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Updated: May 18, 2025
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.
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.
But what had become of the dogie? What would have been Leviatt's duty, after the departure of the rustlers? Obviously to drive the calf to the herd and report the occurrence to the manager. Leviatt may have driven the calf to the herd, but assuredly he had not reported the occurrence to the manager, for he had not been in to the ranchhouse. Why not?
"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.
He had been talking to a man named Tucson and it was to the latter that he had now spoken. "There's a heap of rattlers in this country," he had said. Evidently the statement was irrelevant, for Tucson's glance at Leviatt's face was uncomprehending. But Leviatt did not wait for an answer. "A man might easily claim to have been bit by one of them," he continued, his voice falling coldly.
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