the murder.  But I think it would be better to have him employ some
other person to do it for him; that would give him just the character
that would fit him best.  I want to make him seem too cowardly--no, not
cowardly, because I don't think he is a coward: but too cunning--to
take chances of being caught."

Evidently she had been questioning Ben, for in another place she had
written:

"Ferguson.  I must remember this--all cowboys do not carry two guns.
Ben does, because he says he is ambidextrous, shooting equally well
with either hand.  But he does not tie the bottoms of his holsters
down, like Ferguson; he says some men do this, but usually they are men
who are exceptionally rapid in getting their revolvers out and that
tying down the bottoms of the holsters facilitates removing the
weapons.  They are accounted to be dangerous men.

"Ben says when a man is quick to shoot out here he is called a gun-man,
and that if he carries two revolvers he is a two-gun man.  Ben laughs
at me when I speak of a 'revolver'; they are known merely as 'guns' out
here.  I must remember this.  Ben says that though he likes Ferguson
quite well, he is rather suspicious of him.  He seems to be unable to
understand why Stafford should employ a two-gun man to look up stray
cows."

Below this appeared a brief reference to Ferguson.

"He is not a bit conceited--rather bashful, I should say.  But
embarrassment in him is attractive.  No hero should be conceited.
There is a wide difference between impertinence and frankness.
Ferguson seems to speak frankly, but with a subtle shade.  I think this
is a very agreeable trait for a hero in a novel."

There followed more interesting scraps concerning Leviatt, which would
have caused the range boss many bad moments.  And there were
interesting bits of description--jotted down when she became impressed
with a particularly odd view of the country.  But there were no more
references to Ferguson.  He--being the hero of her novel--must be
studied thoroughly.

CHAPTER XII

THE STORY BEGINS

Miss Radford tied her pony to the trunk of a slender fir-balsam and
climbed to the summit of a small hill.  There were some trees, quite a
bit of grass, some shrubbery, on the hill--and no snakes.  She made
sure of this before seating herself upon a little shelf of rock, near a
tall cedar.

Half a mile down the river she could see a corner of Ben's cabin, a
section of the corral fence, and one of the small outbuildings.
Opposite the cabin, across the river, rose the buttes that met her eyes
always when she came to the cabin door.  This hill upon which she sat
was one that she saw often, when in the evening, watching the setting
sun, she followed its golden rays with her eyes.  Many times, as the
sun had gone slowly down into a rift of the mountains, she had seen the
crest of this hill shimmering in a saffron light; the only spot in the
flat that rose above the somber, oncoming shadows of the dusk.

From here, it seemed, began the rose veil that followed the broad
saffron shaft that led straight to the mountains.  Often, watching the
beauty of the hill during the long sunset, she had felt a deep awe
stirring her.  Romance was here, and mystery; it was a spot favored by
the Sun-Gods, who surrounded it with a glorious halo, lingeringly,
reluctantly withdrawing as the long shadows of the twilight crept over
the face of the world.

It was not her first visit to the hill.  Many times she had come here,
charmed with the beauty of the view, and during one of those visits she
had decided that seated on the shelf rock on the summit of the hill she
would write the first page of the book.  It was for this purpose that
she had now come.

After seating herself she opened a small handbag, producing therefrom
many sheets of paper, a much-thumbed copy of Shakespeare, and a pencil.
She was tempted to begin with a description of the particular bit of
country upon which she looked, for long ago she had decided upon Bear
Flat for the locale of the story.  But she sat long nibbling at the end
of the pencil, delaying the beginning for fear of being unable to do
justice to it.

She began at length, making several false starts and beginning anew.
Finally came a paragraph that remained.  Evidently this was
satisfactory, for another paragraph followed; and then another, and
still another.  Presently a complete page.  Then she looked up with a
long-drawn sigh of relief.  The start had been made.

She had drawn a word picture of the flat; dwelling upon the solitude,
the desolation, the vastness, the swimming sunlight, the absence of
life and movement.  But as she looked, critically comparing what she
had written with the reality, there came a movement--a horseman had
ridden into her picture.  He had come down through a little gully that
led into the flat and was loping his pony through the deep saccatone
grass toward the cabin.

It couldn't be Ben.  Ben had told her that he intended riding some
thirty miles down the river and he couldn't be returning already.  She
leaned forward, watching intently, the story forgotten.

The rider kept steadily on for a quarter of an hour.  Then he reached
the clearing in which the cabin stood; she saw him ride through it and
disappear.  Five minutes later he reappeared, hesitated at the edge of
the clearing and then urged his pony toward the hill upon which she
sat.  As he rode out of the shadows of the trees within an eighth of a
mile of her the sunlight shone fairly upon the pony.  She would have
known Mustard among many other ponies.

She drew a sudden, deep breath and sat erect, tucking back some stray
wisps of hair from her forehead.  Did the rider see her?

For a moment it seemed that the answer would be negative, for he
disappeared behind some dense shrubbery on the plain below and seemed
to be on the point of passing the hill.  But just at the edge of the
shrubbery Mustard suddenly swerved and came directly toward her.
Through the corners of her eyes she watched while Ferguson dismounted,
tied Mustard close to her own animal, and stood a moment quietly
regarding her.

"You want to look at the country all by yourself?" he inquired.

She pretended a start, looking down at him in apparent surprise.

"Why," she prevaricated, "I thought there was no one within miles of
me!"

She saw his eyes flash in the sunlight.  "Of course," he drawled,
"there's such an awful darkness that no one could see a pony comin'
across the flat.  You think you'll be able to find your way home?"

She flushed guiltily and did not reply.  She heard him clambering up
over the loose stones, and presently he stood near her.  She made a
pretense of writing.

"Did you stop at the cabin?" she asked without looking up.

He regarded her with amused eyes, standing loosely, his arms folded,
the fingers of his right hand pulling at his chin.  "Did I stop?" he
repeated.  "I couldn't rightly say.  Seems to me as though I did.  You
see, I didn't intend to, but I was ridin' down that way an' I thought
I'd stop in an' have a talk with Ben."

"Oh!"  Sometimes even a monosyllable is pregnant with mockery.

"But he wasn't there.  Nobody was there.  I wasn't reckonin' on
everybody runnin' off."

She turned and looked straight at him.  "Why," she said, "I shouldn't
think our running away would surprise you.  You see, you set us an
example in running away the other day."

He knew instantly that she referred to his precipitate retreat on the
night she had hinted that she intended putting him into her story.  She
shot another glance at him and saw his face redden with embarrassment,
but he showed no intention of running now.

"I've been thinkin' of what you said," he returned.  "You couldn't put
me into no book.  You don't know anything about me.  You don't know
what I think.  Then how could you do it?"

"Of course," she returned, turning squarely around to him and speaking
seriously, "the story will be fiction, and the plot will have no
foundation in fact.  But I shall be very careful to have my characters
talk and act naturally.  To do this I shall have to study the people
whom I wish to characterize."

He was moved by an inward mirth.  "You're still thinkin' of puttin' me
into the book?" he questioned.

She nodded, smiling.

"Then," he said, very gravely, "you hadn't ought to have told me.  You
didn't show so clever there.  Ain't you afraid that I'll go to actin'
swelled?  If I do that, you'd not have the character you wanted."

"I had thought of that, too," she returned seriously.  "If you were
that kind of a man I shouldn't want you in the book.  How do you know
that I haven't told you for the purpose of discovering if you would be
affected in that manner?"

He scratched his head, contemplating her gravely.  "I reckon you're
travelin' too fast for me, ma'am," he said.

His expression of frank amusement was good to see.  He stood before
her, plainly ready to surrender.  Absolutely boyish, he seemed to
her--a grown-up boy to be sure, but with a boy's enthusiasms, impulses,
and generosity.  Yet in his eyes was something that told of maturity,
of conscious power, of perfect trust in his ability to give a good
account of himself, even in this country where these qualities
constituted the chief rule of life.

A strange emotion stirred her, a sudden quickening of the pulse told
her that something new had come into her life.  She drew a deep,
startled breath and felt her cheeks crimsoning.  She swiftly turned her
head and gazed out over the flat, leaving him standing there, scarcely
comprehending her embarrassment.

"I reckon you've been writin' some of that book, ma'am," he said,
seeing the papers lying on the rock beside her.  "I don't see why you
should want to write a Western story.  Do folks in the East get
interested in knowin' what's goin' on out here?"

She suddenly thought of herself.  Had she found it interesting?  She
looked swiftly at him, appraising him from a new viewpoint, feeling a
strange, new interest in him.

"It would be strange if they didn't," she returned.  "Why, it is the
only part of the country in which there still remains a touch of
romance.  You must remember that this is a young country; that its
history began at a comparatively late date.  England can write of its
feudal barons; France of its ancient aristocracy; but America can look
back only to the Colonial period--and the West."

"Mebbe you're right," he said, not convinced.  "But I expect there
ain't a heap of romance out here.  Leastways, if there is it manages to
keep itself pretty well hid."

She smiled, thinking of the romance that surrounded him--of which,
plainly, he was not conscious.  To him, romance meant the lights, the
crowds, the amusements, the glitter and tinsel of the cities of the
East, word of which had come to him through various channels.  To her
these things were no longer novel,--if they had ever been so--and so
for her romance must come from the new, the unusual, the
unconventional.  The West was all this, therefore romance dwelt here.

"Of course it all seems commonplace to you," she returned; "perhaps
even monotonous.  For you have lived here long."

He laughed.  "I've traveled a heap," he said.  "I've been in
California, Dakota, Wyoming, Texas, an' Arizona.  An' now I'm here.
Savin' a man meets different people, this country is pretty much all
the same."

"You must have had a great deal of experience," she said.  "And you are
not very old."

He gravely considered her.  "I would say that I am about the average
age for this country.  You see, folks don't live to get very old out
here--unless they're mighty careful."

"And you haven't been careful?"

He smiled gravely.  "I expect you wouldn't call it careful.  But I'm
still livin'."

His words were singularly free from boast.

"That means that you have escaped the dangers," she said.  "I have
heard that a man's safety in this country depends largely upon his
ability to shoot quickly and accurately.  I suppose you are accounted a
good shot?"

The question was too direct.  His eyes narrowed craftily.

"I expect you're thinkin' of that book now ma'am," he said.  "There's a
heap of men c'n shoot.  You might say they're all good shots.  I've
told you about the men who can't shoot good.   They're either mighty
careful, or they ain't here any more.  It's always one or the other."

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, shuddering slightly.  "In that case I
suppose the hero in my story will have to be a good shot."  She
laughed.  "I shouldn't want him to get half way through the story and
then be killed because he was clumsy in handling his weapon.  I am
beginning to believe that I shall have to make him a 'two-gun' man.  I
understand they are supposed to be very good shots."

"I've seen them that wasn't," he returned gravely and shortly.

"How did you prove that?" she asked suddenly.

But he was not to be snared.  "I didn't say I'd proved it," he stated.
"But I've seen it proved."

"How proved?"

"Why," he said, his eyes glinting with amusement, "they ain't here any
more, ma'am."

"Oh.  Then it doesn't follow that because a man wears two guns he is
more likely to survive than is the man who wears only one?"

"I reckon not, ma'am."

"I see that you have the bottoms of your holsters tied down," she said,
looking at them.  "Why have you done that?"

"Well," he declared, drawling his words a little, "I've always found
that there ain't any use of takin' chances on an accident.  You
mightn't live to tell about it.  An' havin' the bottoms of your
holsters tied down keeps your guns from snaggin'.  I've seen men whose
guns got snagged when they wanted to use them.  They wasn't so active
after."

"Then I shall have to make my hero a 'two-gun' man," she said.  "That
is decided.  Now, the next thing to do is to give some attention to his
character.  I think he ought to be absolutely fearless and honest and
incapable of committing a dishonorable deed.  Don't you think so?"

While they had talked he had come closer to her and stood beside the
shelf rock, one foot resting on it.  At her question he suddenly looked
down at the foot, shifting it nervously, while a flush started from
above the blue scarf at his throat and slowly suffused his face.

"Don't you think so?" she repeated, her eyes meeting his for an instant.

"Why, of course, ma'am," he suddenly answered, the words coming
sharply, as though he had only at that instant realized the import of
the question.

"Why," said she, aware of his embarrassment, "don't you think there are
such men?"

"I expect there are, ma'am," he returned; "but in this country there's
a heap of argument could be made about what would be dishonorable.  If
your two-gun should happen to be a horse thief, or a rustler, I reckon
we could get at it right off."

"He shan't be either of those," she declared stoutly.  "I don't think
he would stoop to such contemptible deeds.  In the story he is employed
by a ranch owner to kill a rustler whom the owner imagines has been
stealing his cattle."

His hands were suddenly behind him, the fingers clenched.  His eyes
searched her face with an alert, intense gaze.  His embarrassment was
gone; his expression was saturnine, his eyes narrowed with a slight
mockery.  And his voice came, cold, deliberate, even.

"I reckon you've got your gun-man true to life, ma'am," he said.

She laughed lightly, amused over the sudden change that she saw and
felt in him.  "Of course the gun-man doesn't really intend to kill the
rustler," she said.  "I don't believe I shall have any one killed in
the story.  The gun-man is merely attracted by the sum of money
promised him by the ranch owner, and when he accepts it is only because
he is in dire need of work.  Don't you think that could be possible?"

"That could happen easy in this country, ma'am," he returned.

She laughed delightedly.  "That vindicates my judgment," she declared.

He was regarding her with unwavering eyes.  "Is that gun-man goin' to
be the hero in your story, ma'am?" he asked quietly.

"Why, of course."

"An' I'm to be him?"

She gave him a defiant glance, though she blushed immediately.

"Why do you ask?" she questioned in reply.  "You need have no fear that
I will compel my hero to do anything dishonorable."

