Bud Hemmingway, the tall, red-faced young puncher who had assisted Quinton Taylor in the sprained-ankle deception, saw the dawn breaking through one of the windows of the bunkhouse when he suddenly opened his eyes after dreaming of steaming flapjacks soaked in the sirup he liked best. He stretched out on his back in the wall-bunk and licked his lips.

“Lordy, I’m hungry!”

But he decided to rest for a few minutes while he considered the cook – away with the outfit to a distant corner of the range.

He reflected bitterly that the cook was away most of the time, and that a man fared considerably better with the outfit than he did by staying at the home ranch. For one thing, when a man was with the outfit he got “grub,” without having to rustle it himself – that was why it was better to be with the outfit.

“A man don’t git nothin’ to eat at all, scarcely – when he’s got to rustle his own grub,” mourned Bud. “He’s got the appetite, all right, but he don’t know how to rassle the ingredients which goes into good grub. Take them flapjacks, now.” (He licked his lips again.) “They’re scrumptuous. But that damned hyena which slings grub for the outfit won’t tell a man how he makes ’em, which greediness is goin’ to git him into a heap of trouble some day – when I git so hungry that I feel a heap reckless!”

Bud watched the dawn broaden. He knew he ought to get up, for this was the day on which Marion Harlan was to visit the Arrow – and Taylor had warned him to be on hand early to bandage the ankle again – Taylor having decided that not enough time had elapsed to effect a cure.

But Bud did not get up until a glowing shaft entering the window warned him that the sun was soon to appear above the horizon. Then he bounded out of the bunk and lurched heavily to an east window.

What he saw when he looked out made him gasp for breath and hang hard to the window-sill, while his eyes bulged and widened with astonishment. For upon the porch of the ranchhouse – seated in the identical chairs in which they had sat during their previous visit, were Marion Harlan and the negro woman!

Bud stepped back from the window and rubbed his eyes. Then he went to the window again and looked with all his vision. And then a grin covered his face.

For the two women seemed to be asleep. Bud would have sworn they were asleep! For the negress was hunched up in her chair – a big, almost shapeless black mass – with her chin hidden in the swell of her ample bosom; while the girl was leaning back, her figure slack with the utter relaxation that accompanies deep sleep, her eyes closed and her hat a little awry. Bud was certain she was asleep, for no girl in her waking moments would permit her hat to rest upon her head in that negligent manner.

Bad scratched his head many times while hurriedly getting into his clothing.

“I’m bettin’ they didn’t wait for flapjacks this morning!” he confided to himself, mentally. “Must like it here a heap,” he reflected. “Well, there’s nothin’ like gittin’ an early start when you’re goin’ anywhere!” he grinned.

Stealthily he opened the door of the bunkhouse, watching furtively as he stepped out, lest he be seen; and then when he noted that the women did not move, he darted across the yard, vaulted the corral fence, ran around the corner of the ranchhouse, carefully opened a rear door, and presently stood beside a bed gently shaking its tousled-haired occupant.

“Git up, you sufferin’ fool!” he whispered hoarsely; “they’re here!”

Taylor’s eyes snapped open and were fixed on Bud with a resentful glare, which instantly changed to reserved amusement when he saw Bud’s bulging eyes and general evidence of suppressed excitement.

He yawned sleepily, stretching his arms wide.

“The outfit, eh? Well, tell Bothwell I’ll see him – ”

“Bothwell, hell!” sneered Bud. “It ain’t the outfit! It ain’t no damned range boss! It’s her, I tell you! An’ if you’re figgerin’ on gittin’ that ankle bandaged before – That starts you to runnin’, eh?” he jeered.

For Taylor was out of bed with one leap. In another he had Bud by the shoulders and had crowded him back against the wall.

“Bud,” he said, “I’ve a notion to manhandle you! Didn’t I tell you to have me up early?”

“Git your fingers out of my windpipe,” objected Bud. “Early! Sufferin’ shorthorns! Did you want me to git you up last night? It’s only four, now – an’ they’ve been here for hours, I reckon – mebbe all night. How’s a man to know anything about a woman?”

Taylor was getting into his clothes. Bud watched him, marveling at his deft movements. “You’re sure a wolf at hustlin’ when she’s around!” he offered.

But he got no reply. Taylor was dressed in a miraculously short time, and then he sat down on the edge of the bed and stuck a foot out toward Bud.

“Shut up, and get the bandage on!” he directed.

Bud dove for a dresser and pulled out a drawer, returning instantly with a roll of white cloth, which he unfolded as he knelt beside the bed. For an instant after kneeling he scratched his head, looking at Taylor’s feet in perplexity, and then he looked up at Taylor, his face thoughtfully furrowed.

