in the moments preceding the shooting. Blank stupefaction had been in the man's eyes.
"I reckon he was plumb scared!" Rand told himself as he rode homeward. "If I had showed that kind of 'yellow' — now!"
Then he laughed, audibly. For his thoughts went to Compton. For, despite Compton's manner, there had been something akin to fear in his eyes, too, when they had met Rand's, in the saloon.
Rand was convinced that one day he and Compton must settle their differences — that was inevitable. For their hatred of each other was like some strong poison. And one day, when the feeling between them grew intolerable, they would clash.
But Rand's thoughts this afternoon did not long remain on Compton and Kinney. He kept thinking of Eleanor Seddon, and the blazing flame in her eyes when he had shot Seddon's pipe out of his hand.
He wondered much over the incident, and over what had happened after he had ridden away.
He knew Seddon — Seddon had no moral courage. Would Seddon betray him? He thought not. For Seddon would not want the girl to know about Bud. To be sure, he would not tell Eleanor about the boy, even if Seddon were to poison the girl's mind against him — for he would not want the girl to suffer the humiliation the knowledge would bring upon her.
But Seddon would think he would tell, and that fear Would compel Seddon to silence regarding the hostility between them. Seddon would make some plausible explanation for the shooting of the pipe — that was certain.
And if Seddon did explain, what would follow? Why, Eleanor Seddon, her doubts removed, would keep her promise to ride over to the Three Bar for the purpose of reforming Bud! For Rand had seen that implacable purpose in her eyes!
And Bud! Rand grinned widely as he neared the house.
Unsaddling Midnight, and turning the animal into the corral, he entered the house.
Uncle Ephraim was seated on the back steps, smoking, and talking confidentially to Bud. Aunt Betsy was seated at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes.
She heard Rand come in the side door, and she looked furtively at him over the tops of her spectacles as he halted in the doorway that led from the kitchen to the dining-room. There was a grin on Rand's face, and by that token Aunt Betsey knew he had conquered the dark passions that for days had beset him. For she had heard from Larry Redfern the story of what had happened at Ocate.
Rand had not mentioned the incident, and had it not been for Larry, Aunt Betsey would not have known there had been trouble, for though, when Rand had been in the house, he had been silent and thoughtful, there had been no change in his manner toward Aunt Betsey, Uncle Ephraim, or Bud. But that grin told Aunt Betsey many things, and she answered it with a smile in which there was a devout thankfulness.
And she thrilled with emotion when Rand walked to her, placed a sinewy arm around her shoulders and hugged her silently.
"You're a regular bear, Beaudry!" she exclaimed when he released her. She raised her head and looked up at him, her eyes shining. "I'm awfully glad you didn't," she said.
"Didn't what?" He glanced quickly at her.
"Glad you didn't kill that Ocate gunfighter. Don't you ever, Beaudry! Whatever happens, don't do that! I've heard your father say, many times, that once you start — once you kill a man in passion — you can't stop killing. It's like an appetite for strong drink; it takes hold of you, your father said, and makes you drunk. And there are always men who will dare you and defy you and taunt and mock you — to make you kill. There'll be gunmen who will be jealous of you; who will —"
"Who's been talkin'?" inquired Rand. He seized her face in both his hands. "Larry?" he questioned.
She nodded. "He was so tickled!" she declared. "He said he just couldn't help telling me!"
Rand grinned. "I'll be tellin' Larry somethin'," he threatened.
"Shucks, you won't!" she laughed.
Rand left her and strode to the door. "You had any visitors besides Larry?" he called back to Aunt Betsey over his shoulder.
"Nobody but Larry and one of the men."
Rand bent down and seized Bud about the middle, swinging him upward to his shoulder, the boy grinning hugely from his elevation.
"We're goin' to look at the horses, Bud," said Rand as he strode out of the house.
They did look at the horses. Rand perched Bud on the top rail of the corral fence and, with the sinking sun behind them, they watched the several animals within the enclosure, as, with the knowledge that they were observed, they whipped the deep dust of the place until it rose in clouds.
Bud had had curls; the evidence of them still existed on the top of his head. The top of his head, however, was the only place where their presence might have been detected, for elsewhere his hair was cut short, "like a man's," at his own request.
Manliness was in Bud's manner as he sat on the fence watching, with a critical eye, the movements of the horses. His little lips were tight-set, his eyes gleaming.
"Some day I'm goin' to ride that there mustard horse!" he told Rand.
"You sure are—some day!" assured the latter. "An' that day ain't goin' to be long in comin'. For," he added, with a shrewd look at Bud, his eyes gleaming with a guilty, shameful expression for the thing he was about to do, "you're pretty much of a man right now, ain't you?"
The boy nodded, and Rand continued slowly:
"You like that mustard horse, eh?" he said. "You ain't got any use for that damned monkey-faced sorrel?"
The boy shot a quick glance at Rand's face; it was expressionless. It was also very red, but Bud did not see that, for he was looking at Rand's face for signs. There were no signs. But Bud thought Rand was breathing heavily.
Bud looked at the sorrel horse and then again at Rand's face, It was the first time he had ever heard a profane word. For Rand's command regarding the use of profanity within hearing distance of the boy had been vigorous, and the outfit had religiously obeyed him. Of course, Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Betsey did not swear.
Bud wondered if he had quite understood Rand. He looked intently at Rand, and Rand saw the question in his eyes.
"You ain't got any use for that damned monkey-faced sorrel, eh?" repeated Rand.
"I wouldn't ride any damned