"I ain't fearin' anything," he returned.  "But I'd like to know how you
come to think of that.  Do writers make them things up out of their own
minds, or does someone tell them?"

"Those things generally have their origin in the mind of the writer,"
she replied.

"Meanin' that you thought of that yourself?" he persisted.

"Of course."

He lifted his foot from the rock and stood looking gravely at her.  "In
most of the books I have read there's always a villain.  I reckon
you're goin' to have one?"

"There will be a villain," she returned.

His eyes flashed queerly.  "Would you mind tellin' me who you have
picked out for your villain?" he continued.

"I don't mind," she said.  "It is Leviatt."

He suddenly grinned broadly and held out his right hand to her.
"Shake, ma'am," he said.  "I reckon if I was writin' a book Leviatt
would be the villain."

She rose from the rock and took his outstretched hand, her eyes
drooping as they met his.  He felt her hand tremble a little, and he
looked at it, marveling.  She glanced up, saw him looking at her hand,
swiftly withdrew it, and turned from him, looking down into the flat at
the base of the hill.  She started, uttering the sharp command:

"Look!"

Perhaps a hundred yards distant, sitting on his pony in a lounging
attitude, was a horseman.  While they looked the horseman removed his
broad brimmed hat, bowed mockingly, and urged his pony out into the
flat.  It was Leviatt.

On the slight breeze a laugh floated back to them, short, sharp,
mocking.

For a time they stood silent, watching the departing rider.  Then
Ferguson's lips wreathed into a feline smile.

"Kind of dramatic, him ridin' up that-a-way," he said.  "Don't you
think puttin' him in the book will spoil it, ma'am?"

CHAPTER XIII

"DO YOU SMOKE?"

Leviatt rode down through the gully where Miss Radford had first caught
sight of Ferguson when he had entered the flat.  He disappeared in this
and five minutes later came out upon a ridge above it.  The distance
was too great to observe whether he turned to look back.  But just
before he disappeared finally they saw him sweep his hat from his head.
It was a derisive motion, and Miss Radford colored and shot a furtive
glance at Ferguson.

The latter stood loosely beside her, his hat brim pulled well down over
his forehead.  As she looked she saw his eyes narrow and his lips curve
ironically.

"What do you suppose he thought?" she questioned, her eyes drooping
away from his.

"Him?"  Ferguson laughed.  "I expect you could see from his actions
that he wasn't a heap tickled."  Some thought was moving him mightily.
He chuckled gleefully.  "Now if you could only put what he was thinkin'
into your book, ma'am, it sure would make interestin' readin'."

"But he saw you holding my hand!" she declared, aware of the
uselessness of telling him this, but unable to repress her indignation
over the thought that Leviatt had seen.

"Why, I expect he did, ma'am!" he returned, trying hard to keep the
pleasure out of his voice.  "You see, he must have been lookin' right
at us.  But there ain't nothin' to be flustered over.  I reckon that
some day, if he's around, he'll see me holdin' your hand again."

The red in her cheeks deepened.  "Why, how conceited you are!" she
said, trying to be very severe, but only succeeding in making him think
that her eyes were prettier than he had thought.

"I don't think I am conceited, ma'am," he returned, smiling.  "I've
liked you right well since the beginning.  I don't think it's conceit
to tell a lady that you're thinkin' of holdin' her hand."

She was looking straight at him, trying to be very defiant.  "And so
you have liked me?" she taunted.  "I am considering whether to tell you
that I was not thinking of you as a possible admirer."

His eyes flashed.  "I don't think you mean that, ma'am," he said.  "You
ain't treated me like you treated some others."

"Some others?" she questioned, not comprehending.

He laughed.  "Them other Two Diamond men that took a shine to you.
I've heard that you talked right sassy to them.  But you ain't never
been sassy to me.  Leastways, you ain't never told me to 'evaporate'."

She was suddenly convulsed.  "They have told you that?" she questioned.
And then not waiting for an answer she continued more soberly: "And so
you thought that in view of what I have said to those men you had been
treated comparatively civilly.  I am afraid I have underestimated you.
Hereafter I shall talk less intimately to you."

"I wouldn't do that, ma'am," he pleaded.  "You don't need to be afraid
that I'll be too fresh."

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, with a pretense of delight.  "It will be
very nice to know that I can talk to you without fear of your placing a
false construction on my words.  But I am not afraid of you."

He stepped back from the rock, hitching at his cartridge belt.  "I'm
goin' over to the Two Diamond now, ma'am," he said.  "And since you've
said you ain't afraid of me, I'm askin' you if you won't go ridin' with
me tomorrow.  There's a right pretty stretch of country about fifteen
miles up the crick that you'd be tickled over."

Should she tell him that she had explored all of the country within
thirty miles?  The words trembled on her lips but remained unspoken.

"Why, I don't know," she objected.  "Do you think it is quite safe?"

He smiled and stepped away from her, looking back over his shoulder.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said.  "I'll ride over for you some time in the
mornin'."  He continued down the hill, loose stones rattling ahead of
him.  She looked after him, radiant.

"But I didn't say I would go," she called.  And then, receiving no
answer to this, she waited until he had swung into the saddle and was
waving a farewell to her.

"Don't come before ten o'clock!" she advised.

She saw him smile and then she returned to her manuscript.

When the Sun-Gods kissed the crest of the hill and bathed her in the
rich rose colors that came straight down to the hill through the rift
in the mountains, she rose and gathered up her papers.  She had not
written another line.

It was late in the afternoon when Leviatt rode up to the door of
Stafford's office and dismounted.  He took plenty of time walking the
short distance that lay between him and the door, and growled a savage
reply to a loafing puncher, who asked him a question.  Once in the
office he dropped glumly into a chair, his eyes glittering vengefully
as his gaze rested on Stafford, who sat at his desk, engaged in his
accounts.  Through the open window Stafford had seen the range boss
coming and therefore when the latter had entered he had not looked up.

Presently he finished his work and drew back from the desk.  Then he
took up a pipe, filled it with tobacco, lighted it, and puffed with
satisfaction.

"Nothin's happened?" he questioned, glancing at his range boss.

Leviatt's reply was short.  "No.  Dropped down to see how things was
runnin'."

"Things is quiet," returned Stafford.  "There ain't been any cattle
missed for a long time.  I reckon the new stray-man is doin' some good."

Leviatt's eyes glowed.  "If you call gassin' with Mary Radford doin'
good, why then, he's doin' it!" he snapped.

"I ain't heard that he's doin' that," returned Stafford.

"I'm tellin' you about it now," said Leviatt.  "I seen him to-day; him
an' her holdin' hands on top of a hill in Bear Flat."  He sneered.
"He's a better ladies' man than a gunfighter.  I reckon we made a
mistake in pickin' him up."

Stafford smiled indulgently.  "He's cert'nly a good looker," he said.
"I reckon some girls would take a shine to him.  But I ain't
questionin' his shootin'.  I've been in this country a right smart
while an' I ain't never seen another man that could bore a can six
times while it's in the air."

Leviatt's lips drooped.  "He could do that an' not have nerve enough to
shoot a coyote.  Him not clashin' with Ben Radford proves he ain't got
nerve."

Stafford smiled.  The story of how the stray-man had closed Leviatt's
mouth was still fresh in his memory.  He was wondering whether Leviatt
knew that he had heard about the incident.

"Suppose you try him?" he suggested.  "That'd be as good a way as any
to find out if he's got nerve."

Leviatt's face bloated poisonously, but he made no answer.  Apparently
unaware that he had touched a tender spot Stafford continued.

"Mebbe his game is to get in with the girl, figgerin' that he'll be
more liable that way to get a chancst at Ben Radford.  But whatever his
game is, I ain't interferin'.  He's got a season contract an' I ain't
breakin' my word with the cuss.  I ain't takin' no chances with him."

Leviatt rose abruptly, his face swelling with an anger that he was
trying hard to suppress.  "He'd better not go to foolin' with Mary
Radford, damn him!" he snapped.

"I reckon that wind is blowin' in two directions," grinned Stafford.
"When I see him I'll tell him----"  A clatter of hoofs reached the ears
of the two men, and Stafford turned to the window.  "Here's the
stray-man now," he said gravely.

Both men were silent when Ferguson reached the door.  He stood just
inside, looking at Stafford and Leviatt with cold, alert eyes.  He
nodded shortly to Stafford, not removing his gaze from the range boss.
The latter deliberately turned his back and looked out of the window.

There was insolence in the movement, but apparently it had no effect
upon the stray-man, beyond bringing a queer twitch into the corners of
his mouth.  He smiled at Stafford.

"Anything new?" questioned the latter, as he had questioned Leviatt.

"Nothin' doin'," returned Ferguson.

Leviatt now turned from the window.  He spoke to Stafford, sneering.
"Ben Radford's quite a piece away from where he's hangin' out," he
said.  He again turned to the window.

Ferguson's lips smiled, but his eyes narrowed.  Stafford stiffened in
his chair.  He watched the stray-man's hands furtively, fearing the
outcome of this meeting.  But Ferguson's hands were nowhere near his
guns.  They were folded over his chest--lightly--the fingers of his
right hand caressing his chin.

"You ridin' up the crick to-day?" he questioned of Leviatt.  His tone
was mild, yet there was a peculiar quality in it that hinted at
hardness.

"No," answered Leviatt, without turning.

Ferguson began rolling a cigarette.  When he had done this he lighted
it and puffed slowly.  "Well, now," he said, "that's mighty peculiar.
I'd swore that I saw you over in Bear Flat."

Leviatt turned.  "You've been pickin' posies too long with Mary
Radford," he sneered.

Ferguson smiled.  "Mebbe I have," he returned.  "There's them that
she'll let pick posies with her, an' them that she won't."

Leviatt's face crimsoned with anger.  "I reckon if you hadn't been
monkeyin' around too much with the girl, you'd have run across that
dead Two Diamond cow an' the dogie that she left," he sneered.

Ferguson's lips straightened.  "How far off was you standin' when that
cow died?" he drawled.

A curse writhed through Leviatt's lips.  "Why, you damned----"

"Don't!" warned Ferguson.  He coolly stepped toward Leviatt, holding by
the thongs the leather tobacco pouch from which he had obtained the
tobacco to make his cigarette.  When he had approached close to the
range boss he held the pouch up before his eyes.

"I reckon you'd better have a smoke," he said quietly; "they say it's
good for the nerves."  He took a long pull at the cigarette.  "It's
pretty fair tobacco," he continued.  "I found it about ten miles up the
crick, on a ridge above a dry arroyo.  I reckon it's your'n.  It's got
your initials on it."

The eyes of the two men met in a silent battle.  Leviatt's were the
first to waver.  Then he reached out and took the pouch.  "It's mine,"
he said shortly.  Again he looked straight at Ferguson, his eyes
carrying a silent message.

"You see anything else?" he questioned.

Ferguson smiled.  "I ain't sayin' anything about anything else," he
returned.

Thus, unsuspectingly, did Stafford watch and listen while these two men
arranged to carry on their war man to man, neither asking any favor
from the man who, with a word, might have settled it.  With his reply
that he wasn't "sayin' anything about anything else," Ferguson had told
Leviatt that he had no intention of telling his suspicions to any man.
Nor from this moment would Leviatt dare whisper a derogatory word into
the manager's ear concerning Ferguson.

CHAPTER XIV

ON THE EDGE OF THE PLATEAU

Now that Ferguson was satisfied beyond doubt that Leviatt had been
concealed in the thicket above the bed of the arroyo where he had come
upon the dead Two Diamond cow, there remained but one disturbing
thought: who was the man he had seen riding along the ridge away from
the arroyo?  Until he discovered the identity of the rider he must
remain absolutely in the dark concerning Leviatt's motive in concealing
the name of this other actor in the incident.  He was positive that
Leviatt knew the rider, but he was equally positive that Leviatt would
keep this knowledge to himself.

But on this morning he was not much disturbed over the mystery.  Other
things were troubling him.  Would Miss Radford go riding with him?
Would she change her mind over night?

As he rode he consulted his silver timepiece.  She had told him not to
come before ten.  The hands of his watch pointed to ten thirty when he
entered the flat, and it was near eleven when he rode up to the cabin
door--to find Miss Radford--arrayed in riding skirt, dainty boots,
gauntleted gloves, blouse, and soft felt hat--awaiting him at the door.

"You're late," she said, smiling as she came out upon the porch.

If he had been less wise he might have told her that she had told him
not to come until after ten and that he had noticed that she had been
waiting for him in spite of her apparent reluctance of yesterday.  But
he steered carefully away from this pitfall.  He dismounted and threw
the bridle rein over Mustard's head, coming around beside the porch.

"I wasn't thinkin' to hurry you, ma'am," he said.  "But I reckon we'll
go now.  It's cert'nly a fine day for ridin'."  He stood silent for a
moment, looking about him.  Then he flushed.  "Why, I'm gettin' right
box-headed, ma'am," he declared.  "Here I am standin' an' makin' you
sick with my palaver, an' your horse waitin' to be caught up."

He stepped quickly to Mustard's side and uncoiled his rope.  She stood
on the porch, watching him as he proceeded to the corral, caught the
pony, and flung a bridle on it.  Then he led the animal to the porch
and cinched the saddle carefully.  Throwing the reins over the pommel
of the saddle, he stood at the animal's head, waiting.

She came to the edge of the porch, placed a slender, booted foot into
the ox-bow stirrup, and swung gracefully up.  In an instant he had
vaulted into his own saddle, and together they rode out upon the
gray-white floor of the flat.

They rode two miles, keeping near the fringe of cottonwoods, and
presently mounted a long slope.  Half an hour later Miss Radford looked
back and saw the flat spread out behind, silent, vast, deserted,
slumbering in the swimming white sunlight.  A little later she looked
again, and the flat was no longer there, for they had reached the crest
of the slope and their trail had wound them round to a broad level,
from which began another slope, several miles distant.

