"The last I saw of Beaudry Rand, the outlaw, he couldn't do any walkin'," said her escort. His eyes were quizzical and mocking. No doubt he was aware of her sudden trepidation.
"Hurt — do you mean?" she asked. "Well, in any case, I shall not go in."
"Scared?" said the man, derisively, as though daring her.
Her flush deepened, and a reckless impulse seized her.
"No," she declared; "I am not scared." And she laughed at the flash of admiration that lighted the man's eyes.
Dismounting—this time trailing the reins over Silver's head — she followed the man across a broad gallery and into a big, gloomy front room which, she knew, had served the Halseys as a parlor.
Her escort halted midway in the room and pointed to a small picture on the wall — a full-length photograph of a man in cowboy rigging, with a large, flowing mustache, and a cruel, drooping mouth.
Perplexed, she stared hard at the picture, and then at her escort.
"Why," she said coldly; "is this a hoax? I came in here to see Beaudry Rand, and you show me a photograph!"
He looked gravely at her. "I reckon it ain't a hoax, ma'am. That is a picture of Beaudry Rand, the outlaw. Beaudry Rand, the outlaw, is dead; an' that's all he left to remember him by — exceptin' some mighty excitin' stories that folks will tell you—mostly lies, I reckon."
"But I — I thought Beaudry Rand was alive! Father said he is alive! Why," she added, standing stiffly before him, her eyes flashing, accusation in her voice; "you told me — as much as told me he was alive! And you said he was about thirty years of age!"
"Beaudry Rand, the outlaw, is dead, ma'am," he repeated gravely. "But Beaudry Rand, his son, is a heap certain that he's a whole lot alive. An' he's about thirty, too, ma'am — as I told you. An' I'd be willin' to swear that he ain't got no pink hair — unless this is pink," he added, running the fingers of one of his hands through the short, dark-brown, virile mass that covered his head.
"An' while I ain't claimin' to be vain, I ain't admittin' that I've got a pigeon chest, an' an eagle-beak nose; an' I'm right certain I ain't no sneakin' tomcat! As for me bein' awkward, an' a lot of other things that I can't seem to remember—there bein' so much of it — why, you'll have to be the judge of that, ma'am; for you've been lookin' at me quite considerable this afternoon!"
She had started back, and now stood looking at him in dismayed astonishment.
" You!" she said; "you are Beaudry Rand?"
"I'm Beaudry Rand, ma'am," he said gently. And he stood near the center of the room, watching her with a grave smile as she backed through the door, across the porch, and to the steps. At the steps she turned, ran to Silver, mounted hurriedly, and sent the animal racing toward the river trail.
Chapter III. The Man Himself
FOR perhaps ten minutes following the abrupt departure of Eleanor Seddon, Beaudry Rand stood on the big gallery of the ranchhouse watching the girl as she rode steadily down the river trail. He saw the gray horse cross the long stretch of plain that began at the ranch-house; he watched while the animal fled over some bare hills; and when at last horse and rider came for an instant into bold relief on the crest of a high ridge that formed the southern sky-line, Rand smiled mirthlessly, walked into the big front room, took the picture of his father from the wall, stuck it under an arm, and strode into another room — his bedroom.
There he removed a bust photograph of a woman from the wall near his bed; and with both pictures — one under his arm and the other in his right hand—he returned to the porch and seated himself in a chair.
Holding the two pictures close together, so that the strong north light shone on them, he studied them.
Had Eleanor Seddon been there to see him, she would have marveled over the swiftly changing expression of Rand's face. For when his gaze rested on the photograph of the woman, his eyes grew wistful, gentle, and worshipful; his lips curved into a smile that was tenderly reminiscent. Again, reverently he kissed the photograph, holding it tightly to his lips, while his face paled and the love-hunger of a loyal son for his dead mother held him in a mighty clutch.
His eyes grew hard and his lips formed two straight, stiff lines when he turned the woman's picture face down on his lap and looked at the photograph of the man. His muscles grew taut, his chin went outward in a vicious thrust, and his eyes gleamed with a cold fire. He sat there, rigid and motionless, while passions, virulent and blighting, seethed through him.
It was not the first time he had held the two pictures together, comparing them; nor was it the first time the passion had gripped him. Since he had been old enough to think for himself he had known what it was to feel the blood-lust gripping him. It had been a heritage from his father — the man of the photograph — this bitter, malignant passion; and it had come upon him when he had been very young—its earliest manifestation had occurred when in his fifteenth year, back in the Durango country — where he had been born — a boy from a neighboring ranch had displeased him. The boy had drawn a gun and, half in jest, half in earnest, he had pointed it at Rand.
Young Rand had worn no gun — his mother had forbidden that. And yet, facing the weapon in the other boy's hand, Rand had yielded to the first bitter, destroying passion that had ever seized him. He had walked straight to the boy — the muzzle of the weapon menacing him, the other boy's finger wavering on the trigger — daring him to shoot.
And when he had seen the cringing indecision in the other's eyes he knocked the weapon from his hand and leaped upon him in demoniac fury.
It had been his mother who had saved him that day — saved him from committing the murder which would have made him like his outlaw father—a conscienceless killer of men.
He had not known then, of course, that he had inherited his violent passions from his father; that the queer, cynical, and malevolent feeling that came over him at sight of another man wearing a six-shooter was a yearning to kill — a lust that his father had bequeathed him.
Later, though, he knew. And during all his days — from the instant the knowledge had burst upon him until the present — he had fought the passion. He had fought it with his love for the woman of the photograph; with the memories of her gentleness, her goodness, and by centering his thoughts upon the things she had taught him.
For when he had grown old enough to understand — after his father's death — she had warned him. She had seen in him the evidence of those violent, savage impulses which had made an outlaw of his father; and she had told him that once he drew a gun to slay a fellow-man he would be lost—for he had inherited his father's terrible blood-lust.
There were men, she had said, who had slain without yielding to the passion to slay; but they were men in whom the will to withhold violence was stronger than the will to slay. He would not be of that type, she told him. And he knew she had spoken the truth.
He had known "killers"—men who had not been able to resist the impulse to slay once they had yielded to it. He had seen them cruel and venomous, taunting prospective victims, provoking them to some action that would give them an excuse to shoot.
He did not try to condone their actions — he despised the type. And yet he knew their passion for his own; and several times, when men had provoked him, and when he had been forced to draw his gun in self-protection, he had almost yielded to it.
But at those times he had kept his mother's face in mind, and thoughts of her had saved him. Twice since he had bought the Three Bar—once in Ocate and once just outside the town — he had clashed with men who had deliberately sought trouble