The Range Boss Part 10

Pickett writhed. But it seemed to Ruth, as her gaze s.h.i.+fted from Randerson to him, that Pickett's manner was not what it should be. He was not embarra.s.sed enough, did not seem to feel his disgrace keenly enough.

For though he twisted and squirmed under the threat in Randerson's voice, there was an odd smirk on his face that impressed her as nearly concealing a malignant cunning. And his voice sounded insincere to her--there was even no flavor of shame in them:

"I'm sorry I done what I did, ma'am."

"I reckon that's all, Pickett. You draw your time right now."

Randerson sheathed his pistol and turned slightly sidewise to Pickett, evidently intending to come up on the porch.

Ruth gasped. For she saw Pickett reach for his gun. It was drawn half out of its holster. As though he had divined what was in Pickett's mind, Randerson had turned slightly at Pickett's movement. There was a single rapid movement to his right hip, the twilight was split by a red streak, by another that followed it so closely as to seem to make the two continuous. Pickett's hand dropped oddly from the half-drawn weapon, his knees sagged, he sighed and pitched heavily forward, face down, at Randerson's feet.

Dimly, as through a haze, Ruth saw a number of the cowboys coming toward her, saw them approach and look curiously down at the thing that lay almost at her feet. And then someone took her by the arm--she thought it was Uncle Jepson--and she was led toward the door. At the threshold she paused, for Randerson's voice, cold and filled with deadly definiteness, reached her:

"Do you want to take his end of this?" Ruth turned. Randerson was pointing to Pickett's body, ghastly in its p.r.o.ne slackness. He was looking at Chavis.

Evidently Chavis elected not to avenge his friend at that moment. For there was a dead silence while one might have counted fifty. Then Ruth was drawn into the house.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The twilight was split by a red streak]

CHAPTER VIII

WHAT UNCLE JEPSON HEARD

Every detail of the killing of Jim Pickett remained vivid in Ruth's recollection. She felt that she would never forget it. But her horror gradually abated, and at the end of a week she was able to look at Randerson without shuddering. During the week she had evaded him. And he, divining the state of her feelings, kept away from the house as much as possible.

Masten's demeanor on hearing of the insult that had been offered her by Pickett had seemed that of a man who was lacking in courage: at the time she had not been able to make it conform to her ideas of a man's duty to the woman he had promised to marry--or to any woman. She had heard him speak of reason in connection with the affair, as though there were no such thing in the world as rage so justifiable as to make a man yearn to inflict punishment upon another man who had attacked his woman. He had looked upon the matter cold-bloodedly, and she had resented that. But now that she had been avenged, she felt that she had been wrong. It had been such a trivial thing, after all; the punishment seemed monstrous in comparison with it. She had seen Pickett's movement when Randerson had momentarily turned his back to him, but she had also seen Randerson's retaliatory movement. She had known then, that Randerson had expected Pickett's action, and that he had been prepared for it, and therefore it seemed to her that in forcing the trouble Randerson had not only foreseen the ending but had even courted it.

Remorse over her momentary doubt of Masten's motive in refusing to call Pickett to account, afflicted her. He had been wiser than she; he had traced the line that divided reason from the primitive pa.s.sions--man from beast. His only reference to the incident--a wordless one, which she felt was sufficiently eloquent--came when one day, while they were standing beside the corral fence, looking at the horses, they saw Randerson riding in. Masten nodded toward him and shook his head slowly from side to side, compressing his lips as he did so. And then, seeing her looking at him, he smiled compa.s.sionately, as though to say that he regretted the killing of Pickett as well as she.

She seized his arm impulsively.

"I was wrong, Willard," she said.

"Wrong, dear?" he said. "It wasn't your fault."

"But I thought--things about you that I shouldn't have thought. I felt that you ought to have punished Pickett. I am glad, now, that you didn't." She shuddered, and looked again at Randerson, just dismounting at the bunkhouse, paying no attention to them.

"Then you wouldn't have me like him?" He indicated Randerson.

"No," she said.

He gave her shoulder a slight pressure, and turning his head, smiled triumphantly.

Later, when they had walked to a far corner of the pasture, talking confidentially and laughing a little, he halted and drew her close to him.