They had ridden for more than two hours, talking very little, when they
reached the crest of the last rise and saw, spreading before them, a
level many miles wide, stretching away in three directions.  It was a
grass plateau, but the grass was dry and drooping and rustled under the
ponies' hoofs.  There were no trees, but a post oak thicket skirted the
southern edge, and it was toward this that he urged his pony.  She
followed, smiling to think that he was deceiving himself in believing
that she had not yet explored this place.

They came close to the thicket, and he swung off his horse and stood at
her stirrup.

"I was wantin' you to see the country from here," he said, as he helped
her down.  She watched him while he picketed the horses, so that they
might not stray.  Then they went together to the edge of the thicket,
seating themselves in a welcome shade.

At their feet the plateau dropped sheer, as though cut with a knife,
and a little way out from the base lay a narrow ribbon of water that
flowed slowly in its rocky bed, winding around the base of a small
hill, spreading over a shallow bottom, and disappearing between the
buttes farther down.

Everything beneath them was distinguishable, though distant.  Knobs
rose here; there a flat spread.  Mountains frowned in the distance, but
so far away that they seemed like papier-mache shapes towering in a sea
of blue.  Like a map the country seemed as Miss Radford and Ferguson
looked down upon it, yet a big map, over which one might wonder; more
vast, more nearly perfect, richer in detail than any that could be
evolved from the talents of man.

Ridges, valleys, gullies, hills, knobs, and draws were all laid out in
a vast basin.  Miss Radford's gaze swept down into a section of flat
near the river.

"Why, there are some cattle down there!" she exclaimed.

"Sure," he returned; "they're Two Diamond.  Way off there behind that
ridge is where the wagon is."  He pointed to a long range of flat hills
that stretched several miles.  "The boys that are workin' on the other
side of that ridge can't see them cattle like we can.  Looks plum
re-diculous."

"There are no men with those cattle down there," she said, pointing to
those below in the flat.

"No," he returned quietly; "they're all off on the other side of the
ridge."

She smiled demurely at him.  "Then we won't be interrupted--as we were
yesterday," she said.

Did she know that this was why he had selected this spot for the end of
the ride?  He looked quickly at her, but answered slowly.

"They couldn't see us," he said.  "If we was out in the open we'd be
right on the skyline.  Then anyone could see us.  But we've got this
thicket behind us, an' I reckon from down there we'd be pretty near
invisible."

He turned around, clasping his hands about one knee and looking
squarely at her.  "I expect you done a heap with your book
yesterday--after I went away?"

Her cheeks colored a little under his straight gaze.

"I didn't stay there long," she equivocated.  "But I got some very good
ideas, and I am glad that I didn't write much.  I should have had to
destroy it, because I have decided upon a different beginning.  Ben
made the trip to Dry Bottom yesterday, and last night he told something
that had happened there that has given me some very good material for a
beginning."

"That's awful interestin'," he observed.  "So now you'll be able to
start your book with somethin' that really happened?"

"Real and original," she returned, with a quick glance at him.  "Ben
told me that about a month ago some men had a shooting match in Dry
Bottom.  They used a can for a target, and one man kept it in the air
until he put six bullet holes through it.  Ben says he is pretty handy
with his weapons, but he could never do that.  He insists that few men
can, and he is inclined to think that the man who did do it must have
been a gunfighter.  I suppose you have never tried it?"

Over his lips while she had been speaking had crept the slight mocking
smile which always told better than words of the cold cynicism that
moved him at times.  Did she know anything?  Did she suspect him?  The
smile masked an interest that illumined his eyes very slightly as he
looked at her.

"I expect that is plum slick shootin'," he returned slowly.  "But some
men can do it.  I've knowed them.  But I ain't heard that it's been
done lately in this here country.  I reckon Ben told you somethin' of
how this man looked?"

He had succeeded in putting the question very casually, and she had not
caught the note of deep interest in his voice.

"Why it's very odd," she said, looking him over carefully; "from Ben's
description I should assume that the man looked very like you!"

If her reply had startled him he gave little evidence of it.  He sat
perfectly quiet, gazing with steady eyes out over the big basin.  For a
time she sat silent also, her gaze following his.  Then she turned.

"That would be odd, wouldn't it?" she said.

"What would?" he answered, not looking at her.

"Why, if you _were_ the man who had done that shooting!  It would
follow out the idea of my plot perfectly.  For in my story the hero is
hired to shoot a supposed rustler, and of course he would have to be a
good shot.  And since Ben has told me the story of the shooting match I
have decided that the hero in my story shall be tested in that manner
before being employed to shoot the rustler.  Then he comes to the
supposed rustler's cabin and meets the heroine, in much the same manner
that you came.  Now if it should turn out that you were the man who did
the shooting in Dry Bottom my story up to this point would be very
nearly real.  And that would be fine!"

She had allowed a little enthusiasm to creep into her voice, and he
looked up at her quickly, a queer expression in his eyes.

"You goin' to have your 'two-gun' man bit by a rattler?" he questioned.

"Well, I don't know about that.  It would make very little difference.
But I should be delighted to find that you were the man who did the
shooting over at Dry Bottom.  Say that you are!"

Even now he could not tell whether there was subtlety in her voice  The
old doubt rose again in his mind.  Was she really serious in saying
that she intended putting all this in her story, or was this a ruse,
concealing an ulterior purpose?  Suppose she and her brother suspected
him of being the man who had participated in the shooting match in Dry
Bottom?  Suppose the brother, or she, had invented this tale about the
book to draw him out?  He was moved to an inward humor, amused to think
that either of them should imagine him shallow enough to be caught thus.

But what if they did catch him?  Would they gain by it?  They could
gain nothing, but the knowledge would serve to put them on their guard.
But if she did suspect him, what use was there in evasion or denial?
He smiled whimsically.

"I reckon your story is goin' to be real up to this point," he
returned.  "A while back I did shoot at a can in Dry Bottom."

She gave an exclamation of delight.  "Now, isn't that marvelous?  No
one shall be able to say that my beginning will be strictly fiction."
She leaned closer to him, her eyes alight with eagerness.  "Now please
don't say that you are the man who shot the can five times," she
pleaded.  "I shouldn't want my hero to be beaten at anything he
undertook.  But I know that you were not beaten.  Were you?"

He smiled gravely.  "I reckon I wasn't beat," he returned.

She sat back and surveyed him with satisfaction.

"I knew it," she stated, as though in her mind there had never existed
any doubt of the fact.  "Now," she said, plainly pleased over the
result of her questioning, "I shall be able to proceed, entirely
confident that my hero will be able to give a good account of himself
in any situation."

Her eyes baffled him.  He gave up watching her and turned to look at
the world beneath him.  He would have given much to know her thoughts.
She had said that from her brother's description of the man who had won
the shooting match at Dry Bottom she would assume that that man had
looked very like him.  Did her brother hold this opinion also?

Ferguson cared very little if he did.  He was accustomed to danger, and
he had gone into this business with his eyes open.  And if Ben did
know----  Unconsciously his lips straightened and his chin went forward
slightly, giving his face an expression of hardness that made him look
ten years older.  Watching him, the girl drew a slow, full breath.  It
was a side of his character with which she was as yet unacquainted, and
she marveled over it, comparing it to the side she already knew--the
side that he had shown her--quiet, thoughtful, subtle.  And now at a
glance she saw him as men knew him--unyielding, unafraid, indomitable.

Yet there was much in this sudden revelation of character to admire.
She liked a man whom other men respected for the very traits that his
expression had revealed.  No man would be likely to adopt an air of
superiority toward him; none would attempt to trifle with him.  She
felt that she ought not to trifle, but moved by some unaccountable
impulse, she laughed.

He turned his head at the laugh and looked quizzically at her.

"I hope you were not thinking of killing some one?" she taunted.

His right hand slowly clenched.  Something metallic suddenly glinted
his eyes, to be succeeded instantly by a slight mockery.  "You afraid
some one's goin' to be killed?" he inquired slowly.

"Well--no," she returned, startled by the question.  "But you looked
so--so determined that I--I thought----"

He suddenly seized her arm and drew her around so that she faced the
little stretch of plain near the ridge about which they had been
speaking previously.  His lips were in straight lines again, his eyes
gleaming interestedly.

"You see that man down there among them cattle?" he questioned.

Following his gaze, she saw a man among perhaps a dozen cattle.  At the
moment she looked the man had swung a rope, and she saw the loop fall
true over the head of a cow the man had selected, saw the pony pivot
and drag the cow prone.  Then the man dismounted, ran swiftly to the
side of the fallen cow, and busied himself about her hind legs.

"What is he doing?" she asked, a sudden excitement shining in her eyes.

"He's hog-tieing her now," returned Ferguson.

She knew what that meant.  She had seen Ben throw cattle in this manner
when he was branding them.  "Hog-tieing" meant binding their hind legs
with a short piece of rope to prevent struggling while the brand was
being applied.

Apparently this was what the man was preparing to do.  Smoke from a
nearby fire curled lazily upward, and about this fire the man now
worked--evidently turning some branding irons.  He gave some little
time to this, and while Miss Radford watched she heard Ferguson's voice
again.

"I reckon we're goin' to see some fun pretty soon," he said quietly.

"Why?" she inquired quickly.

He smiled.  "Do you see that man ridin' through that break on the
ridge?" he asked, pointing the place out to her.  She nodded, puzzled
by his manner.  He continued dryly.

"Well, if that man that's comin' through the break is what he ought to
be he'll be shootin' pretty soon."

"Why?" she gasped, catching at his sleeve, "why should he shoot?"

He laughed again--grimly.  "Well," he returned, "if a puncher ketches a
rustler with the goods on he's got a heap of right to do some shootin'."

She shuddered.  "And do you think that man among the cattle is a
rustler?" she asked.

"Wait," he advised, peering intently toward the ridge.  "Why," he
continued presently, "there's another man ridin' this way.  An' he's
hidin' from the other--keepin' in the gullies an' the draws so's the
first man can't see him if he looks back."  He laughed softly.  "It's
plum re-diculous.  Here we are, able to see all that's goin' on down
there an' not able to take a hand in it.  An' there's them three goin'
ahead with what they're thinkin' about, not knowin' that we're watchin'
them, an' two of them not knowin' that the third man is watchin'.  I'd
call that plum re-diculous."

The first man was still riding through the break in the ridge, coming
boldly, apparently unconscious of the presence of the man among the
cattle, who was well concealed from the first man's eyes by a rocky
promontory at the corner of the break.  The third man was not over an
eighth of a mile behind the first man, and riding slowly and carefully.
At the rate the first man was riding not five minutes would elapse
before he would come out into the plain full upon the point where the
man among the cattle was working at his fire.

Ferguson and Miss Radford watched the scene with interest.  Plainly the
first man was intruding.  Or if not, he was the rustler's confederate
and the third man was spying upon him.  Miss Radford and Ferguson were
to discover the key to the situation presently.

"Do you think that man among the cattle is a rustler?" questioned Miss
Radford.  In her excitement she had pressed very close to Ferguson and
was clutching his arm very tightly.

"I reckon he is," returned Ferguson.  "I ain't rememberin' that any
ranch has cows that run the range unbranded; especially when the cow
has got a calf, unless that cow is a maverick, an' that ain't likely,
since she's runnin' with the Two Diamond bunch."

He leaned forward, for the man had left the fire and was running toward
the fallen cow.  Once at her side the man bent over her, pressing the
hot irons against the bottoms of her hoofs.  A thin wreath of smoke
curled upward; the cow struggled.

Ferguson looked at Miss Radford.  "Burnt her hoofs," he said shortly,
"so she can't follow when he runs her calf off."

"The brute!" declared Miss Radford, her face paling with anger.

The man was fumbling with the rope that bound the cow's legs, when the
first man rode around the edge of the break and came full upon him.
From the distance at which Miss Radford and Ferguson watched they could
not see the expression of either man's face, but they saw the rustler's
right hand move downward; saw his pistol glitter in the sunlight.

But the pistol was not raised.  The first man's pistol had appeared
just a fraction of a second sooner, and they saw that it was poised,
menacing the rustler.

For an instant the two men were motionless.  Ferguson felt the grasp on
his arm tighten, and he turned his head to see Miss Radford's face,
pale and drawn; her eyes lifted to his with a slow, dawning horror in
them.

"Oh!" she exclaimed.  "They are going to shoot!"  She withdrew her hand
from Ferguson's arm and held it, with the other, to her ears, cringing
away from the edge of the cliff.  She waited, breathless, for--it
seemed to her--the space of several minutes, her head turned from the
men, her eyes closed for fear that she might, in the dread of the
moment, look toward the plain.  She kept telling herself that she would
not turn, but presently, in spite of her determination, the suspense
was too great, and she turned quickly and fearfully, expecting to see
at least one riderless horse.  That would have been horrible enough.

To her surprise both men still kept the positions that they had held
when she had turned away.  The newcomer's revolver still menaced the
rustler.  She looked up into Ferguson's face, to see a grim smile on
it, to see his eyes, chilled and narrowed, fixed steadily upon the two
horsemen.

"Oh!" she said, "is it over?"

Ferguson heard the question, and smiled mirthlessly without turning his
head.

"I reckon it ain't over--yet," he returned.  "But I expect it'll be
over pretty soon, if that guy that's got his gun on the rustler don't
get a move on right quick.  That other guy is comin' around the corner
of that break, an' if he's the rustler's friend that man with the gun
will get his pretty rapid."  His voice raised a trifle, a slightly
anxious note in it.

"Why don't the damn fool turn around?  He could see that last man now
if he did.  Now, what do you think of that?"  Ferguson's voice was
sharp and tense, and, in spite of herself, Miss Radford's gaze shifted
again to the plains below her.  Fascinated, her fear succumbing to the
intense interest of the moment, she followed the movements of the trio.