“Which ankle was it I bandaged before?” he demanded; “I’ve forgot!”

Taylor groaned. He, too, had forgotten. Since he had talked with Neil Norton about the ankle directly after the fight with Carrington in front of the courthouse he had tried in vain to remember which ankle he had bandaged for Miss Harlan’s benefit. Driven to the necessity of making a quick decision, his brain became a mere muddle of desperate conjecture. Out of the muddle sprang a disgust for Bud for his poor memory.

“You’ve forgot!” he blurted at Bud. “Why, damn it, you ought to know which one it was – you bandaged it!”

“Well,” grinned Bud gleefully, “it was your ankle, wasn’t it? Strikes me that if I busted one of my ankles I wouldn’t forget which one it was! Leastways, if I’d busted it just to hang around a girl!”

Taylor sneered scornfully. “You wouldn’t bust an ankle for a girl – you ain’t got backbone enough. Hell!” he exploded; “do something! Take a chance and bandage one of them – I don’t care a damn which one! If she noticed the other time, I’ll tell her that one was cured and I busted the other one!”

“She’d know you was lyin’,” grinned Bud. He stood erect, his eyes alight with an inspiration. “Wrap up both of ’em!” he suggested. “If she goes to gittin’ curious – which she will, bein’ a woman – tell her you busted both of ’em!”

“It won’t do,” objected Taylor; “I couldn’t lie that heavy an’ keep a straight face.”

Bud began to wrap the left ankle. As he worked, the doubt in his eyes began to fade and was succeeded by conviction. When he finished, he stood up and grinned at Taylor.

“That’s the one,” he said; “the left. I mind, now, that we talked about it. You go right out to her, limpin’, the same as you done before, an’ she’ll not say a word about it. You’ll see.”

Taylor grunted disbelievingly, and hobbled to the front door. He looked back at Bud, who was snickering, made a malicious grimace at him, and softly opened the door.

Miss Harlan had been asleep, but she was not asleep when Taylor opened the door. Indeed, she was never more wide awake in her life. At the sound of the door opening she turned her head and sat stiffly erect, to face Taylor.

Taylor looked apologetically at his ankle, his cheeks tinged with a flush of embarrassment.

“This ankle, ma’am – it ain’t quite well yet. You’ll excuse me not being gone. But Bud – that’s my friend – says it won’t be quite right for a few days yet. But I won’t be in your way – and I hope you enjoy yourself.”

Miss Harlan was enjoying herself. She was enjoying herself despite the shadow of the tragedy that had almost descended upon her. And mirth, routing the bitter, resentful emotions that had dwelt in her heart during the night, twitched mightily at her lips and threatened to curve them into a smile.

For during her last visit to the Arrow she had noted particularly that it had been Taylor’s right ankle which had been bandaged, and now he appeared before her with the left swathed in white cloth!

But even had she not known, Taylor’s face must have told her of the deception. For there was guilt in his eyes, and doubt, and a sort of breathless speculation, and – she was certain – an intense curiosity to discover whether or not she was aware of the trick.

But she looked straight at him, betraying nothing of the emotions that had seized her.

“Does it pain you very much?” she inquired.

Had not Taylor been so eager to make his case strong, he might have noted the exceedingly light sarcasm of her voice.

“It hurts a heap, ma’am,” he declared. “Why, last night – ”

“I shouldn’t think it would be necessary to lie about an ankle,” she said, coldly.

Taylor’s face went crimson, and in his astonishment he stepped heavily upon the traitor foot and stood, convicted, before her, looking very much like a reproved schoolboy.

She rose from her chair, and now she turned from Taylor and stood looking out over the big level, while behind her Taylor shifted his feet, scowled and felt decidedly uncomfortable.

From where Taylor watched her she looked very rigid and indignant – with her head proudly erect and her shoulders squared; and he could almost feel that her eyes were flashing with resentment.

Yet had he been able to see her face, he would have seen her lips twitching and her eyes dancing with a light that might have puzzled him. For she had already forgiven him.

“There’s lies —and lies,” he offered palliatively, breaking a painful silence.

There was no answer, and Taylor, desperately in earnest in his desire for forgiveness, and looking decidedly funny to Bud Hemmingway, who was watching from the interior of the room beyond the open door, walked across the porch with no suspicion of a limp, and halted near the girl.

“Shucks, Miss Harlan,” he said. “I’m sure caught; and I’m admitting it was a sort of mean trick to pull off on you. But if you wanted to be near a girl you’d taken a shine to – that you liked a whole lot, I mean, Miss Harlan – and you couldn’t think of any good excuse to be around her? You couldn’t blame a man for that – could you? Besides,” he added, when peering at the side of her face, he saw the twitching lips, ready to break into a smile, “I’ll make it up to you!”

