"Did Father tell you not to talk to me?" she demanded.
"No."
Silence for a hundred yards. Then —
"Do you know Beaudry Rand well?"
"Pretty well."
"Is he really an outlaw?"
"Some say he is."
"And you — what is your opinion?"
"I ain't expressin' it."
"Oh — you aren't! Well, you have one, I presume?"
"Yes."
"But you won't express it. How odd! I suppose that is because you are afraid Rand would shoot you if he heard you had talked about him?" There was much sarcasm in her voice, provoked by the man's obvious reluctance to talk with her.
He laughed, and his voice floated back to her:
"I ain't afraid of Rand shootin' me."
She believed him. But that conviction did not lessen her resentment. And she persisted, determined to make him talk.
"But Rand is considered a dangerous man, isn't he? That is, I mean he has the reputation of being a gunfighter — a cattle rustler, a horse thief, and a stage robber?"
"There's folks that think that about him, I reckon. Who was tellin' you?"
"My father told me," she answered. "He said that Rand was suspected of doing all those things, though there was no evidence against him. The stealing began about the time Rand bought the Three Bar. Link Compton has organized a vigilance committee to endeavor to get evidence against Rand."
This did not seem to interest her escort, for he did not answer, nor did he turn his head. When they began to approach the edge of the timber, and the trail grew wider, she spurred her horse beside his and looked furtively at him. He paid no attention to her—his attitude being that of the respectful employee whose business it was to speak when spoken to.
There was a flash of malice in her eyes—humorous malice. For he was so strikingly good-looking that she suspected he would betray condescension toward those of his fellows less generously endowed by nature. She had heard women make "cattish" remarks about other women, and she supposed men were not unlike her own sex in that regard. At least, if her escort had a weak point it was likely to be just here — and it was worth a trial.
"What do you think of Rand — his appearance, I mean. Is he good-looking or ugly?"
"I'd say he was good-lookin'," he answered, flashing a sharp glance at her.
She was disappointed, for he had not spoken the derogatory word she had expected. Also, she was resentful, for she had wanted him to exhibit a very human trait, and he had not done so.
"That is remarkable," she said.
"What is?" Again his glance rested on her — fleeting; she could not fathom it.
"That you seem to think he is good-looking. Father has a decidedly opposite opinion. Shall I tell you what Father says about him — about his appearance?"
"I ain't particular."
"No-o? Well, perhaps you have heard Father describe him. Father says"—she remembered the words well; she felt she would never forget them—" Rand is a skinny, ugly gawk, with pink hair and an eye like a fish. He's tall and awkward, with a pigeon chest and a woman's waist. He's got a nose like an eagle's beak and a grin like a sneaking tomcat! That's Rand — Beau Rand!"
She succeeded in getting a remarkable touch of her father's venom into the description, and she expected her escort to laugh. But to her astonishment and chagrin when she looked quickly at him she saw that there was no sign of emotion on his face. He might not have heard her.
"That description doesn't coincide with yours, I presume?" she asked.
"No, ma'am." And now his lips curved with a slight, mirthless smile. "I expect it wouldn't please Rand a heap, either."
"There is bad feeling between Rand and Father," she said; "that is evident. Do you know why?"
"I ain't never asked your father about it, ma'am," he answered.
She said nothing more until they reached a broad level beyond the edge of the timber, and were riding at a good pace through some tall bunch grass. Then she said:
"How old is Beaudry Rand?"
"I'd say about thirty."
They had crossed the broad level, and were loping their horses down a rocky, uneven slope that led to the river before the girl spoke again.
"Why do they call him 'Beau'?"
"That's his name, ma'am."
"Did you ever call him that?" she asked. "Because," she went on, noting the sudden flush that came into his cheeks, "Father says that whenever a man calls him Beau to his face he'll look at you like a tiger about to devour you!" She laughed. "You must have called him that, judging from your embarrassment — and he must have shown you that he wanted to eat you!" She leaned close to him, intensely curious. "Did you?" she asked.
"I've called him Beau."
"And what did he do?"
"Nothin'."
She straightened with a sigh. "Father said he'd 'stand' for it. If I were a man, and another man profaned my name like that, I'd certainly punish him some way. This man Rand must be a sort of spiritless fellow after all. I had hoped — when I heard about him — that he'd have more gumption."
"I reckon he's a sort of mild critter, ma'am, or he'd not stand for what's bein' said about him. But Rand ain't no trouble-hunter — if that's any use to you."
Thereafter she questioned him no further; for she had seen from the flush on his face that he must have had trouble with Rand — over the nickname, possibly — and she had no desire further to embarrass him. But her resentment over his lack of interest in her still lingered.
She dropped behind him, riding at a little distance, while they traversed the irregular slope to the edge of the deep basin, full of water, about which her father had spoken.
The basin belonged to the Three Bar — the girl recognized it, for she had ridden here many times while the Three Bar was still owned by Halsey — and she saw that what her father had said about the river was true.
When she had left the Bar S there had been considerable water in the river, but now there was a small stream of it, barely a yard wide, trickling over its rock bed into the basin. And very little water flowed from the southerly end of the basin into the almost dry bed of the river that dropped down into the gorge that ran past the Bar S.
The two horses clattered across a shallow that skirted the basin, reached a gradual rise that began at the basin's edge, and stretched to some level land westward. When they reached the crest of the rise the girl saw the Three Bar buildings farther back, at the edge of a grove of spruce and fir-balsam and cottonwood. The buildings looked no different than they had looked when she had left the country four years before, and she had some difficulty in believing that they were now inhabited by an outlaw.
For the girl's memory was retentive, and while she was riding forward toward the ranch buildings, she kept seeing mental pictures of the Halseys — of Halsey himself, and of his girls — who had chummed with her; and of the Halsey home life — which had been gentle and ideal.
So deeply interested was she with her mental pictures, she had almost forgotten the man who had escorted her out of the timber; and she did not look up until her horse came to a halt of his own volition. Then she started and looked about her, for her escort had dismounted and was standing at the head of her horse, smiling at her.
"You'll find Beaudry Rand in the house."
She reddened; for now that she was here, and the mental pictures had vanished, she realized that she had done a bold and unconventional thing in coming.