From around the corner of the break the third man had ridden.  He was
not over a hundred feet from the man who had caught the rustler and he
was walking his horse now.  The watchers on the edge of the plateau
could see that he had taken in the situation and was stealing upon the
captor, who sat in his saddle, his back to the advancing rider.

Drawing a little closer, the third man stealthily dropped from his pony
and crept forward.  The significance of this movement dawned upon Miss
Radford in a flash, and she again seized Ferguson's arm, tugging at it
fiercely.

"Why, he's going to kill that man!" she cried.  "Can't you do
something?  For mercy's sake do!  Shout, or shoot off your pistol--do
something to warn him!"

Ferguson flashed a swift glance at her, and she saw that his face wore
a queer pallor.  His expression had grown grimmer, but he smiled--a
little sadly, she thought.

"It ain't a bit of use tryin' to do anything," he returned, his gaze
again on the men.  "We're two miles from them men an' a thousand feet
above them.  There ain't any pistol report goin' to stop what's goin'
on down there.  All we can do is to watch.  Mebbe we can recognize one
of them. . . .  Shucks!"

The exclamation was called from him by a sudden movement on the part of
the captor.  The third man must have made a noise, for the captor
turned sharply.  At the instant he did so the rustler's pistol flashed
in the sunlight.

The watchers on the plateau did not hear the report at once, and when
they did it came to them only faintly--a slight sound which was barely
distinguishable.  But they saw a sudden spurt of flame and smoke.  The
captor reeled drunkenly in his saddle, caught blindly at the pommel,
and then slid slowly down into the grass of the plains.

Ferguson drew a deep breath and, turning, looked sharply at Miss
Radford.  She had covered her face with her hands and was swaying
dizzily.  He was up from the rock in a flash and was supporting her,
leading her away from the edge of the plateau.  She went unresisting,
her slender figure shuddering spasmodically, her hands still covering
her face.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, as the horror of the scene rose in her mind.  "The
brutes!  The brutes!"

Feeling that if he kept quiet she would recover from the shock of the
incident sooner, Ferguson said nothing in reply to her outbreaks as he
led her toward the ponies.  For a moment after reaching them she leaned
against her animal's shoulder, her face concealed from Ferguson by the
pony's mane.  Then he was at her side, speaking firmly.

"You must get away from here," he said, "I ought to have got you away
before--before that happened."

She looked up, showing him a pair of wide, dry eyes, in which there was
still a trace of horror.  An expression of grave self-accusation shone
in his.

"You were not to blame," she said dully.  "You may have anticipated a
meeting of those men, but you could not have foreseen the end.  Oh!"
She shuddered again.  "To think of seeing a man deliberately murdered!"

"That's just what it was," he returned quietly; "just plain murder.
They had him between them.  He didn't have a chance.  He was bound to
get it from one or the other.  Looks like they trapped him; run him
down there on purpose."  He held her stirrup.

"I reckon you've seen enough, ma'am," he added.  "You'd better hop
right on your horse an' get back to Bear Flat."

She shivered and raised her head, looking at him--a flash of fear in
her eyes.  "You are going down there!" she cried, her eyes dilating.

He laughed grimly.  "I cert'nly am, ma'am," he returned.  "You'd better
go right off.  I'm ridin' down there to see how bad that man is hit."

She started toward him, protesting.  "Why, they will kill you, too!"
she declared.

He laughed again, with a sudden grim humor.  "There ain't any danger,"
he returned.  "They've sloped."

Involuntarily she looked down.  Far out on the plains, through the
break in the ridge of hills, she could see two horsemen racing away.

"The cowards!" she cried, her voice shaking with anger.  "To shoot a
man in cold blood and then run!"  She looked at Ferguson, her figure
stiffening with decision.

"If you go down there I am going, too!" she declared.  "He might need
some help," she added, seeing the objection in his eyes, "and if he
does I may be able to give it to him.  You know," she continued,
smiling wanly, "I have had some experience with sick people."

He said nothing more, but silently assisted her into the saddle and
swung into his own.  They urged the animals to a rapid pace, she
following him eagerly.

It was a rough trail, leading through many gullies, around miniature
hills, into bottoms where huge boulders and treacherous sand barred the
way, along the face of dizzy cliffs, and through lava beds where the
footing was uncertain and dangerous.  But in an hour they were on the
plains and riding toward the break in the ridge of hills, where the
shooting had been done.

The man's pony had moved off a little and was grazing unconcernedly
when they arrived.  A brown heap in the grass told where the man lay,
and presently Ferguson was down beside him, one of his limp wrists
between his fingers.  He stood up after a moment, to confront Miss
Radford, who had fallen behind during the last few minutes of the ride.
Ferguson's face was grave, and there was a light in his eyes that
thrilled her for a moment as she looked at him.

"He ain't dead, ma'am," he said as he assisted her down from her pony.
"The bullet got him in the shoulder."

She caught a queer note in his voice--something approaching appeal.
She looked swiftly at him, suspicious.  "Do you know him?" she asked.

"I reckon I do, ma'am," he returned.  "It's Rope Jones.  Once he stood
by me when he thought I needed a friend.  If there's any chance I'm
goin' to get him to your cabin--where you can take care of him till he
gets over this--if he ever does."

She realized now how this tragedy had shocked her.  She reeled and the
world swam dizzily before her.  Again she saw Ferguson dart forward,
but she steadied herself and smiled reassuringly.

"It is merely the thought that I must now put my little knowledge to a
severe test," she said.  "It rather frightened me.  I don't know
whether anything can be done."

She succeeded in forcing herself to calmness and gave orders rapidly.

"Get something under his head," she commanded.  "No, that will be too
high," she added, as she saw Ferguson start to unbuckle the saddle
cinch on his pony.  "Raise his head only a very little.  That round
thing that you have fastened to your saddle (the slicker) would do very
well.  There.  Now get some water!"

She was down beside the wounded man in another instant, cutting away a
section of the shirt near the shoulder, with a knife that she had
borrowed from Ferguson.  The wound had not bled much and was lower than
Ferguson had thought.  But she gave it what care she could, and when
Ferguson arrived with water--from the river, a mile away--she dressed
the wound and applied water to Rope's forehead.

Soon she saw that her efforts were to be of little avail.  Rope lay
pitifully slack and unresponsive.  At the end of an hour's work
Ferguson bent over her with a question on his lips.

"Do you reckon he'll come around, ma'am?"

She shook her head negatively.  "The bullet has lodged
somewhere--possibly in the lung," she returned.  "It entered just above
the heart, and he has bled much--internally.  He may never regain
consciousness."

Ferguson's face paled with a sudden anger.  "In that case, ma'am, we'll
never know who shot him," he said slowly.  "An' I'm wantin' to know
that.  Couldn't you fetch him to, ma'am--just long enough so's I could
ask him?"

She looked up with a slow glance.  "I can try," she said.  "Is there
any more whiskey in your flask?"

He produced the flask, and they both bent over Rope, forcing a generous
portion of the liquor down his throat.  Then, alternately bathing the
wound and his forehead, they watched.  They were rewarded presently by
a faint flicker of the eyelids and a slow flow of color in the pale
cheeks.  Then after a little the eyes opened.

In an instant Ferguson's lips were close to Rope's ear.  "Who shot you,
Rope, old man?" he asked eagerly.  "You don't need to be afraid to tell
me, it's Ferguson."

The wounded man's eyes were glazed with a dull incomprehension.  But
slowly, as though at last he was faintly conscious of the significance
of the question, his eyes glinted with the steady light of returning
reason.  Suddenly he smiled, his lips opening slightly.  Both watchers
leaned tensely forward to catch the low words.

"Ferguson told me to look out," he mumbled.  "He told me to be careful
that they didn't get me between them.  But I wasn't thinkin' it would
happen just that way."  And now his eyes opened scornfully and he
struggled and lifted himself upon one arm, gazing at some imaginary
object.

"Why," he said slowly and distinctly, his voice cold and metallic,
"you're a hell of a range boss!  Why you----!" he broke off suddenly,
his eyes fixed full upon Miss Radford.  "Why, it's a woman!  An' I
thought----  Why, ma'am," he went on, apologetically, "I didn't know
you was there! . . .  But you ain't goin' to run off no calf while I'm
lookin' at you.  Shucks!  Won't the Ol' Man be some surprised to know
that Tucson an'----"

He shuddered spasmodically and sat erect with a great effort.

"You've got me, damn you!" he sneered.  "But you won't never get
anyone----"

He swung his right hand over his head, as though the hand held a
pistol.  But the arm suddenly dropped, he shuddered again, and sank
slowly back--his eyes wide and staring, but unseeing.

Ferguson looked sharply at Miss Radford, who was suddenly bending over
the prostrate man, her head on his breast.  She arose after a little,
tears starting to her eyes.

"He has gone," she said slowly.

CHAPTER XV

A FREE HAND

It was near midnight when Ferguson rode in to the Two Diamond
ranchhouse leading Rope's pony.  He carefully unsaddled the two animals
and let them into the corral, taking great pains to make little noise.
Rope's saddle--a peculiar one with a high pommel bearing a silver plate
upon which the puncher's name was engraved--he placed conspicuously
near the door of the bunkhouse.  His own he carefully suspended from
its accustomed hook in the lean-to.  Then, still carefully, he made his
way inside the bunkhouse and sought his bunk.

At dawn he heard voices outside and he arose and went to the door.
Several of the men were gathered about the step talking.  For an
instant Ferguson stood, his eyes roving over the group.  Tucson was not
there.  He went back into the bunkhouse and walked casually about,
taking swift glances at the bunks where the men still slept.  Then he
returned to the door, satisfied that Tucson had not come in.

When he reached the door again he found that the men of the group had
discovered the saddle.  One of them was saying something about it.
"That ain't just the way I take care of my saddle," he was telling the
others; "leavin' her out nights."

"I never knowed Rope to be that careless before," said another.

Ferguson returned to the bunkhouse and ate breakfast.  After the meal
was finished he went out, caught up Mustard, swung into the saddle, and
rode down to the ranchhouse door.  He found Stafford in the office.
The latter greeted the stray-man with a smile.

"Somethin' doin'?" he questioned.

"You might call it that," returned Ferguson.  He went inside and seated
himself near Stafford's desk.

"I've come in to tell you that I saw some rustlers workin' on the herd
yesterday," he said.

Stafford sat suddenly erect, his eyes lighting interrogatively.

"It wasn't Ben Radford," continued Ferguson, answering the look.
"You'd be surprised if I told you.  But I ain't tellin'--now.  I'm
waitin' to see if someone else does.  But I'm tellin' you this: They
got Rope Jones."

Stafford's face reddened with anger.  "They got Rope, you say?" he
demanded.  "Why, where--damn them!"

"Back of the ridge about fifteen miles up the crick," returned
Ferguson.  "I was ridin' along the edge of the plateau an' I saw a man
down there shoot another.  I got down as soon as I could an' found
Rope.  There wasn't nothin' I could do.  So I planted him where I found
him an' brought his horse back.  There was two rustlers there.  But
only one done the shootin'.  I got the name of one."

Stafford cursed.  "I'm wantin' to know who it was!" he demanded.  "I'll
make him--why, damn him, I'll----"

"You're carryin' on awful," observed Ferguson dryly.  "But you ain't
doin' any good."  He leaned closer to Stafford.  "I'm quittin' my job
right now," he said.

Stafford leaned back in his chair, surprised into silence.  For an
instant he glared at the stray-man, and then his lips curled scornfully.

"So you're quittin'," he sneered; "scared plum out because you seen a
man put out of business!  I reckon Leviatt wasn't far wrong when he
said----"

"I wouldn't say a lot," interrupted Ferguson coldly.  "I ain't
admittin' that I'm any scared.  An' I ain't carin' a heap because
Leviatt's been gassin' to you.  But I'm quittin' the job you give me.
Ben Radford ain't the man who's been rustlin' your cattle.  It's
someone else.  I'm askin' you to hire me to find out whoever it is.
I'm wantin' a free hand.  I don't want anyone askin' me any questions.
I don't want anyone orderin' me around.  But if you want the men who
are rustlin' your cattle, I'm offerin' to do the job.  Do I get it?"

"You're keepin' right on--workin' for the Two Diamond," returned
Stafford.  "But I'd like to get hold of the man who got Rope."

Ferguson smiled grimly.  "That man'll be gittin' his some day," he
declared, rising.  "I'm keepin' him for myself.  Mebbe I won't shoot
him.  I reckon Rope'd be some tickled if he'd know that the man who
shot him could get a chance to think it over while some man was
stringin' him up.  You ain't sayin' anything about anything."

He turned and went out.  Five minutes later Stafford saw him riding
slowly toward the river.

As the days went a mysterious word began to be spoken wherever men
congregated.  No man knew whence the word had come, but it was
whispered that Rope Jones would be seen no more.  His pony joined the
remuda; his saddle and other personal effects became prizes for which
the men of the outfit cast lots.  Inquiries were made concerning the
puncher by friends who persisted in being inquisitive, but nothing
resulted.  In time the word "rustler" became associated with his name,
and "caught with the goods" grew to be a phrase that told eloquently of
the manner of his death.  Later it was whispered that Leviatt and
Tucson had come upon Rope behind the ridge, catching him in the act of
running off a Two Diamond calf.  But as no report had been made to
Stafford by either Leviatt or Tucson, the news remained merely rumor.

Ferguson had said nothing more to any man concerning the incident.  To
do so would have warned Tucson.  And neither Ferguson nor Miss Radford
could have sworn to the man's guilt.  In addition to this, there
lingered in Ferguson's mind a desire to play this game in his own way.
Telling the men of the outfit what he had seen would make his knowledge
common property--and in the absence of proof might cause him to appear
ridiculous.