“How?” It was a strained voice that answered him.

“By manhandling Bud Hemmingway for wrapping up the wrong ankle, ma’am!” he declared.

Both heard a cackle of mirth from the room behind them. And both turned, to see Bud Hemmingway retreating through a door into the kitchen.

It might have been Bud’s action that brought the smile to Miss Harlan’s face, or it might have been that she had forgiven Taylor. But at any rate Taylor read the smile correctly, and he succeeded in looking properly repentant when he felt Miss Harlan’s gaze upon him.

“I won’t play any more tricks – on you,” he declared. “You ain’t holding it against me?”

“If you will promise not to harm Bud,” she said.

“That goes,” he agreed, and went into the house to get his discarded boot.

When he reappeared, Miss Harlan was again seated in the chair. Swiftly her thoughts had reverted to the incident of the night before, and her face was wan and pale, and her lips pressed tightly together in a brave effort to repress the emotions that rioted within her. In spite of her courage, and of her determination not to let Taylor know of what had happened to her, her eyes were moist and her lips quivering.

He stepped close to her and peered sharply at her, standing erect instantly, his face grave.

“Shucks!” he said, accusingly; “I wouldn’t be called hospitable – now, would I? Standing here, talking a lot of nonsense, and you – you must have started early to get here by this time!” Again he flashed a keen glance at her, and his voice leaped.

“Something has happened, Miss Harlan! What is it?”

She got up again and faced him, smiling, her eyes shining mistily through the moisture in them. She was almost on the verge of tears, and her voice was tremulous when she answered:

“Mr. Taylor, I – I have come to ask if you – still – if your offer about the Arrow is still open – if – I could stay here – myself and Martha; if I could accept the offer you made about giving me father’s share of the Arrow. For – for – I can’t go back East – to Westwood, and I won’t stay in the Huggins house a minute longer!”

“Sure!” he said, with a grim smile, aware of her profound emotion; aware, too, that something had gone terribly wrong with her – to make her accept what she had once considered charity – an offer made out of his regard for her father.

“But, look here,” he added. “What’s wrong? There’s something – ”

“Plenty, Mr. Squint.”

This was Martha. She had been awake for some little time, sitting back with her eyes closed, listening. She was now sitting erect, her eyes shining with eagerness to tell all she knew of the night’s happenings.

“Plenty, Mr. Squint,” she repeated, paying no attention to Miss Harlan’s sharp, “Martha!” “That big rapscallion, Carrington, has been makin’ things mighty mis’able for Missy Harlan. He come to the house las’ night an’ bust the door down, tryin’ to git at missy, an’ she’s run away from him like a whitehead. Then, when he finds he can’t diskiver where I hide missy he run the hosses off an’ we have to walk heah. That’s all, Mr. Squint, ’ceptin’ that me an’ missy doan stay in that house no more – if we have to walk East – all the way!”

Miss Harlan saw a flash light Taylor’s eyes; saw the flash recede, to be replaced by a chilling glow. And his lips grew straight and stiff – two hard lines pressed firmly together. She saw his chest swell and noted the tenseness of his muscles as he stepped closer to her.

“Was your uncle there with you, Miss Harlan?”

She nodded, and saw his lips curve with a mirthless smile.

“What did Carrington do?” The passion in his voice made an icy shiver run over her – she felt the terrible earnestness that had come over him, and a pulse of fear gripped her.

She had never felt more like crying than at this instant, and until this minute she had not known how deeply she had been affected by Carrington’s conduct, nor how tired she was, nor how she had yearned for the sympathy Taylor was giving her. But she felt that something in Taylor’s manner portended violence, and she did not want him to risk his life fighting Carrington – for her.

“You see,” she explained, “Mr. Carrington did not really do anything. He just came there, and was impertinent, and impudent, and insulting. And he told me that he had bought the house; that it didn’t belong to uncle – though I thought it did; and that the people of Dawes – and everywhere – would think – things – about me – as the people of Westwood had – thought. And I – I – why, I just couldn’t stay – ”

“That’s enough, Miss Harlan. So Carrington didn’t do anything.” His voice was vibrant with some sternly repressed passion.

“So you walked all the way here, and you have had no breakfast,” he said, shortly. He turned toward the front door, his voice snapping like the report of a rifle:

“Bud!”

And, looking through the doorway, Miss Harlan saw Bud jump as though he had been shot. He appeared in the doorway, serious-faced and alert.

