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Updated: May 21, 2025
And then, halting the pony, he turned in the saddle and looked back, his head bent in a listening attitude. To his ears came the sharp bark of a coyote, very near. It was answered, faintly, from the vast, yawning distance, by another. Catherson stiffened, and lines of remorse came into his face. "Hell!" he exclaimed gruffly. He wheeled the pony and sent it scampering back.
The dog Nig did not greet her this time; he was stretched out on his belly, his hind legs gathered under him, his forelegs stuck out in front, his long muzzle extending along them, while he watched in apparent anxiety the face of his master, Abe Catherson, who was sitting on the edge of the porch, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, in an attitude of deep dejection.
You see," he added triumphantly as he saw the start that she could not repress. "I've been nosin' around a little before I come in. I wasn't figgerin' on runnin' into Abe Catherson." He laughed thickly, as though some sort of passion surged over him. "So you're all alone here eh?" She grew weak at the significance of his words, and leaned against the window-sill for support.
She looked up, and this time met Randerson's gaze with more confidence, for his pretense of casualness had set her fears at rest. "Mr. Masten come over to see him, too." The lie came hesitatingly through her lips. She looked at Masten as though for confirmation, and the latter nodded. "Catherson is hard to catch," he said. "I've been over here a number of times, trying to see him."
And then he dismounted and helped Masten down, leading his pony forward toward the shack, but turning when he reached the porch, to look back at Masten and Hagar, standing together in the shade of the trees, the girl's head resting on the man's shoulder. Catherson pulled the saddle and bridle from the pony, turned him into the corral, and then went into the house.
He went off into a gale of frenzied laughter, at which the dog began to bark. Then Catherson's eyes glared cunningly. "But you've seen who's been comin' here; you know the man's name, ma'am; an' you're goin' to tell me, ain't you? So's I c'n talk to him eh?" "I don't know, Mr. Catherson."
That question his conscience dinned in his ears. It was answered many times, as he stood there an insistent affirmative, suggested, proven by Catherson's actions, supported by the fact that he had never seen Catherson in the basin before. As he watched, he saw Catherson again.
His voice was a note too high, and Randerson wondered whether, without the evidence of his eyes, he would have suspected Masten. He decided that he would, and his smile was a trifle grim. "I reckon Catherson is a regular dodger," he returned. "He's always gallivantin' around the country when somebody wants to see him." He smiled gently at Hagar, with perhaps just a little pity.
She examined the weapon. It was loaded, in excellent condition. She supposed it was left there for Hagar's protection. She restored it to its place and continued her inspection. She had grown more composed now, for she had had time to reflect. Catherson had not had much of a start; he would not ride so fast as Hagar; he did not know where, on the range, he might find Randerson.
But the pony clambered to its feet again and staggered on, to fall again a minute later. Catherson's pony, its strength conserved for this ordeal, came on steadily, its rider carefully avoiding the soft sand, profiting by Masten's experiences with it. It was not until he saw Catherson within fifty feet of him that Masten divined that he was not to be shot.
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