But since the shooting he had little doubt that Leviatt had been
Tucson's companion on that day.  Rope's scathing words--spoken while
Miss Radford had been trying to revive him--.  "You're a hell of a
range boss," had convinced the stray-man that Leviatt had been one of
the assailants.  He had wondered much over the emotions of the two when
they returned to the spot where the murder had been committed, to find
their victim buried and his horse gone.  But of one thing he was
certain--their surprise over the discovery that the body of their
victim had been buried could not have equalled their discomfiture on
learning that the latter's pony had been secretly brought to the home
ranch, and that among the men of the outfit was one, at least, who knew
something of their guilty secret.  Ferguson thought this to be the
reason that they had not reported the incident to Stafford.

There was now nothing for the stray-man to do but watch.  The men who
had killed Rope were wary and dangerous, and their next move might be
directed at him.  But he was not disturbed.  One thought brought him a
mighty satisfaction.  He was no longer employed to fasten upon Ben
Radford the stigma of guilt; no longer need he feel oppressed with the
guilty consciousness, when in the presence of Mary Radford, that he
was, in a measure, a hired spy whose business it was to convict her
brother of the crime of rustling.  He might now meet the young woman
face to face, without experiencing the sensation of guilt that had
always affected him.

Beneath his satisfaction lurked a deeper emotion.  During the course of
his acquaintance with Rope Jones he had developed a sincere affection
for the man.  The grief in his heart over Rope's death was made more
poignant because of the latter's words, just before the final moment,
which seemed to have been a plea for vengeance:

"Ferguson told me to look out.  He told me to be careful that they
didn't get me between them.  But I wasn't thinkin' that it would happen
just that way."

This had been all that Rope had said about his friend, but it showed
that during his last conscious moments he had been thinking of the
stray-man.  As the days passed the words dwelt continually in
Ferguson's mind.  Each day that he rode abroad, searching for evidence
against the murderers, brought him a day nearer to the vengeance upon
which he had determined.

CHAPTER XVI

LEVIATT TAKES A STEP

Miss Radford was sitting on the flat rock on the hill where she had
written the first page of her novel.  The afternoon sun was coming
slantwise over the western mountains, sinking steadily toward the rift
out of which came the rose veil that she had watched many times.  She
had just completed a paragraph in which the villain appears when she
became aware of someone standing near.  She turned swiftly, with
heightened color, to see Leviatt.

His sudden appearance gave her something of a shock, for as he stood
there, smiling at her, he answered perfectly the description she had
just written.  He might have just stepped from one of her pages.  But
the shock passed, leaving her a little pale, but quite composed--and
not a little annoyed.  She had found her work interesting; she had
become quite absorbed in it.  Therefore she failed to appreciate
Leviatt's sudden appearance, and with uptilted chin turned from him and
pretended an interest in the rim of hills that surrounded the flat.

For an instant Leviatt stood, a frown wrinkling his forehead.  Then
with a smile he stepped forward and seated himself beside her on the
rock.  She immediately drew her skirts close to her and shot a
displeased glance at him from the corners of her eyes.  Then seeing
that he still sat there, she moved her belongings a few feet and
followed them.  He could not doubt the significance of this move, but
had he been wise he might have ignored it.  A woman's impulses will
move her to rebuke a man, but if he will accept without comment he may
be reasonably sure of her pity, and pity is a path of promise.

But the range boss neglected his opportunity.  He made the mistake of
thinking that because he had seen her many times while visiting her
brother he might now with propriety assume an air of intimacy toward
her.

"I reckon this rock is plenty big enough for both of us," he said
amiably.

She measured the distance between them with a calculating eye.  "It
is," she returned quietly, "if you remain exactly where you are."

He forced a smile.  "An' if I don't?" he inquired.

"You may have the rock to yourself," she returned coldly.  "I did not
ask you to come here."

He chose to ignore this hint, telling her that he had been to the cabin
to see Ben and, finding him absent, had ridden through the flat.  "I
saw you when I was quite a piece away," he concluded, "an' thought
mebbe you might be lonesome."

"When I am lonesome I choose my own company," she returned coldly.

"Why, sure," he said, his tone slightly sarcastic; "you cert'nly ought
to know who you want to talk to.  But you ain't objectin' to me settin'
on this hill?" he inquired.

"The hill is not mine," she observed quietly, examining one of the
written pages of her novel; "sit here as long as you like."

"Thanks."  He drawled the word.  Leaning back on one elbow he stretched
out as though assured that she would make no further objections to his
presence.  She ignored him completely and very deliberately arranged
her papers and resumed writing.

For a time he lay silent, watching the pencil travel the width of the
page--and then back.  A mass of completed manuscript lay at her side,
the pages covered with carefully written, legible words.  She had
always taken a pardonable pride in her penmanship.  For a while he
watched her, puzzled, furtively trying to decipher some of the words
that appeared upon the pages.  But the distance was too great for him
and he finally gave it up and fell to looking at her instead, though
determined to solve the wordy mystery that was massed near her.

Finally finding the silence irksome, he dropped an experimental word,
speaking casually.  "You must have been to school a heap--writin' like
you do."

She gave him no answer, being at that moment absorbed in a thought
which she was trying to transcribe before it should take wings and be
gone forever.

"Writin' comes easy to some people," he persisted.

The thought had been set down; she turned very slightly.  "Yes," she
said looking steadily at him, "it does.  So does impertinence."

He smiled easily.  "I ain't aimin' to be impertinent," he returned.  "I
wouldn't reckon that askin' you what you are writin' would be
impertinent.  It's too long for a letter."

"It is a novel," she returned shortly.

He smiled, exulting over this partial concession.  "I reckon to write a
book you must be some special kind of a woman," he observed admiringly.

She was silent.  He sat up and leaned toward her, his eyes flashing
with a sudden passion.

"If that's it," he said with unmistakable significance, "I don't mind
tellin' you that I'm some partial to them special kind."

Her chin rose a little.  "I am not concerned over your feelings," she
returned without looking at him.

"That kind of a woman would naturally know a heap," he went on,
apparently unmindful of the rebuke; "they'd cert'nly know enough to be
able to see when a man likes them."

She evidently understood the drift, for her eyes glowed subtly.  "It is
too bad that you are not a 'special kind of man,' then," she replied.

"Meanin'?" he questioned, his eyes glinting with eagerness.

"Meaning that if you were a 'special kind of man' you would be able to
tell when a woman doesn't like you," she said coldly.

"I reckon that I ain't a special kind then," he declared, his face
reddening slightly.  "Of course, I've seen that you ain't appeared to
take much of a shine to me.  But I've heard that there's women that can
be won if a man keeps at it long enough."

"Some men like to waste their time," she returned quietly.

"I don't call it wastin' time to be talkin' to you," he declared
rapidly.

"Our opinions differ," she observed shortly, resting the pencil point
on the page that she had been writing.

Her profile was toward him; her cheeks were tinged with color; some
stray wisps of hair hung, breeze-blown, over her forehead and temples.
She made an attractive picture, sitting there with the soft sunlight
about her, a picture whose beauty smote Leviatt's heart with a pang of
sudden regret and disappointment.  She might have been his, but for the
coming of Ferguson.  And now, because of the stray-man's wiles, he was
losing her.

A sudden rage seized upon him; he leaned forward, his face bloating
poisonously.  "Mebbe I could name a man who ain't wastin' his time!" he
sneered.

She turned suddenly and looked at him, dropping pencil and paper, her
eyes flashing with a hitter scorn.  "You are one of those sulking
cowards who fawn over men and insult defenseless women!" she declared,
the words coming slowly and distinctly.

He had realized before she answered that he had erred, and he smiled
deprecatingly, the effort contorting his face.

"I wasn't meanin' just that," he said weakly.  "I reckon it's a clear
field an' no favors."  He took a step toward her, his voice growing
tense.  "I've been comin' down to your cabin a lot, sayin' that I was
comin' to see Ben.  But I didn't come to see Ben--I wanted to look at
you.  I reckon you knowed that.  A woman can't help but see when a
man's in love with her.  But you've never give me a chance to tell you.
I'm tellin' you now.  I want you to marry me.  I'm range boss for the
Two Diamond an' I've got some stock that's my own, an' money in the
bank over in Cimarron.  I'll put up a shack a few miles down the river
an'----"

"Stop!" commanded Miss Radford imperiously.

Leviatt had been speaking rapidly, absorbed in his subject, assurance
shining in his face.  But at Miss Radford's command he broke off
suddenly and stiffened, surprise widening his eyes.

"You have said enough," she continued; "quite enough.  I have never
thought of you as a possible admirer.  I certainly have done nothing
that might lead you to believe I would marry you.  I do not even like
you--not even respect you.  I am not certain that I shall ever marry,
but if I do, I certainly shall not marry a man whose every look is an
insult."

She turned haughtily and began to gather up her papers.  There had been
no excitement in her manner; her voice had been steady, even, and
tempered with a slight scorn.

For a brief space Leviatt stood, while the full significance of her
refusal ate slowly into his consciousness.  Whatever hopes he might
have had had been swept away in those few short, pithy sentences.  His
passion checked, the structure erected by his imagination toppled to
ruin, his vanity hurt, he stood before her stripped of the veneer that
had made him seem, heretofore, nearly the man he professed to be.

In her note book had been written:

"Dave Leviatt. . . .  One rather gets the impression that the stoop is
a reflection of the man's nature, which seems vindictive and suggests a
low cunning.  His eyes are small, deep set, and glitter when he talks.
But they are steady and cold--almost merciless.  One's thoughts go
instantly to the tiger.  I shall try to create that impression in the
reader's mind."

And now as she looked at him she was sure that task would not be
difficult.  She had now an impression of him that seemed as though it
had been seared into her mind.  The eyes that she had thought merciless
were now glittering malevolently, and she shuddered at the satyric
upward curve of his lips as he stepped close to the rock and placed a
hand upon the mass of manuscript lying there, that she had previously
dropped, to prevent her leaving.

"So you don't love me?" he sneered.  "You don't even respect me.  Why?
Because you've taken a shine to that damned maverick that come here
from Dry Bottom--Stafford's new stray-man!"

"That is my business," she returned icily.

"It sure is," he said, the words writhing venomously through his lips.
"An' it's my business too.  There ain't any damned----"

He had glanced suddenly downward while he had been talking and his gaze
rested upon an upturned page of the manuscript that lay beside him on
the rock.  He broke off speaking and reaching down took up the page,
his eyes narrowing with interest.  The page he had taken up was one
from the first chapter and described in detail the shooting match in
Dry Bottom.  It was a truthful picture of what had actually happened.
She had even used the real names of the characters.  Leviatt saw a
reference to the "Silver Dollar" saloon, to the loungers, to the
stranger who had ridden up and who sat on his pony near the hitching
rail, and who was called Ferguson.  He saw his own name; read the story
of how the stranger had eclipsed his feat by putting six bullets into
the can.

He dropped the page to the rock and looked up at Miss Radford with a
short laugh.

"So that's what you're writin'?" he sneered.  "You're writin' somethin'
that really happened.  You're even writin' the real names an' tellin'
how Stafford's stray-man butted in an' beat me shootin'.  You knowin'
this shows that him an' you has been travelin' pretty close together."

For an instant Miss Radford forgot her anger.  Her eyes snapped with a
sudden interest.

"Were you the man who hit the can five times?" she questioned, unable
to conceal her eagerness.

She saw a flush slowly mount to his face.  Evidently he had said more
than he had intended.

"Well, if I am?" he returned, his lips writhing in a sneer.  "Him
beatin' me shootin' that way don't prove nothin'."

She was now becoming convinced of her cleverness.  From Ben's
description of the man who had won the shooting match she had been able
to lead Ferguson to the admission that he had been the central
character in that incident, and now it had transpired that Leviatt was
the man he had beaten.  This had been the way she had written it in the
story.  So far the plot that had been born of her imagination had
proved to be the story of a real occurrence.

She had counted upon none but imaginary characters,--though she had
determined to clothe these with reality through study--but now, she had
discovered, she had been the chronicler of a real incident, and two of
her characters had been pitted against each other in a contest in which
there had been enough bitterness to provide the animus necessary to
carry them through succeeding pages, ready and willing to fly at each
other's throats.  She was not able to conceal her satisfaction over the
discovery, and when she looked at Leviatt again she smiled broadly.

"That confession explains a great many things," she said, stooping to
recover the page that he had dropped beside her upon the rock.

"Meanin' what?" he questioned, his eyes glittering evilly.

"Meaning that I now know why you are not friendly toward Mr. Ferguson,"
she returned.  "I heard that he beat you in the shooting match," she
went on tauntingly, "and then when you insulted him afterwards, he
talked very plainly to you."

The moment she had spoken she realized that her words had hurt him, for
he paled and his eyes narrowed venomously.  But his voice was cold and
steady.

"Was Mr. Ferguson tellin' you that?" he inquired, succeeding in placing
ironic emphasis upon the prefix.

She was arranging the contents of her hand bag and she did not look up
as she answered him.

"That is my business," she returned quietly.  "But I don't mind telling
you that the man who told me about the occurrence would not lie about
it."

"It's nice that you've got such a heap of faith in him," he sneered.

It was plain to her that he thought Ferguson had told her about the
shooting match, and it was equally plain that he still harbored evil
thoughts against the stray-man.  And also, he suspected that something
more than mere friendship existed between her and Ferguson.  She had
long hoped that one day she might be given the opportunity of meeting
in person a man whose soul was consumed with jealousy, in order that
she might be able to gain some impressions of the intensity of his
passion.  This seemed to be her opportunity.  Therefore she raised her
chin a little and looked at him with a tantalizing smile.

"Of course I have faith in him," she declared, with a slight, biting
emphasis.  "I believe in him--absolutely."