“Rustle some breakfast – quick! And hoe out that spare bedroom. Jump!”

Taylor understood perfectly what had happened, for he remembered what he had overheard between Carrington and Parsons on the train. To be sure, Miss Harlan knew nothing about the conversation, and so she mentally commended Taylor’s quickness of perception, and felt grateful to him because he had spared her the horror of explaining further.

She sat down again, aware of the startling unconventionality of this visit and of the conversation that had resulted from it, but oppressed with no sense of shame. For it seemed entirely natural that she should have come to Taylor, though she supposed that was because he had been her father’s friend, and that she had no other person to go to – not even if she went East, to Westwood. But she would not have mentioned what had happened at the big house if Martha had not taken the initiative.

She was startled over the change that had come in Taylor. Watching him covertly as he stood near her, and following his movements as he walked around in the room, helping Bud, generously leaving her to herself and her thoughts, she looked in vain for that gentleness and subtle thoughtfulness that hitherto had seemed to distinguish him. She had admired him for his easy-going manner, the slow deliberateness of his glances, the quizzical gleam of his eyes.

But she saw him now as many of the men in this section of the country had seen him when he faced the necessity for rapid, determined action. It was the other side of his character; before she had heard his voice, and before she had seen him smile – the stern, unyielding side of him which she had discovered always was ready for the blows of adversity and enmity – his fighting side.

And when she went into the house to breakfast, feeling the strangeness of it all – of the odd fate which had led her to the Arrow; the queer reluctance that affected her over the action in accepting the hospitality of a man who – except for his association with her father – was almost a stranger to her – she found that he did not intend to insinuate his presence upon her.

He called her, and stood near the table when she and Martha went in. Then he told her gravely that the house was “hers,” and that he and Bud would live in the bunkhouse.

“And when you get settled,” he told her, as he stood in the doorway, ready to go, “we’ll write those articles of partnership. And,” he added, “don’t you go to worrying about Carrington. If he comes here, and Bud or me ain’t here, you’ll find a loaded rifle hanging behind the front door. Don’t be afraid to use it – there’s no law against killing snakes out here!”

CHAPTER XVIII – THE BEAST AGAIN

Carrington was conscious of the error his unrestrained passion had driven him to committing. Yet he had not been sincere when he had declared to Martha that he wouldn’t bother the girl again. For after leading the two horses to Dawes and arranging for their care, he hunted up Danforth. It was nearly midnight when Danforth reached Carrington’s rooms in the Castle, and Carrington was in a sullen mood.

“I want two or three men who will do what they are told and keep their mouths shut,” he told Danforth. “Get them – quick – and send them to the Huggins house – mine, now – and have them stay there. Nobody is to leave the house – not even to come to town. Understand? Not even Parsons. Hustle! There is no train out of here tonight? No? Well, that’s all right. Get going!”

Danforth had noticed Carrington’s sullenness, and the strained excitement of his manner, and there was in Danforth’s mind an inclination to warn Carrington about including the woman in the scheme to subjugate Dawes – for he knew Carrington of old; but a certain light in the big man’s eyes warned Danforth and he shut his half-opened lips and departed on his errand.

In an hour he returned, telling Carrington that his orders had been obeyed.

Danforth seated himself in a chair near one of the front windows and waited, for he knew Carrington still had something to say to him – the man’s eyes told him, for they were alight with a cold, speculative gleam as they rested on Danforth.

At last, after a silence that lasted long, Carrington said, shortly:

“What do you know about Taylor?”

“What I told you before – the first day. And that isn’t much.”

“I had a talk with Parsons the other day – about Larry Harlan,” said Carrington. “It seems that Larry Harlan worked for Taylor – for two or three years. I didn’t question Parsons closely about the connection between Taylor and Harlan, but it seems to me that Parsons mentioned a mine. What about it? Do you know anything about it?”

Danforth related what he knew regarding the incident of the mine – the story told by Taylor when he returned after Larry Harlan’s death – and Carrington’s eyes gleamed with interest.

“Do you think he told a straight story?” he asked.

He watched Danforth intently.

“Hell, yes!” declared the other. “He’s too square to lie!”

Five minutes later Carrington said good-night to Danforth. But Carrington did not immediately go to bed; he sat for a long time in a chair near the window looking out at the buildings of Dawes.

In the courtroom early the next morning he leaned over Judge Littlefield’s desk, smiling.

“Did you ever hear of Quinton Taylor being connected with a mining venture?”

“Well, rather.”

“Where?”

“At Nogel – in the Sangre de Christo Mountains.”

“How far is that?”

“About ten miles – due west.”

“What do you know about the mine?”

