Compton did not ride the river trail to cross Rand's land; he took the back trail — which intersected the Ocate trail at a point about two miles west of the Three Bar ranchhouse, and about the middle of the afternoon he was sitting on his horse before the front door of the Bar S, convinced that the house was deserted.
Frowning and disappointed, Compton got off his horse, walked across the porch, and knocked on the door. There was no response, and his frown deepening, Compton opened the door, entered the house, and went from one room to another, half expecting Seddon or his daughter had deliberately refused to answer the door.
When, after searching all the rooms, Compton became aware that his mean suspicions were unfounded, he went outside again, carefully closing the front door behind him, so that he left no evidence of his presence in the house.
Stepping down from the porch he went to the bunk-house; then to the stable and corral. And when at the corral fence he noted the absence of Silver, he grinned slightly, returned to the porch, and seated himself in a chair.
There, an hour later, riding rapidly along the river trail, Eleanor Seddon saw him.
The girl had almost recovered from the shock that had resulted from the knowledge that she had spent part of the afternoon riding with Beaudry Rand; but she had not forgiven Rand for deceiving her, for permitting her to think during the entire ride from the timber to the Three Bar that he was one of her father's men employed to watch her.
Nor had she forgiven him for permitting her to take him into her confidence — in airing to him her father's opinions concerning him, and in repeating to him her father's grotesque description of his personal appearance. That had been outrageous!
There had been times during their ride to the Three Bar that she had looked upon Rand with an interest that had set her brain to weaving romances, with Rand and herself as the central figures — for he was a romantic figure! Or, he had been a romantic figure, rather; for now she was seething with a furious rage against him; and her mental anathemas during the ride home from the Three Bar had been directed at him definitely and vigorously.
And so, when she rode up to the front porch of the Bar S ranchhouse and sat motionless in the saddle, looking at the big man comfortably seated in a chair, and watching her with frank interest — and undoubted admiration — her face was flushed, her eyes bright. She made a picture that caused Compton's blood to leap and tingle, and his cheeks became stained with color which was the visible evidence of the desire that had laid hold of him.
He got up when Silver came to a halt, swept his soft, broad-brimmed hat from his head, and bowed gracefully to her.
"I am intruding, of course — and I ask your pardon. But I had a long ride — twenty miles — and I found no one at home. So I took the liberty of putting a chair to work. I assure you that I have done no other damage. I am Compton, of the Two Link, down the river trail a piece."
She laughed, remembering—and returned his bow. "Mr. Compton! Oh, yes; Father spoke of you! Well, I'm sorry no one was here to welcome you. But Father is away with the outfit and the housekeeper has gone to town. I decided I wanted a look at the timber near the Three Bar. You see, it has been four years — and I used to love it!"
She swung around a little, preparing to dismount; but before she could get her feet clear of the stirrups Compton was at Silver's head, and he gallantly assisted her down. Then, before she could object, he was leading the horse toward the corral, saying lowly:
"I'll take care of Silver."
"Then you know him?" she called after him.
He looked back over his shoulder, smiling.
"Very well," he said; "I knew you would select him."
While Compton was busy with the horse, Eleanor went into the house, removed her riding-jacket and hat, and swiftly combed her wind-blown hair. By the time Compton finished with Silver, she was out on the porch again, fresh-looking; the flush still in her cheeks, her eyes still bright.
Compton did not offer to resume the chair he had been sitting in. Since he had seen the girl he had decided that Seddon's eulogies had been none too extravagant — indeed, he decided, Seddon could have made his praises more enthusiastic without overdoing it.
Therefore Compton — though his pulses were leaping with an eagerness that no other woman had ever aroused in him — did not betray his eagerness.
Outwardly he was never more deliberate in his life. Given the same opportunity — the girl alone, and they her father's friends — some men of the Compton type, ruthless, virile, with passions that the broad license of unscrupulous power and little law imparted, would have committed the error of revealing too clearly the desire that had seized them.
Compton, however, made no such mistake. Standing at the porch edge he gave the girl just that measure of admiration which would indicate that she had impressed him. The bold smile with which he greeted other women in the past — the smile whose significance had brought blushes to many fair faces — was now absent; and in the man's eyes as he looked at the girl was the nearest imitation of frank, manly interest he could summon.
"I won't stop long," he said; "I just rode over to welcome you home. For, you see," he added as he saw her eyes light with pleasure, "your father has been talking about you, and all of us denizens of the sagebrush have been anxious to see you. I have known for several days that you were home." He smiled broadly. "Don't you think I did rather well — to stay away this long?"
"Marvelously well!" she mocked, catching the spirit of banter with which he had clothed his words.
Compton talked about Denver; he learned much of her school experience; but he learned much more of her character as their talk ran from one indifferent subject to another. He discovered that she was spirited and independent ; that no man had yet intrigued her interest; and by the time they had exhausted the indifferent subjects there was not the least atmosphere of constraint between them.
"Are you sure you are Mr. Compton, of the Two Link?" she asked, her eyes twinkling as she looked down at him. "For," she added, without giving him a chance to reply, "I made one mistake today, and I don't want to make another. You see," she explained, "Father warned me about going into the timber. But I love the timber, and I just couldn't help going. And when I got into the timber, I got off Silver to pick some flowers, forgetting that a range horse would not stand with the reins tied to the saddle-horn."
She told him about the wolf, and about her rescuer. And when she related what had happened at the Three Bar, when Rand had shown her the photograph of his father, she saw Compton's lips straighten.
"He admitted his father was an outlaw, eh?" said Compton, after she had finished.
She nodded, adding: "And he certainly looked like an outlaw!"
"And Beau Rand, himself?" questioned Compton.
She looked with covert sharpness at the Two Link owner, noting the cold levelness of his gaze, and the slight pout that had come to his lips.
"You want to know what I think of him?" she asked, a gleam of mischief in her eyes — for she saw that Compton's cheeks were stained darkly, and that his eyes were alight with an expression that seemed almost malignant — reminding her of the expression of her father's face on the day he had told her to beware of Rand.
It was jealousy that had seized Compton — she knew it! And with all a woman's perverseness, she said:
"Why, Father drew a terrible description of Rand! I believe that was why I did not recognize Rand when I saw him after he had killed the wolf. You see, I was expecting him to have pink hair and a number of other things not commonly worn by humans. And I discovered him to be a rather handsome and manly fellow after all. And he is quite interesting—and remarkably modest. I — rather liked him!"
Compton said nothing, for he felt that the violent passions that raged within him would have betrayed him to Miss Seddon — would have betrayed the jealousy that had seized him.
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