She saw his lips twitch.  "Sure," he sneered, "you was just beginnin'
to believe in him that day when you was holdin' hands with him--just
about here.  I reckon he was enjoyin' himself."

She started, but smiled immediately.  "So you saw that?" she inquired,
knowing that he had, but taking a keen delight in seeing that he still
remembered.  But this conversation was becoming too personal; she had
no desire to argue this point with him, even to get an impression of
the depth of his passion, so she gathered up her belongings and
prepared to depart.  But he stepped deliberately in front of her,
barring the way of escape.  His face was aflame with passion.

"I seen him holdin' your hand," he said, his voice trembling; "I seen
that he was holdin' it longer than he had any right.  An' I seen you
pull your hand away when you thought I was lookin' at you.  I reckon
you've taken a shine to him; he's the kind that the women like--with
his slick ways an' smooth palaver--an' his love makin'."  He laughed
with his lips only, his eyes narrowed to glittering pin points.  She
had  not thought that jealousy could make a person half so repulsive.

"If you're lovin' him," he continued, leaning toward her, his muscles
tense, his lips quivering with a passion that he was no longer able to
repress, "I'm tellin' you that you're wastin' your time.  You wouldn't
think so much of him if you knowed that he come here----"

Leviatt had become aware that Miss Radford was not listening; that she
was no longer looking at him, but at something behind him.  At the
instant he became aware of this he turned sharply in his tracks, his
right hand falling swiftly to his holster.  Not over half a dozen paces
distant stood Ben Radford, gravely watching.

"Mebbe you folks are rehearsing a scene from that story," he observed
quietly.  "I wasn't intending to interrupt, but I heard loud talking
and I thought mebbe it wasn't anything private.  So I just got off my
horse and climbed up here, to satisfy my curiosity."

Leviatt's hand fell away from the holster, a guilty grin overspreading
his face.  "I reckon we wasn't rehearsin' any scene," he said, trying
to make the words come easily.  "I was just tellin' your sister
that----"

Miss Radford laughed banteringly.  "You have spoiled a chapter in my
book, Ben," she declared with pretended annoyance; "Mr. Leviatt had
just finished proposing to me and was at the point where he was
supposed to speak bitter words about his rival."  She laughed again,
gazing at Leviatt with mocking eyes.  "Of course, I shall never be able
to tell my readers what he might have said, for you appeared at a most
inopportune time.  But he has taught me a great deal--much more, in
fact, than I ever expected from him."

She bowed mockingly.  "I am very, very much obliged to you, Mr.
Leviatt," she said, placing broad emphasis upon her words.  "I promise
to try and make a very interesting character of you--there were times
when you were most dramatic."

She bowed to Leviatt and flashed a dazzling smile at her brother.  Then
she walked past Leviatt, picked her way daintily over the loose stones
on the hillside, and descended to the level where she had tethered her
pony.  Ben stood grinning admiringly after her as she mounted and rode
out into the flat.  Then he turned to Leviatt, soberly contemplating
him.

"I don't think you were rehearsing for the book," he said quietly, an
undercurrent of humor in his voice.

"She was funnin' me," returned Leviatt, his face reddening.

"I reckon she was," returned Ben dryly.  "She's certainly some clever
at handing it to a man."  He smiled down into the flat, where Miss
Radford could still be seen, riding toward the cabin.  "Looks as though
she wasn't quite ready to change her name to 'Leviatt'," he grinned.

But there was no humor in Leviatt's reflections.  He stood for a
moment, looking down into the flat, the expression of his face morose
and sullen.  Ben's bantering words only added fuel to the flame of rage
and disappointment that was burning fiercely in his heart.  Presently
the hard lines of his lips disappeared and he smiled craftily.

"She's about ready to change her name," he said.  "Only she ain't
figgerin' that it's goin' to be Leviatt."

"You're guessing now," returned Ben sharply.

Leviatt laughed oddly.  "I reckon I ain't doin' any guessin'," he
returned.  "You've been around her a heap an' been seein' her
consid'able, but you ain't been usin' your eyes."

"Meaning what?" demanded Ben, an acid-like coldness in his voice.

"Meanin' that if you'd been usin' your eyes you'd have seen that she's
some took up with Stafford's new stray-man."

"Well," returned Ben, "she's her own boss.  If she's made friends with
Ferguson that's her business."  He laughed.  "She's certainly clever,"
he added, "and mebbe she's got her own notion as to why she's made
friends with him.  She's told me that she's goin' to make him a
character in the book she's writing.  Likely she's stringing him."

"I reckon she ain't stringin' him," declared Leviatt.  "A girl ain't
doin' much stringin' when she's holdin' a man's hand an' blushin' when
somebody ketches her at it."

There was a slight sneer in Leviatt's voice which drew a sharp glance
from Radford.  For an instant his face clouded and he was about to make
a sharp reply.  But his face cleared immediately and he smiled.

"I'm banking on her being able to take care of herself," he returned.
"Her holding Ferguson's hand proves nothing.  Likely she was trying to
get an impression--she's always telling me that.  But she's running her
own game, and if she is stringing Ferguson that's her business, and if
she thinks a good bit of him that's her business, too.  If a man ain't
jealous, he might be able to see that Ferguson ain't a half bad sort of
a man."

An evil light leaped into Leviatt's eyes.  He turned and faced Radford,
words coming from his lips coldly and incisively.  "When you
interrupted me," he said, "I was goin' to tell your sister about
Ferguson.  Mebbe if I tell you what I was goin' to tell her it'll make
you see things some different.  A while ago Stafford was wantin' to
hire a gunfighter."  He shot a significant glance at Radford, who
returned it steadily.  "I reckon you know what he wanted a gunfighter
for.  He got one.  His name's Ferguson.  He's gettin' a hundred dollars
a month for the season, to put Ben Radford out of business!"

The smile had gone from Radford's face; his lips were tightly closed,
his eyes cold and alert.

"You lying about Ferguson because you think he's friendly with Mary?"
he questioned quietly.

Leviatt's right hand dropped swiftly to his holster.  But Radford
laughed harshly.  "Quit it!" he said sharply.  "I ain't sayin' you're a
liar, but what you've said makes you liable to be called that until
you've proved you ain't.  How do you know Ferguson's been hired to put
me out of business?"

Leviatt laughed.  "Stafford an' me went to Dry Bottom to get a
gunfighter.  I shot a can in the street in front of the Silver Dollar
so's Stafford would be able to get a line on anyone tryin' to beat my
game.  Ferguson done it an' Stafford hired him."

Radford's gaze was level and steady.  "Then you've knowed right along
that he was lookin' for me," he said coldly.  "Why didn't you say
something about it before.  You've been claiming to be my friend."

Leviatt flushed, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, but
watching Radford with alert and suspicious glances.  "Why," he returned
shortly, "I'm range boss for the Two Diamond an' I ain't hired to tell
what I know.  I reckon you'd think I was a hell of a man to be tellin'
things that I ain't got no right to tell."

"But you're telling it now," returned Radford, his eyes narrowing a
little.

"Yes," returned Leviatt quietly, "I am.  An' you're callin' me a liar
for it.  But I'm tellin' you to wait.  Mebbe you'll tumble.  I reckon
you ain't heard how Ferguson's been tellin' the boys that he went down
to your cabin one night claimin' to have been bit by a rattler, because
he wanted to get acquainted with you an' pot you some day when you
wasn't expectin' it.  An' then after he'd stayed all night in your
cabin he was braggin' to the boys that he reckoned on makin' a fool of
your sister.  Oh, he's some slick!" he concluded, a note of triumph in
his voice.

Radford started, his face paling a little.  He had thought it strange
that an experienced plainsman--as Ferguson appeared to be--should have
been bitten by a rattler in the manner he had described.  And then he
had been hanging around the----

"Mebbe you might think it's onusual for Stafford to hire a two-gun man
to look after strays," broke in Leviatt at this point.  "Two-gun men
ain't takin' such jobs regular," he insinuated.  "Stray-men is usual
low-down, mean, ornery cusses which ain't much good for anything else,
an' so they spend their time mopin' around, doin' work that ain't fit
for any puncher to do."

Radford had snapped himself erect, his lips straightening.  He suddenly
held out a hand to Leviatt.  "I'm thanking you," he said steadily.
"It's rather late for you to be telling me, but I think it's come in
time anyway.  I'm watching him for a little while, and if things are as
you say----"  He broke off, his voice filled with a significant
grimness.  "So-long," he added.

He turned and descended the slope of the hill.  An instant later
Leviatt saw him loping his pony toward the cabin.  For a few minutes
Leviatt gazed after him, his eyes alight with satisfaction.  Then he,
too, descended the slope of the hill and mounted his pony.

CHAPTER XVII

A BREAK IN THE STORY

Mary Radford had found the day too beautiful to remain indoors and so
directly after dinner she had caught up her pony and was off for a ride
through the cottonwood.  She had been compelled to catch up the pony
herself, for of late Ben had been neglectful of this duty.  Until the
last week or so he had always caught her pony and placed the saddle on
it before leaving in the morning, assuring her that if she did not ride
during his absence the pony would not suffer through being saddled and
bridled.  But within the last week she thought she detected a change in
Ben's manner.  He seemed preoccupied and glum, falling suddenly into a
taciturnity broken only by brief periods during which he condescended
to reply to her questions with--it seemed--grudging monosyllables.

Several times, too, she had caught him watching her with furtive
glances in which, she imagined, she detected a glint of speculation.
But of this she was not quite sure, for when she bluntly questioned him
concerning his moods he had invariably given her an evasive reply.
Fearing that there might have been a recurrence of the old trouble with
the Two Diamond manager--about which he had told her during her first
days at the cabin--she ventured a question.  He had grimly assured her
that he anticipated no further trouble in that direction.  So, unable
to get a direct reply from him she had decided that perhaps he would
speak when the time came, and so she had ceased questioning.

In spite of his negligence regarding the pony, she had not given up her
rides.  Nor had she neglected to give a part of each morning to the
story.

The work of gradually developing her hero's character had been an
absorbing task; times when she lingered over the pages of the story she
found herself wondering whether she had sounded the depths of his
nature.  She knew, at least, that she had made him attractive, for as
he moved among her pages, she--who should have been satiated with him
because of being compelled to record his every word and movement--found
his magnetic personality drawing her applause, found that he haunted
her dreams, discovered one day that her waking moments were filled with
thoughts of him.

But of late she had begun to suspect that her interest in him was not
all on account of the story; there were times when she sat long
thinking of him, seeing him, watching the lights and shadows of
expression come and go in his face.  Somewhere between the real
Ferguson and the man who was impersonating him in her story was an
invisible line that she could not trace.  There were times when she
could not have told whether the character she admired belonged to the
real or the unreal.

She was thinking much of this to-day while she rode into the subdued
light of the cottonwood.  Was she, absorbed in the task of putting a
real character in her story, to confess that her interest in him was
not wholly the interest of the artist who sees the beauties and virtues
of a model only long enough to paint them into the picture?  The
blushes came when she suddenly realized that her interest was not
wholly professional, that she had lately lingered long over her model,
at times when she had not been thinking of the story at all.

Then, too, she had considered her friends in the East.  What would they
say if they knew of her friendship with the Two Diamond stray-man?  The
standards of Eastern civilization were not elastic enough to include
the man whom she had come to know so well, who had strode as boldly
into her life as he had strode into her story, with his steady, serene
eyes, his picturesque rigging, and his two guns, their holsters tied so
suggestively and forebodingly down.  Would her friends be able to see
the romance in him?  Would they be able to estimate him according to
the standards of the world in which he lived, in which he moved so
gracefully?

She was aware that, measured by Eastern standards, Ferguson fell far
short of the average in those things that combine to produce the
polished gentleman.  Yet she was also aware that these things were mere
accomplishments, a veneer acquired through constant practice--and that
usually the person known as "gentleman" could not be distinguished by
these things at all--that the real "gentleman" could be known only
through the measure of his quiet and genuine consideration and
unfailing Christian virtues.

As she rode through the cottonwood, into that deep solitude which
brings with it a mighty reverence for nature and a solemn desire for
communion with the soul--that solitude in which all affectation
disappears and man is face to face with his Maker--she tried to think
of Ferguson in an Eastern drawing room, attempting a sham courtesy,
affecting mannerisms that more than once had brought her own soul into
rebellion.  But she could not get him into the imaginary picture.  He
did not belong there; it seemed that she was trying to force a living
figure into a company of mechanical puppets.  And so they were--puppets
who answered to the pulling strings of precedent and established
convention.

But at the same time she knew that this society which she affected to
despise would refuse to accept him; that if by any chance he should be
given a place in it he would be an object of ridicule, or at the least
passive contempt.  The world did not want originality; would not
welcome in its drawing room the free, unaffected child of nature.  No,
the world wanted pretense, imitation.  It frowned upon truth and
applauded the sycophant.

She was not even certain that if she succeeded in making Ferguson a
real living character the world would be interested in him.  But she
had reached that state of mind in which she cared very little about the
world's opinion.   She, at least, was interested in him.

Upon the same afternoon--for there is no rule for the mere incidents of
life--Ferguson loped his pony through the shade of the cottonwood.  He
was going to visit the cabin in Bear Flat.  Would she be at home?
Would she be glad to see him?  He could not bring his mind to give him
an affirmative answer to either of these questions.

But of one thing he was certain--she had treated him differently from
the other Two Diamond men who had attempted to win her friendship.  Was
he to think then that she cared very little whether he came to the
cabin or not?  He smiled over his pony's mane at the thought.  He could
not help but see that she enjoyed his visits.

When he rode up to the cabin he found it deserted, but with a smile he
remounted Mustard and set out over the river trail, through the
cottonwood.  He was sure that he would find her on the hill in the
flat, and when he had reached the edge of the cottonwood opposite the
hill he saw her.