“Very little. Taylor and a man named Lawrence Harlan registered the claim here. I heard that Harlan died – was killed in an accident. Soon afterward, Taylor sold the mine – to a man named Thornton – for a consideration, not mentioned.” The judge looked sharply at Carrington. “Why this inquiry?” he asked; “do you think there is anything wrong about the transaction?”

“There is no determining that until an investigation is made.” Carrington laughed as he left the judge.

Later he got on his horse and rode to the big house. On the front porch, seated in a chair, smoking, he saw one of the men Danforth had sent in obedience to his order; at the rear of the house was another; and, lounging carelessly on the grass near the edge of the butte fringing the big valley, he saw still another – men who seemed to find their work agreeable, for they grinned at Carrington when he rode up.

Carrington dismounted and entered the house – by one of the rear doors – which he had wrecked the night before. He went in boldly, grinning, for he anticipated that by this time Marion Harlan would have reached that stage of intimidation where she would no longer resist him.

At first he was only mildly disturbed at the appearance of the interior; for nothing had been done to bring order out of the chaos he had created the night before, and the condition of the furniture, and the atmosphere of gloomy emptiness that greeted him indicated nothing. The terror under which the girl had labored during the night might still be gripping her.

He had no suspicion that the girl had left the house until after he had looked into all the rooms but the one occupied by Parsons. Then a conviction that she had fled seized him; he scowled and leaped to the door of Parsons’ room, pounding heavily upon it.

Parsons did not answer his knock, and an instant later, when Carrington forced the door and stepped into the room, he saw Parsons standing near a window, pallid and shaking.

With a bound Carrington reached Parsons’ side and gripped the man by the collar of his coat.

“Where’s Miss Harlan?” he demanded. He noted that Parsons swayed in his grasp, and he peered at the other with a malignant joy. He had always hated Parsons, tolerating him because of Parsons’ money.

“She’s gone,” whispered Parsons tremulously. “I – I tried to stop her, knowing you wouldn’t want it, but – she went away – anyway.”

“Where?” Carrington’s fingers were gripping Parsons’ shoulder near the throat with a bitter, viselike strength that made the man cringe and groan from the pain of it.

“Don’t, Jim; for God’s sake, don’t! You’re hurting me! I – I couldn’t help it; I couldn’t stop her!”

The abject, terrified appeal in his eyes; the fawning, doglike subjection of his manner, enraged Carrington. He shook the little man with a force that racked the other from head to heel.

“Where did she go – damn you!”

“To the Arrow.”

Aroused to desperation by the flaming fury that blazed in Carrington’s eyes, Parsons tried to wrench himself free, tugging desperately, and whining: “Don’t, Jim!” For he knew that he was to be punished for his dereliction.

He shrieked when Carrington struck him; a sound which died in his throat as the blow landed. Carrington left him lie where he fell, and went out to the men, interrogating the one he had seen on the front porch.

From that person he learned that no one had left the house since the men had come; so that Carrington knew Marion must have departed soon after he had left the night before – or some time during the time of his departure and the arrival of the men.

Ten minutes after emerging from the house he went in again. Parsons was sitting on the floor of his room, swaying weakly back and forth, whining tonelessly, his lips loose and drooling blood.

For an instant Carrington stood over him, looking down at him with a merciless, tigerlike grin. Then he stooped, gripped Parsons by the shoulders, and, lifting him bodily, threw him across the bed. Parsons did not resist, but lay, his arms flung wide, watching the big man fearfully.

“Don’t hit me again, Jim!” he pleaded. “Jim, I’ve never done anything to you!”

“Bah!” Carrington leaned over the other, grinning malevolently.

“You’ve double-crossed me, Elam,” he said silkily. “You’re through. Get out of here before I kill you! I want to; and if you are here in five minutes, I shall kill you! Go to the Arrow – with your niece. Tell her what you know about me – if you haven’t done so already. And tell her that I am coming for her – and for Taylor, too! Now, get out!”

In less than five minutes, while Carrington was at the front of the house talking with the three men, Parsons tottered from a rear door, staggered weakly into some dense shrubbery that skirted the far side of the house, and made his slow way toward the big slope down which Marion and Martha had gone some hours before.

Retribution had descended swiftly upon Parsons; it seemed to him he was out of it, crushed and beaten. But no thread of philosophy weaved its way through the fabric of the man’s complete misery and humiliation, and no reflection that he had merely reaped what he had sown glimmered in his consciousness. He was merely conscious that he had been beaten and robbed by the man who had always been his confederate, and as he reeled down the big slope on his way to the Arrow he whined and moaned in a toneless voice of vengeance – and more vengeance.