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Updated: June 14, 2025
For at that distance he made a fair target, and Catherson made no movement toward his gun. The nester was still silent; he had spoken no word. He spoke none now, as he hung relentlessly to his prey, seeming, to Masten's distorted mind and vision, a hideous, unnatural and ghastly figure of death. Catherson had drawn nearer. He was not more than thirty feet away when Masten's pony went down again.
Two hours later he was riding down the declivity toward Chavis' shack, in the basin. He had ridden first to the outfit, and had talked with Owen. And his appearance had been such that when he left the foreman the latter sought out Blair. "If I don't miss my reckonin', Masten's goin' to get his'n today." Randerson rode, straight as Patches could carry him, to the door of Chavis' shack.
He paid no attention to Masten's blows, not even attempting to fend them off, but bored in, swinging viciously. His blows were landing now; they left deadened flesh and paralyzed muscles as marks of their force. Masten began to give way. Half a dozen times he broke ground, or slipped to one side or the other. It was unavailing.
Masten looked quickly at Vickers, and as quickly looked away, his face slowly reddening. "He's foreman now, isn't he?" he said. "It seems that Harkness trusted him that much." "There's a first time for every man to go wrong, Mister," said Vickers. Masten's voice was almost a sneer. "Why don't you tell Chavis that?" "I've told him, Mister to his face." Vickers' own face was growing dark with wrath.
He did not speak; he made no sound beyond a quick gasp as his surprised lungs sought air, and he was incapable of action. Randerson, though, did not make a hostile movement and did not present a foreboding figure. His arms were folded over his chest, and if it had not been for Masten's recollection of those grim words, "I'll go gunnin' for you," Masten would have felt reasonably secure.
And again Uncle Jepson had trouble with his pipe. Aunt Martha worked her knitting needles a little faster. Masten's face paled, and the hand that held the cigar quickly clenched, so that smoking embers fell to the porch floor. Whatever his feelings, however, he retained his self-control. "Of course, it is your affair, Ruth," he said. "I beg your pardon for offering the suggestion."
A little later, riding back toward the Flying W when they had reached the timber-fringed level where, on another day, Masten had received his thrashing, Ruth halted her pony and faced her escort. "Randerson," she said, "today Uncle Jepson told me some things that I never knew about Masten's plots against you. I don't blame you for killing those men.
"Have you visited your neighbor yet, Ruth?" Masten inquired at last. "Neighbor!" Ruth showed astonishment by letting her book close and losing her place. "Why, I didn't know we had a neighbor nearer than the Diamond H!" Masten's lips curled. Her reference to the Diamond H recalled unpleasant memories. "A nester," he said, and then added after a pause "and his daughter.
There was exultation in his voice when he spoke, and he reached over Ruth to grasp Masten's hand. "An' so this is Willard, a very dear friend of yourn, eh? Well, now, I'm sure glad, an' I reckon him an' me will get on." He urged Pickett forward and introduced him, and Pickett gave Masten one quick, appraising glance. Then he, too, grinned. Ruth was gratified.
Three pairs of lungs sighed audibly in process of deflation. It was Chavis who answered; the other two looked at him when the question came, silently. Chavis would have lied, but the light in Randerson's eyes warned him not to trifle, and the truth came from his lips: "Masten's gone to the Flyin' W ranchhouse." "I reckon that's all," said Randerson shortly. "I'm thankin' you."
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