When she heard the clatter of his pony's hoofs she turned and saw him,
waving a hand at him.

"I reckoned on findin' you here," he said when he came close enough to
be heard.

She shyly made room for him beside her on the rock, but there was
mischief in her eye.  "It seems impossible to hide from you," she said
with a pretense of annoyance.

He laughed as he came around the edge of the rock and sat near her.
"Was you really tryin' to hide?" he questioned.  "Because if you was,"
he continued, "you hadn't ought to have got up on this hill--where I
could see you without even lookin' for you."

"But of course you were not looking for me," she observed quietly.

He caught her gaze and held it--steadily.  "I reckon I was lookin' for
you," he said.

"Why--why," she returned, suddenly fearful that something had happened
to Ben--"is anything wrong?"

He smiled.  "Nothin' is wrong," he returned.  "But I wanted to talk to
you, an' I expected to find you here."

There was a gentleness in his voice that she had not heard before, and
a quiet significance to his words that made her eyes droop away from
his with slight confusion.  She replied without looking at him.

"But I came here to write," she said.

He gravely considered her, drawing one foot up on the rock and clasping
his hands about the knee.  "I've thought a lot about that book," he
declared with a trace of embarrassment, "since you told me that you was
goin' to put real men an' women in it.  I expect you've made them do
the things that you've wanted them to do an' made them say what you
wanted them to say.  That part is right an' proper--there wouldn't be
any sense of anyone writin' a book unless they could put into it what
they thought was right.  But what's been botherin' me is this; how can
you tell whether the things you've made them say is what they would
have said if they'd had any chance to talk?  An' how can you tell what
their feelin's would be when you set them doin' somethin'?"

She laughed.  "That is a prerogative which the writer assumes without
question," she returned.  "The author of a novel makes his characters
think and act as the author himself imagines he would act in the same
circumstances."

He looked at her with amused eyes.  "That's just what I was tryin' to
get at," he said.  "You've put me into your book, an' you've made me do
an' say things out of your mind.  But you don't know for sure whether I
would have done an' said things just like you've wrote them.  Mebbe if
I would have had somethin' to say I wouldn't have done things your way
at all."

"I am sure you would," she returned positively.

"Well, now," he returned smiling, "you're speakin' as though you was
pretty certain about it.  You must have wrote a whole lot of the story."

"It is two-thirds finished," she returned with a trace of satisfaction
in her voice which did not escape him.

"An' you've got all your characters doin' an' thinkin' things that you
think they ought to do?"  His eyes gleamed craftily.  "You got a man
an' a girl in it?"

"Of course."

"An' they're goin' to love one another?"

"No other outcome is popular with novel readers," she returned.

He rocked back and forth, his eyes languidly surveying the rim of hills
in the distance.

"I expect that outcome is popular in real life too," he observed.
"Nobody ever hears about it when it turns out some other way."

"I expect love is always a popular subject," she returned smiling.

His eyes were still languid, his gaze still on the rim of distant hills.

"You got any love talk in there--between the man an' the girl?" he
questioned.

"Of course."

"That's mighty interestin'," he returned.  "I expect they do a good bit
of mushin'?"

"They do not talk extravagantly," she defended.

"Then I expect it must be pretty good," he returned.  "I don't like
mushy love stories."  And now he turned and looked fairly at her.  "Of
course," he said slyly, "I don't know whether it's necessary or not,
but I've been thinkin' that to write a good love story the writer ought
to be in love.  Whoever was writin' would know more about how it feels
to be in love."

She admired the cleverness with which he had led her up to this point,
but she was not to be trapped.  She met his eyes fairly.

"I am sure it is not necessary for the writer to be in love," she said
quietly but positively.  "I flatter myself that my love scenes are
rather real, and I have not found it necessary to love anyone."

This reply crippled him instantly.  "Well, now," he said, eyeing her,
she thought, a bit reproachfully, "that comes pretty near stumpin' me.
But," he added, a subtle expression coming again into his eyes, "you
say you've got only two-thirds finished.  Mebbe you'll be in love
before you get it all done.  An' then mebbe you'll find that you didn't
get it right an' have to do it all over again.  That would sure be too
bad, when you could have got in love an' wrote it real in the first
place."

"I don't think that I shall fall in love," she said laughing.

He looked quickly at her, suddenly grave.  "I wouldn't want to think
you meant that," he said.

"Why?" she questioned in a low voice, her laughter subdued by his
earnestness.

"Why," he said steadily, as though stating a perfectly plain fact,
"I've thought right along that you liked me.  Of course I ain't been
fool enough to think that you loved me"--and now he reddened a
little--, "but I don't deny that I've hoped that you would."

"Oh, dear!" she laughed; "and so you have planned it all out!  And I
was hoping that you would not prove so deep as that.  You know," she
went on, "you promised me a long while ago that you would not fall in
love with me."

"I don't reckon that I said that," he returned.  "I told you that I
wasn't goin' to get fresh.  I reckon I ain't fresh now.  But I expect I
couldn't help lovin' you--I've done that since the first day."

She could not stop the blushes--they would come.  And so would that
thrilling, breathless exultation.  No man had ever talked to her like
this; no man had ever made her feel quite as she felt at this moment.
She turned a crimson face to him.

"But you hadn't any right to love me," she declared, feeling sure that
she had been unable to make him understand that she meant to rebuke
him.  Evidently he did not understand that she meant to do that, for he
unclasped his hand from his knee and came closer to her, standing at
the edge of the rock, one hand resting upon it.

"Of course I didn't have any right," he said gravely, "but I loved you
just the same.  There's been some things in my life that I couldn't
help doin'.  Lovin' you is one.  I expect that you'll think I'm pretty
fresh, but I've been thinkin' a whole lot about you an' I've got to
tell you.  You ain't like the women I've been used to.  An' I reckon I
ain't just the kind of man you've been acquainted with all your life.
You've been used to seein' men who was all slicked up an' clever.  I
expect them kind of men appeal to any woman.  I ain't claimin' to be
none of them clever kind, but I've been around quite a little an' I
ain't never done anything that I'm ashamed of.  I can't offer you a
heap, but if you----"

She had looked up quickly, her cheeks burning.

"Please don't," she pleaded, rising and placing a hand on his arm,
gripping it tightly.  "I have known for a long time, but I--I wanted to
be sure."  He could not suspect that she had only just now begun to
realize that she was in danger of yielding to him and that the
knowledge frightened her.

"You wanted to be sure?" he questioned, his face clouding.  "What is it
that you wanted to be sure of?"

"Why," she returned, laughing to hide her embarrassment, "I wanted to
be sure that you loved me!"

"Well, you c'n be sure now," he said.

"I believe I can," she laughed.  "And," she continued, finding it
difficult to pretend seriousness, "knowing what I do will make writing
so much easier."

His face clouded again.  "I don't see what your writin' has got to do
with it," he said.

"You don't?" she demanded, her eyes widening with pretended surprise.
"Why, don't you see that I wanted to be sure of your love so that I
might be able to portray a real love scene in my story?"

He did not reply instantly, but folded his arms over his chest and
stood looking at her.  In his expression was much reproach and not a
little disappointment.  The hopes that had filled his dreams had been
ruined by her frivolous words; he saw her at this moment a woman who
had trifled with him, who had led him cleverly on to a declaration of
love that she might in the end sacrifice him to her art.  But in this
moment, when he might have been excused for exhibiting anger; for
heaping upon her the bitter reproaches of an outraged confidence, he
was supremely calm.  The color fled from his face, leaving it slightly
pale, and his eyes swam with a deep feeling that told of the struggle
that he was making.

"I didn't think you'd do it, ma'am," he said finally, a little
hoarsely.  "But I reckon you know your own business best."  He smiled
slightly.  "I don't think there's any use of you an' me meetin'
again--I don't want to be goin' on, bein' a dummy man that you c'n
watch.  But I'm glad to have amused you some an' I have enjoyed myself,
talkin' to you.  But I reckon you've done what you wanted to do, an' so
I'll be gettin' along."

He smiled grimly and with an effort turned and walked around the corner
of the rock, intending to descend the hill and mount his pony.  But as
he passed around to the side of the rock he heard her voice:

"Wait, please," she said in a scarcely audible voice.

He halted, looking gravely at her from the opposite side of the rock.

"You wantin' to get somethin' more for your story?" he asked.

She turned and looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes luminous with
a tell-tale expression, her face crimson.  "Why," she said smiling at
him, "do you really think that I could be so mean?"

He was around the rock again in half a dozen steps and standing above
her, his eyes alight, his lips parted slightly with surprise and
eagerness.

"Do you mean that you wantin' to make sure that I loved you wasn't all
for the sake of the story?" he demanded rapidly.

Her eyes drooped away from his.  "Didn't you tell me that a writer
should be in love in order to be able to write of it?" she asked, her
face averted.

"Yes."  He was trembling a little and leaning toward her.  In this
position he caught her low reply.

"I think my love story will be real," she returned.  "I have
learned----"  But whatever she might have wanted to add was smothered
when his arms closed tightly about her.

A little later she drew a deep breath and looked up at him with moist,
eloquent eyes.

"Perhaps I _shall_ have to change the story a little," she said.

He drew her head to his shoulder, one hand caressing her hair.  "If you
do," he said smiling, "don't have the hero thinkin' that the girl is
makin' a fool of him."  He drew her close.  "That cert'nly was a mighty
bad minute you give me," he added.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE DIM TRAIL.

A shadow fell upon the rock.  Ferguson turned his head and looked
toward the west, where the sun had already descended over the mountains.

"Why it's sundown!" he said, smiling into Miss Radford's eyes.  "I
reckon the days must be gettin' shorter."

"The happy days are always short," she returned, blushing.  He kissed
her for this.  For a while they sat, watching together the vari-colors
swimming in the sky.  They sat close together, saying little, for mere
words are sometimes inadequate.  In a little time the colors faded, the
mountain peaks began to throw sombre shades; twilight--gray and
cold--settled suddenly into the flat.  Then Miss Radford raised her
head from Ferguson's shoulder and sighed.

"Time to go home," she said.

"Yes, time," he returned.  "I'm ridin' down that far with you."

They rose and clambered down the hillside and he helped her into the
saddle.  Then he mounted Mustard and rode across the flat beside her.

Darkness had fallen when they rode through the clearing near the cabin
and dismounted from their ponies at the door.  The light from the
kerosene lamp shone in a dim stream from the kitchen door and within
they saw dishes on the table with cold food.  Ferguson stood beside his
pony while Miss Radford went in and explored the cabin.  She came to
the door presently, shading her eyes to look out into the darkness.

"Ben has been here and gone," she said.  "He can't be very far away.
Won't you come in?"

He laughed.  "I don't think I'll come in," he returned.  "This lover
business is new to me, an' I wouldn't want Ben to come back an' ketch
me blushin' an' takin' on."

"But he has to know," she insisted, laughing.

"Sure," he said, secure in the darkness, "but you tell him."

"I won't!" she declared positively, stamping a foot.

"Then I reckon he won't get told," he returned quietly.

"Well, then," she said, laughing, "I suppose that is settled."

She came out to the edge of the porch, away from the door, where the
stream of light from within could not search them out, and there they
took leave of one another, she going back into the cabin and he
mounting Mustard and riding away in the darkness.

He was in high spirits, for he had much to be thankful for.  As he rode
through the darkness, skirting the cottonwood in the flat, he allowed
his thoughts to wander.  His refusal to enter the cabin had not been a
mere whim; he intended on the morrow to seek out Ben and tell him.  He
had not wanted to tell him with her looking on to make the situation
embarrassing for him.

When he thought of how she had fooled him by making it appear that she
had led him on for the purpose of getting material for her love story,
he was moved to silent mirth.  "But I cert'nly didn't see anything
funny in it while she was puttin' it on," he told himself, as he rode.

He had not ridden more than a quarter of a mile from the cabin, and was
passing a clump of heavy shrubbery, when a man rose suddenly out of the
shadows beside the trail.  Startled, Mustard reared, and then seeing
that the apparition was merely a man, he came quietly down and halted,
shaking his head sagely.  Ferguson's right hand had dropped swiftly to
his right holster, but was raised again instantly as the man's voice
came cold and steady:

"Get your hands up--quick!"

Ferguson's hands were raised, but he gave no evidence of fear or
excitement.  Instead, he leaned forward, trying, in the dim light, to
see the man's face.  The latter still stood in the shadows.  But now he
advanced a little toward Ferguson, and the stray-man caught his breath
sharply.  But when he spoke his voice was steady.

"Why, it's Ben Radford," he said.

"That's just who it is," returned Radford.  "I've been waitin' for you."

"That's right clever of you," returned Ferguson, drawling his words a
little.  He was puzzled over this unusual occurrence, but his face did
not betray this.  "You was wantin' to see me then," he added.

"You're keen," returned Radford, sneering slightly.

Ferguson's face reddened.  "I ain't no damn fool," he said sharply.
"An' I don't like holdin' my hands up like this.  I reckon whatever
you're goin' to do you ought to do right quick."

"I'm figuring to be quick," returned Radford shortly.  "Ketch hold of
your guns with the tips of one finger and one thumb and drop them.
Don't hit any rocks and don't try any monkey business."

He waited until Ferguson had dropped one gun.  And then, knowing that
the stray-man usually wore two weapons, he continued sharply: "I'm
waiting for the other one."

Ferguson laughed.  "Then you'll be waitin' a long time.  There ain't
any 'other one.  Broke a spring yesterday an' sent it over to Cimarron
to get it fixed up.  You c'n have it when it comes back," he added with
a touch of sarcasm, "if you're carin' to wait that long."

Radford did not reply, but came around to Ferguson's left side and
peered at the holster.  It was empty.  Then he looked carefully at the
stray-man's waist for signs that a weapon might have been concealed
between the waist-band and the trousers--in front.  Then, apparently
satisfied, he stepped back, his lips closed grimly.

