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Updated: May 21, 2025
"You're right, Catherson," he added, his voice quavering; "I learned a lot tonight. I've learned " His voice broke, and he sat there grim and white, shuddering as a child shudders when awakened from a nightmare. He almost collapsed when Catherson's huge hands fell to his shoulders, but the hands held him, the fingers gripping deeply into the flesh.
With frenzied haste, urged by the horrible conviction that had seized him, he threw saddle and bridle on his pony, and clambered, mumbling incoherently, into the saddle. Twice the reins escaped his wild clutches, but finally he caught them and sat erect looking fearfully for Catherson. The nester was not visible to him. Gulping hard, Masten sent the pony cautiously forward.
And then he grinned felinely at Randerson and went out. They could hear him going down the stairs. They followed presently, Hagar shrinking and shuddering under Randerson's arm on her shoulders, and from the porch they saw Catherson, on his pony, riding the trail that Ruth had taken on the day she had gone to see Chavis' shack.
"Right on your way back to the Flyin' W," said Randerson, as though the discovery pleased him. "I'm goin' to the Flyin' W, too, soon as I see Catherson. I reckon, if you two ain't got no particular yearnin' to go prowlin' around in the timber any longer, we'll all go back to Catherson's shack an' wait for him there. Three'll be company, while it'd be mighty lonesome for one."
And then he showed her another side of his character his respect for public opinion. "But I ain't stingy, ma'am. I reckon I've proved it. There's a difference between bein' careful an' stingy." "How did you prove it?" He grinned at her. "Why, I ain't mentionin'," he said gently. But she had heard of his generosity from several of the men, and from Hagar Catherson.
Uncle Jepson had one quick glimpse of her eyes as she turned from him, and he knew there would be no Monday for Willard Masten. Ruth had no feelings as she rode. The news had stunned her. She had only one thought to see Hagar Catherson, to confirm or disprove Uncle Jepson's story. She could not have told whether the sun was shining, or whether it was afternoon or morning.
He could not have reached the break in the canyon leading to the plains above the river, when Willard Masten loped his horse toward the Catherson cabin from an opposite direction. Hagar was standing on the porch when he came, and her face flooded with color when she saw him. She stood, her eyes drooping with shy embarrassment as Masten dismounted and approached her.
For looking back fearfully, he saw Catherson bestriding his pony, a dread apparition, big, rigid, grim, just breaking through the timber edge, not more than two or three hundred feet distant. Masten had hoped he had distanced his pursuer, for he had ridden at least five miles at a pace that he had never before attempted.
There, in the shallow water of the ford, Masten washed from his body the signs of his experience, Catherson helping him. Outwardly, when they had finished, there were few marks on Masten. But inwardly his experience had left an ineffaceable impression. After washing, he staggered to a rock and sat on it, his head in his hands, shivers running over him.
Masten cleared his throat and looked intently at Randerson's imperturbable face. Did he know anything? A vague unrest seized Masten. Involuntarily he shivered, and his voice was a little hoarse when he spoke, though he attempted to affect carelessness: "I don't think I will wait for Catherson," he said, "I can see him tomorrow, just as well." "Well, that's too bad," drawled Randerson.
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