"Why, I reckon we must have plumb forgot him!"
She remembered that on the day of her meeting with Compton — just after she had fled from the Three Bar on the day Rand had shown her a picture of his father — she had spoken to Compton of Rand, and she had a vivid recollection of Compton's manner at the time — and of his words: "I am glad that your adventure didn't turn out to be any worse than it did."
That speech indicated bitterness toward Rand; and the passion he had betrayed when she had mentioned having been in the timber with Rand, coupled with Rand's manner at this moment, convinced her that between the two men was a mutual dislike at the least.
However, looking sharply at Rand, she decided that of the two he was the stronger character. For had she not been watching him closely a moment ago she would not have detected the passion in his eyes; he had sternly repressed it, and he had not been eager to defame Compton — whereas Compton, in her talk with him, had permitted her to see his hatred of the other — it had suffused his face; his eyes had been malignant with it.
As a matter of fact, Compton's manner that day had prejudiced her against him. She had felt the magnetism of him; she had sensed his intense virility; and she had been aware that his face was darkly handsome.
If she had merely to deal with exteriors she might have been more deeply impressed. But back of the girl's clear eyes was an active brain possessed of a judgment of human values that might have disconcerted Compton, had he known of it.
For she had seen beyond Compton's surface attractions. She had seen the ruthlessness in his eyes; she had noted the flaming desire in them. She had seen the egotism and the complacent and smug self-satisfaction of him. And she had known — at the first look at him — that he expected to achieve an easy victory over her — that he had been easily victorious over many women.
However, she had felt the lure of him—that was sex, which no brain controls; and the danger that lay in her meeting him often was in the chance that sex, thrilled by his magnetism, would not be governed by the cold calm of reason. Therefore she feared him.
She did not fear Rand. Not even when he had shown her the picture of his father had she feared him; she had been merely startled over the thought that unknowingly she had gone into the house with a man whom her father had condemned.
Rand's personality, too, had attracted her. And she saw beneath his surface attractions also. Rand was good-looking— better looking than Compton, in her estimation, for his features were stronger. Besides, when she looked beyond them at the inner man she felt the sturdy manliness of him, the ruggedness of his morals, the quiet force that radiated from him.
Upon only one point was she uncertain. That was concerning his moods. It was a thing that had baffled her that morning when he had been talking with her outside the ranchhouse just before he had shot her father's pipe out of his hand. She was baffled now, as they urged their horses on toward the timber.
The knowledge irritated her — in much the same manner that he had irritated her on the day of their first meeting— when she had mistaken him for one of the Bar S men. Never had she met a more contradictory character, nor one that interested her more than Rand interested her.
And yet he puzzled her. In his present mood he was gentle, grave and winning; and the slow humor in his eyes aroused her to a responsive emotion. At the same time, it provoked her to a smoldering indignation—for it seemed to suggest the presence of a subtleness in him belied by the sternness of his face.
Contrasting his present mood with that other—the one she had seen him in when he had faced her father after the pipe-shooting incident — she discovered that there seemed to be no mental balance in which to weigh him. In that other mood his eyes, his face, his manner had reflected a hard, unyielding spirit — something savage and sinister and intolerant, a passionate intensity, an elemental brutality that had frightened her.
And she vacillated between two opinions; a grave question perplexed her; was he ruled by those dark passions she had seen slumbering in his eyes upon the day of the pipe-shooting incident, or did the lighter and gentler mood shape his attitude toward his fellows ?
Men, of course, were always at their best when in the presence of women who interested them; she knew that. But he had shown her two moods, and it remained for her to judge him. And she could not judge.
Nor could she reach a conclusion after having explored the timber with him. For during the ride his mood did not change; he was gravely polite, considerate, and gentlemanly.
However, she was strangely attracted to him, and she found herself hoping that the gentleness she had seen in him would prove to be the rule by which she must judge the man.
She came to see Bud the next day, and the next; and for many days following she managed to spend some time at the Three Bar.
Not always was Rand there to greet her. And during his absences she talked much with Aunt Betsey and Uncle Ephraim, to discover that the affection of the two for Rand was equaled only by the enthusiastic devotion of Bud.
Also, Aunt Betsey took her through the house, even into Rand's room, where the girl saw the picture of his mother on the wall. Eleanor stood long before the picture, studying the serenely smiling eyes that regarded her so steadily — eloquent, honest eyes that reflected the good that must have dwelt in the heart of their owner all the days of her life.
Also, looking keenly at the picture, Eleanor saw far back in the eyes a certain wistfulness and sadness; and she wondered if, when the picture was taken, the woman might not have been thinking of the man whose photograph hung on the wall in another room — Rand's father; the outlaw whose cruel, brooding face revealed evidence of those savage passions she had seen reflected in th? eyes of the son.
Chapter XIX. Compton Plots
TWICE during the week that followed the talk between Link Compton and Lucia Morell in the girl's room above the Gilt Edge saloon, Compton rode over to the Bar S. Each time he found Eleanor Seddon absent from the ranchhouse, and each time Compton's face darkened with passion.
From the Mexican woman who had been Seddon's housekeeper since the death of Seddon's wife Compton learned that Eleanor was seldom at the ranchhouse during the day.
Nor did Compton gain any consolation from the Mexican woman's manner. She disliked the big man — for Compton's attitude toward her had always been that of contemptuous insolence — and she looked at him maliciously as, on his second visit within a few days, he stood at the edge of the porch, frowning, having just been told by the woman that Eleanor had gone away.
"Where did she go?" he demanded, scowling at the woman.
The woman smiled silkily, her voice soft-toned and apologetic. "She's ride theeze way — on the Silver horse." She pointed toward the trail that led to the Three Bar, and Compton's gaze grew malignant.
"Does she go that way every day?"
"Ever' day," smiled the woman, veiling her dislike of the man with her smooth smile.
"How long does she stay?"
"How long?" The woman smiled broadly and knowingly, and held up a hand, the fingers spread wide. "She's stay theeze many hours — always. More — sometimes. Most always she come home with the dark." Her smile broadened as she launched a subtle shaft at Compton. "Rand is a nize man — you think?"
Compton sneered silently at her, leaped on his horse, and rode away, riding rigid in the saddle — betraying his rage; while the woman, watching him, grimaced at his back.
Compton had not been surprised to discover that Eleanor Seddon was visiting the Three Bar. In fact, he had expected the girl to be interested in Rand. For upon the day she had told him of her meeting with Rand in the timber, he had not failed to note the glow in her eyes when she had spoken of Rand; and though he knew that