"Get off your horse," he ordered.

Ferguson laughed as he swung down.  "Anything to oblige a friend," he
said, mockingly.

The two men were now not over a yard apart, and at Ferguson's word
Radford's face became inflamed with wrath.  "I don't think I'm a friend
of yours," he sneered coldly; "I ain't making friends with every damned
sneak that crawls around the country, aiming to shoot a man in the
back."  He raised his voice, bitter with sarcasm.  "You're thinking
that you're pretty slick," he said; "that all you have to do in this
country is to hang around till you get a man where you want him and
then bore him.  But you've got to the end of your rope.  You ain't
going to shoot anyone around here.

"I'm giving you a chance to say what you've got to say and then I'm
going to fill you full of lead and plant you over in the cottonwood--in
a place where no one will ever be able to find you--not even Stafford.
I'd have shot you off your horse when you come around the bend," he
continued coldly, "but I wanted you to know who was doing it and that
the man that did it knowed what you come here to do."  He poised his
pistol menacingly.  "You got anything to say?" he inquired.

Ferguson looked steadily from the muzzle of the poised weapon to
Radford's frowning eyes.  Then he smiled grimly.

"Some one's been talkin'," he said evenly.  He calmly crossed his arms
over his chest, the right hand slipping carelessly under the left side
of his vest.  Then he rocked slowly back and forth on his heels and
toes.  "Someone's been tellin' you a pack of lies," he added.  "I
reckon you've wondered, if I was goin' to shoot you in the back, that I
ain't done it long ago.  You're admittin' that I've had some chance."

Radford sneered.  "I ain't wondering why you ain't done it before," he
said.  "Mebbe it was because you're too white livered.  Mebbe you
thought you didn't see your chance.  I ain't worrying none about why
you didn't do it.  But you ain't going to get another chance."  The
weapon came to a foreboding level.

Ferguson laughed grimly, but there was an ironic quality in his voice
that caught Radford's ear.  It seemed to Radford that the stray-man
knew that he was near death, and yet some particular phase of the
situation appealed to his humor--grim though it was.  It came out when
the stray-man spoke.

"You've been gassin' just now about shootin' people in the back--sayin'
that I've been thinkin' of doin' it.  But I reckon you ain't thought a
lot about the way you're intendin' to put me out of business.  I was
wonderin' if it made any difference--shootin' a man in the back or
shootin' him when he ain't got any guns.  I expect a man that's shot
when he ain't got guns would be just as dead as a man that's shot in
the back, wouldn't he?"

He laughed again, his eyes gleaming in the dim light.  "That's the
reason I ain't scared a heap," he said.  "From what I know about you
you ain't the man to shoot another without givin' him a chance.  An'
you're givin' me a chance to talk.  I ain't goin' to do any prayin'.  I
reckon that's right?"

Radford shifted his feet uneasily.  He could not have told at that
moment whether or not he had intended to murder Ferguson.  He had
waylaid him with that intention, utterly forgetful that by shooting the
stray-man he would be committing the very crime which he had accused
Ferguson of contemplating.  The muzzle of his weapon drooped
uncertainly.

"Talk quick!" he said shortly.

Ferguson grinned.  "I'm takin' my time," he returned.  "There ain't any
use of bein' in such an awful hurry--time don't amount to much when a
man's talkin' for his life.  I ain't askin' who told you what you've
said about me--I've got a pretty clear idea who it was.  I've had to
tell a man pretty plain that my age has got its growth an' I don't
think that man is admirin' me much for bein' told.  But if he's wantin'
to have me put out of business he's goin' to do the job himself--Ben
Radford ain't doin' it."

While he had been talking he had contrived to throw the left side of
his vest open, and his right hand was exposed in the dim light--a heavy
six-shooter gleaming forebodingly in it.  His arms were still crossed,
but as he talked he had turned a very little and now the muzzle of the
weapon was at a level--trained fairly upon Radford's breast.  And then
came Ferguson's voice again, quiet, cold, incisive.

"If there's goin' to be any shootin', Ben, there'll be two of us doin'
it.  Don't be afraid that you'll beat me to it."  And he stared grimly
over the short space that separated them.

For a full minute neither man moved a muscle.  Silence--a premonitory
silence--fell over them as they stood, each with a steady finger
dragging uncertainly upon the trigger of his weapon.  An owl hooted in
the cottonwood nearby; other noises of the night reached their ears.
Unaware of this crisis Mustard grazed unconcernedly at a distance.

Then Radford's weapon wavered a little and dropped to his side.

"This game's too certain," he said.

Ferguson laughed, and his six-shooter disappeared as mysteriously as it
had appeared.  "I thought I'd be able to make you see the point," he
said.  "It don't always pay to be in too much of a hurry to do a
thing," he continued gravely.  "An' I reckon I've proved that someone's
been lying about me.  If I'd wanted to shoot you I could have done it
quite a spell ago--I had you covered just as soon as I crossed my arms.
You'd never knowed about it.  That I didn't shoot proves that whoever
told you I was after you has been romancin'."  He laughed.

"An' now I'm tellin' you another thing that I was goin' to tell you
about to-morrow.  Mebbe you'll want to shoot me for that.  But if you
do I expect you'll have a woman to fight.  Me an' Mary has found that
we're of one mind about a thing.  We're goin' to hook up into a double
harness.  I reckon when I'm your brother-in-law you won't be so worried
about shootin' me."

Radford's astonishment showed for a moment in his eyes as his gaze met
the stray-man's.  Then they drooped guiltily.

"Well I'm a damn fool!" he said finally.  "I might have knowed that
Mary wouldn't get afoul of any man who was thinkin' of doing dirt to
me."  He suddenly extended a hand.  "You shakin'?" he said.

Ferguson took the hand, gripping it tightly.  Neither man spoke.  Then
Radford suddenly unclasped his hand and turned, striding rapidly up the
trail toward the cabin.

For a moment Ferguson stood, looking after him with narrowed, friendly
eyes.  Then he walked to Mustard, threw the bridle rein over the pommel
of the saddle, mounted, and was off at a rapid lope toward the Two
Diamond.

CHAPTER XIX

THE SHOT IN THE DARK

Now that Mary Radford had obtained experience for the love scene in her
story it might be expected that on returning to the cabin she would get
out her writing materials and attempt to transcribe the emotions that
had beset her during the afternoon, but she did nothing of the kind.
After Ferguson's departure she removed her riding garments, walked
several times around the interior of the cabin, and for a long time
studied her face in the looking glass.  Yes, she discovered the
happiness shining out of the glass.  Several times, standing before the
glass, she attempted to keep the lines of her face in repose, and
though she almost succeeded in doing this she could not control her
eyes--they simply would gleam with the light that seemed to say to her:
"You may deceive people by making a mask of your face, but the eyes are
the windows of the soul and through them people will see your secret."

Ben hadn't eaten much, she decided, as she seated herself at the table,
after pouring a cup of tea.  Before she had finished her meal she had
begun to wonder over his absence--it was not his custom to go away in
the night.  She thought he might have gone to the corral, or might even
be engaged in some small task in the stable.  So after completing her
meal she rose and went to the door, looking out.

There was no moon, only the starlight, but in this she was able to
distinguish objects in the clearing, and if Ben had been working about
anywhere she must have noticed him.  She returned to the table and sat
there long, pondering.  Then she rose, heated some water, and washed
and dried the dishes.  Then she swept the kitchen floor and tidied
things up a bit, returning to the door when all was complete.

Still no signs that Ben was anywhere in the vicinity.  She opened the
screen door and went out upon the porch, leaning against one of the
slender posts.  For a long time she stood thus, listening to the
indescribable noises of the night.  This was only the second time since
she had been with Ben that he had left her alone at night, and a slight
chill stole over her as she watched the dense shadows beyond the
clearing, shadows that seemed suddenly dismal and foreboding.  She had
loved the silence, but now suddenly it too seemed too deep, too solemn
to be real.  She shuddered, and with some unaccountable impulse shrank
back against the screen door, one hand upon it, ready to throw it open.
In this position she stood for a few minutes, and then from somewhere
in the flat came a slight sound--and then, after a short interval,
another.

She shrank back again, a sudden fear chilling her, her hands clasped
over her breast.

"Someone is shooting," she said aloud.

She waited long for a repetition of the sounds.  But she did not hear
them again.  Tremblingly she returned to the cabin and resumed her
chair at the table, fighting against a growing presentiment that
something had gone wrong with Ben.  But she could not have told from
what direction the sounds had come, and so it would have been folly for
her to ride out to investigate.  And so for an hour she sat at the
table, cringing away from the silence, starting at intervals, when her
imagination tricked her into the belief that sound had begun.

And then presently she became aware that there was sound.  In the vast
silence beyond the cabin door something had moved.  She was on her feet
instantly, her senses alert.  Her fear had left her.  Her face was
pale, but her lips closed grimly as she went to the rack behind the
door and took down a rifle that Ben always kept there.  Then she turned
the lamp low and cautiously stepped to the door.

A pony whinnied, standing with ears erect at the edge of the porch.  In
a crumpled heap on the ground lay a man.  She caught her breath
sharply, but in the next instant was out and bending over him.  With a
strength that seemed almost beyond her shy dragged the limp form to the
door where the light from the lamp shone upon it.

"Ben!" she said sharply.  "What has happened?"  She shook him slightly,
calling again to him.

Aroused, he opened his eyes, recognized her, and raised himself
painfully upon one elbow, smiling weakly.

"It ain't anything, sis," he said.  "Creased in the back of the head.
Knocked me cold.  Mebbe my shoulder too--I ain't been able to lift my
arm."  He smiled again--grimly, though wearily.  "From the back too.
The damned sneak!"

Her eyes filled vengefully, and she leaned closer to him, her voice
tense.  "Who, Ben?  Who did it?"

"Ferguson," he said sharply.  And again, as his eyes closed: "The
damned sneak."

She swayed dizzily and came very near dropping him to the porch floor.
But no sound came from her, and presently when the dizziness had
passed, she dragged him to the door, propped it open with a chair, and
then dragged him on through the opening to the kitchen, and from there
to one of the adjoining rooms.  Then with pale face and determined lips
she set about the work of taking care of Ben's wounds.  The spot on the
back of the head, she found, was a mere abrasion, as he had said.  But
his shoulder had been shattered, the bullet, she discovered, having
passed clear through the fleshy part of the shoulder, after breaking
one of the smaller bones.

Getting her scissors she clipped away the hair from the back of his
head and sponged the wound and bandaged it, convinced that of itself it
was not dangerous.  Then she undressed him, and by the use of plenty of
clear, cold water, a sponge, and some bandages, stopped the flow of
blood in his shoulder and placed him in a comfortable position.  He had
very little fever, but she moved rapidly around him, taking his
temperature, administering sedatives when he showed signs of
restlessness, hovering over him constantly until the dawn began to come.

Soon after this he went off into a peaceful sleep, and, almost
exhausted with her efforts and the excitement, she threw herself upon
the floor beside his bed, sacrificing her own comfort that she might be
near to watch should he need her.  It was late in the afternoon when
Radford opened his eyes to look out through the door that connected his
room with the kitchen and saw his sister busying herself with the
dishes.  His mind was clear and he suffered very little pain.  For a
long time he lay, quietly watching her, while his thoughts went back to
the meeting on the trail with Ferguson.  Why hadn't he carried out his
original intention of shooting the stray-man down from ambush?  He had
doubted Leviatt's word and had hesitated, wishing to give Ferguson the
benefit of the doubt, and had received his reward in the shape of a
bullet in the back--after practically making a peace pact with his
intended victim.

He presently became aware that his sister was standing near him, and he
looked up and smiled at her.  Then in an instant she was kneeling
beside him, admonishing him to quietness, smoothing his forehead,
giving delighted little gasps over his improved condition.  But in
spite of her evident cheerfulness there was a suggestion of trouble
swimming deep in her eyes; he could not help but see that she was
making a brave attempt to hide her bitter disappointment over the turn
things had taken.  Therefore he was not surprised when, after she had
attended to all his wants, she sank on her knees beside him.

"Ben," she said, trying to keep a quiver out of her voice, "are you
sure it was Ferguson who shot you?"

He patted her hand tenderly and sympathetically with his uninjured one.
"I'm sorry for you, Mary," he returned, "but there ain't any doubt
about it."  Then he told her of the warning he had received from
Leviatt, and when he saw her lips curl at the mention of the Two
Diamond range boss's name he smiled.

"I thought the same thing that you are thinking, Mary," he said.  "And
I didn't want to shoot Ferguson.  But as things have turned out I
wouldn't have been much wrong to have done it."

She raised her head from the coverlet.  "Did you see him before he shot
you?" she questioned eagerly.

"Just a little before," he returned.  "I met him at a turn in the trail
about half a mile from here.  I made him get down off his horse and
drop his guns.  We had a talk, for I didn't want to shoot him until I
was sure, and he talked so clever that I thought he was telling the
truth.  But he wasn't."

He told her about Ferguson's concealed pistol; how they had stood face
to face with death between them, concluding: "By that time I had
decided not to shoot him.  But he didn't have the nerve to pull the
trigger when he was looking at me.  He waited until I'd got on my horse
and was riding away.  Then he sneaked up behind."

He saw her body shiver, and he caressed her hair slowly, telling her
that he was sorry things had turned out so, and promising her that when
he recovered he would bring the Two Diamond stray-man to a strict
accounting--providing the latter didn't leave the country before.  But
he saw that his words had given her little comfort, for when an hour or
so later he dropped off to sleep the last thing he saw was her seated
at the table in the kitchen, her head bowed in her hands, crying softly.

"Poor little kid," he said, as sleep dimmed his eyes; "it looks as
though this would be the end of _her_ story."

CHAPTER XX