"You were expectin' somebody. Who was it, Lola?"
She shook her head. "Not you, Lou."
"No? What are you doing up here—what kind of a place are you runnin'? By God, the last thing I'll let—"
"Stop it! It is not your right to carry on so."
He choked down his bitterness. "I suppose not. But I took good care of you once. I kept an eye on you. Seems like I'm still tryin' to."
"Have I forgotten it?" she asked him. "What is the matter with you? Here you come storming down as if you were mad."
"I reckon we're all mad," he muttered. "Anybody's mad to take life seriously. Mad as hell."
"You have done something," she observed.
"So. I walked in front of Sundown and asked Eve Leverage for a dance next week. What did I get? Pity!"
"Did you think she would dance with you, Lou?"
He stared at her. "Well, why not? What have you been hearin' about me, Lola?"
"Many, many things. None of them good."
"And you believe them?"
"Look at me," said she softly, "and tell me none of these stories are true."
He accepted the challenge, but of a sudden she was a blur before his eyes, and he dropped his head, groaning. "Why should I? Lola, you were one of the two people in the world I feared to have know about me."
"So I must think of you as a man who once was gay and impulsive and kind—and now is only a memory of that man. Lou—what a fool you have been to throw away all that you might have been!"
"What difference does it make?" he muttered defiantly. "I wasn't born to follow the herd. I was born to go the other way—what is wrong in that? Who has the power of telling me what is wrong? Nobody! The pack makes right—the pack makes wrong! That's all. If I don't run with the pack I'm not ashamed. I am my own law. I am as good as any!"
"You are trying to put glory on your weaknesses. I hate that kind of a thing!"
"Who are you to talk?" he retorted.
He had struck her hard. She drew back, answering slowly, sadly, "Whatever my faults may have been, Lou, they have hurt only me. Never another soul in this world."
The drum of a woodpecker sounded sharp and clear in the late afternoon. Redmain raised his hand with a queer gesture of finality. "I saw it coming. Nothing could keep it from you—about me. There isn't anybody left now who's got any illusions as to the kind of a man I am."
"I remember the kind of a man you once were, Lou," she reminded him.
"Three years ago," he broke in gruffly. "People don't stand still. They go on. They're pushed on. I couldn't be that kind of a fellow any more if I wanted. But the big thing is—I don't want to."
"I am sorry for you."
"I'm not!" he snapped. "The pack can't catch me, can't squeeze me into its ideas and morals. It never will. Before I'm through I'll show them all what a man can do of his free will."
"Lou, you must not say that."
He pursued his thought heedlessly. "I'll see you no more, Lola. I'll never come to Sundown again. This is the last time my welcome's any good here. Well, I'm sorry you know about me. But I'm glad to remember there was a time—"
He saw the gleam of a tear in her eyes as she faced him. Down the trail was the sound of someone. Redmain retreated to the edge of the trees. David Denver was approaching the house.
"Your man's comin', Lola," said he grimly. "Better take good care of him. He thinks he's neutral, but he ain't. He couldn't be if he wanted. I won't let him! It won't be long before we meet, and then you'll have somethin' to cry about. Before God you will!"
He ducked from sight. On a dead run he descended through the trees, avoiding the trail, and aimed for Sundown's west end.
"I'll do no dancin' next week," he panted, "I won't be there! But it is a dance none of 'em will ever forget. I'll see to that. From now on I play this game for all it's worth. From now on let them take care of themselves!"
MURDER AND MUSIC
The Copperhead school was tonight the rendezvous for every able-bodied man, woman, and child within forty miles. Sounds of revelry emerged from every opening and floated across frosty air; lights gleamed through every opening, and the brisk melody of guitar and fiddle made lively rhythm. Men whooped cheerfully, women laughed; and the movement of the crowd never stopped, for Yellow Hill believed in playing with energy.
Copperhead school itself never could have held them all, but there was no need of that. The school was only a minor appendage built on to Casper Flood's enormous hay barn. Tonight the floor was cleared, cleaned, and waxed, and if the footing was sometimes rough nobody cared. All around the walls sat the matrons who no longer found comfort in the actual struggle, the patriarchs who secretly cherished a desire to shine as dancers and were restrained by family opinion, and the children—many of whom were sound asleep on improvised beds.
Midnight long since had passed, yet the dance went buoyantly on. Carriages departed, riders came in. Out under a tree men foregathered between dances to partake of cheer; and just inside the door a clump of punchers formed the inevitable stag line. In another corner of the barn stretched a mammoth table which earlier in the evening had groaned under vast mounds of sandwiches, fat hams, haunches of beef and cakes by the dozen. At present it resembled the devastated field of a great battle. Yet the folks still trooped to it, the hot coffee still steamed out of the enormous blackened pots, and from somewhere food still was fetched. And the music went on, and the dancers swirled under the gleaming lights.
"The best dance," sighed Mrs. Casper Flood, "I ever remember. Don't Dave and the Monterey girl look well? Seems like they fit."
"Ha," said Mrs. Jim Coldfoot, who had been eyeing a dark corner of the barn. "They had ought to fit. Been chasin' together long enough. Who's he goin' to marry, I want to know? I notice he pays his attention pretty evenly between the Monterey woman and Eve. Why didn't he bring Eve to this dance 'stead of Lola Monterey?"
"Why don't you ask Dave?" inquired Mrs. Casper Flood ironically.
"Would if I thought he'd tell," said Mrs. Jim, in no manner abashed. "All I got to say is if Eve Leverage likes him and is put out by his goin' with that other girl, then she keeps it well hid, the little devil."
The music stopped with a flourish and couples began circling for seats. By degrees intimate friends collected in small knots. Presently Denver and Steele and Steers, with their partners, gathered at the table. Niland came up and joined; and lastly the Englishman arrived with one of the Fee girls. The Englishman, alone of all that assemblage, was dressed in full evening habit. His ruddy face was a burnished crimson above the utter whiteness of a stiff shirt. He bowed and he bent with a scrupulous nicety. He was urbanity and polish personified.
It was a tribute to Almaric St. Jennifer Crèvecoeur Nightingale that the circle at the table opened readily to admit him; and it was a still greater tribute that this circle began to cast humorous comment on his get-up. For when cattleland abandons formality toward a man, that man is accepted.
"What I wish to know," demanded Niland, indicating the full dress, "is do you pin it on or buckle it on?"
"Let's widen the inquiry," added Denver. "Do you step into it, climb into it, or roll into it?"
"One acquires the knowledge by degrees," said Nightingale gravely. "It takes ten years to learn the proper angle at which to wear a top hat. Why, dear fellas, every curve and cut is prescribed by tradition, hallowed by memory. What you see before you is the cumulative