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Updated: June 14, 2025
The lean face of the rider was close to his own, the rider's eyes were steady, blue, and so cold that they made Masten forget the chill in the air. And one of the heavy pistols that the rider carried was close to Masten's head, its big muzzle gaping forebodingly at him, and the rider's voice, as he leaned from the saddle, came tense and low.
You come across, clean you hear me! You shape up to man's size or I'll hunt you up an' tear the gizzard out of you! You jam that there cap-shooter back where it belongs or I'll take it away from you an' make you eat it! You hear me!" The pistol went back; Masten's face was ashen beneath the mud on it. "Now grin, you sufferin' shorthorn!" came the rider's voice again, low as before.
He swung his chair around and faced her, and forgetting his pipe in his excitement, he told her the story he had told Randerson: how he had gone into the messhouse on the day of the killing of Pickett, for a rest and a smoke, and how, while in there he had overheard Chavis and Pickett plotting against Randerson, planning Pickett's attack on her, mentioning Masten's connection with the scheme.
No longer was she afraid of him; she was resolute, unflinching. But Chavis merely smiled seemingly in huge enjoyment. And then, while he looked at her, his expression changed to wonder. "Holy smoke!" he said. "Where's Masten's eyes? He said you didn't have any spirit, Ruth, that you was too cold an' distant. I reckon Masten don't know how to size up a girl a girl, that is, which is thoroughbred.
She stopped when she saw Masten, her eyes wide with wonder and astonishment that changed quickly to joy as she saw a smile gathering on Catherson's face. "I've brought you your husband, Hagar," he told her. Hagar did not move. Her hands were pressing her breast; her eyes were eloquent with doubt and hope. They sought Masten's, searchingly, defiantly.
Has ol' Catherson tumbled to Masten bein' thick with Hagar?" "I don't know," she said, flushing. "It is no affair of mine!" "It ain't eh?" he said with a laugh, low and derisive. "You don't care what Masten does-eh? An' you're goin' to marry him, Monday. Masten's lucky," he went on, giving her a look that made her shudder; "he's got two girls.
"I'd clean forgot him," said Randerson. Masten came in a few minutes later. He spoke a few words to Uncle Jepson, but ignored Randerson. Supper was announced soon after Masten's entrance, and Uncle Jepson led Randerson around to the rear porch, where he introduced him to a tin washbasin and a roller towel. Uncle Jepson also partook of this luxury, and then led the new range boss inside.
Masten's science had served him well. He had been able, so far, to evade many of Randerson's heavy blows, but some of them had landed. They had hurt, too, and had taken some of the vigor out of their target, though Masten was still elusive as he circled, with feet that dragged a little, feinting and probing for openings through which he might drive his fists.
He was not using the incident of a few nights before to establish familiarity between them; his voice was low, deferential. But Willard Masten's voice had never made her feel quite as she felt at this moment. "Yes, I sent for you," she said, smiling calmly trying to seem the employer but getting something into her voice which would not properly belong there under those circumstances.
A little later he was kneeling at Masten's side, and still later he helped Masten to the saddle in front of him and set out again into the desert blackness toward the timber from which they both had burst some time before. Many hours afterward they came to the river, at the point where the Lazette trail intersected.
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