"Ruth," he said, gently, "the world is going very well for you now. You are settled here, you like it, and things are running smoothly. Why not take a ride over to Lazette one of these days. There is a justice of the peace over there. It won't need to be a formal affair, you know. Just on the quiet--a sort of a lark. I have waited a long time," he coaxed.

She smiled at his earnestness. But that spark which he had tried in vain to fan into flame still smoldered. She felt no responsive impulse; a strange reluctance dragged at her.

"Wait, Willard," she said, "until after the fall round-up. There is no hurry. We are sure of each other."

They went on toward the ranchhouse. When they pa.s.sed the bunkhouse, and through the open door saw Randerson and Uncle Jepson sitting on a bench smoking, Ruth quickened her step, and Masten made a grimace of hatred.

Inside the bunkhouse, Uncle Jepson, who had been speaking, paused long enough to wrinkle his nose at Masten. Randerson's expression did not change; it was one of grave expectancy.

"You was sayin'--" he prompted, looking at Uncle Jepson.

"That the whole darned deal was a frame-up," declared Uncle Jepson. "I was settin' in the messhouse along in the afternoon of the day of the killin'--smokin' an' thinkin', but most of the time just settin', I cal'late, when I heard Chavis an' Pickett talkin' low an' easy outside.

They was a crack in the wall, an' I plastered one ear up ag'in it, an'

took in all they was sayin'. First, they was talkin' about the bad feelin' between you an' Pickett. Pickett said he wanted to 'git' you, an'

that Masten wanted to get you out of the way because of what you'd done to him at Calamity. But I reckon that ain't the real reason; he's got some idea that you an' Ruth--"

"Shucks," said Randerson impatiently.

"Anyway," grinned Uncle Jepson, "for some reason, he don't want you hangin' around. Far as I could gather, Pickett wanted some excuse to have you fire him, so's he could shoot you. He talked some to Masten about it, an' Masten told him to tackle Ruth, but not to get too rough about it, an' not to go too far."

"Great guns! The low-down, mean, sneakin'--" said Randerson. His eyes were glowing; his words came with difficulty through his straightened lips.

"Masten wouldn't take it up, he told Pickett," went on Uncle Jepson.

"He'd put it up to you. An' when you'd tackle Pickett about it, Pickett would shoot you. If they was any chance for Chavis to help along, he'd do it. But mostly, Pickett was to do the job. I cal'late that's about all--except that I layed for you an' told you to look out."

"You heard this talk after--after Pickett had--"

"Of course," growled Uncle Jepson, a venomous flash in his eyes, slightly reproachful.

"Sure--of course," agreed Randerson. He was grim-eyed; there was cold contempt in the twist of his lips. He sat for a long time, silent, staring out through the door, Uncle Jepson watching him, subdued by the look in his eyes.

When he spoke at last, there was a cold, bitter humor in his voice.

"So that's Willard's measure!" he said. "He grades up like a side-winder slidin' under the sagebrush. There's nothin' clean about him but his clothes. But he's playin' a game--him an' Chavis. An' I'm the guy they're after!" He laughed, and Uncle Jepson s.h.i.+vered. "She's seen one killin', an' I reckon, if she stays here a while longer, she'll see another: Chavis'." He stopped and then went on: "Why, I reckon Chavis dyin'

wouldn't make no more impression on her than Pickett dyin'. But I reckon she thinks a heap of Willard, don't she, Uncle Jep?" "If a girl promises--" began Uncle Jepson.

"I reckon--" interrupted Randerson. And then he shut his lips and looked grimly out at the horses in the corral.

"Do you reckon she'd--" Randerson began again, after a short silence.

"No," he answered the question himself, "I reckon if you'd tell her she wouldn't believe you. No good woman will believe anything bad about the man she loves--or thinks she loves. But Willard--"

He got up, walked out the door, mounted Patches and rode away. Going to the door, Uncle Jepson watched him until he faded into the s.h.i.+mmering suns.h.i.+ne of the plains.

"I cal'late that Willard--"

But he, too, left his speech unfinished, as though thought had suddenly ceased, or speculation had become futile and ridiculous.