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Updated: May 25, 2025
"I'm waitin' for you to tell Masten that you don't want to manage him." "We won't talk about that, please," she said coldly. "Then we won't, ma'am." She sat looking at him, trying to be coldly critical, but not succeeding very well.
He mounted his pony and rode toward the Flying W ranchhouse. Halfway there he passed Masten. The moon had risen; by its light he could see the Easterner, who had halted his horse and was standing beside it, watching him. Randerson paid no heed to him. "Thinkin' it over, I reckon," he decided, as he rode on.
Seems as though his kind is more like Hagar!" He grinned cunningly and reached into a pocket, drawing out a paper. He chuckled over it, reading it. Then, as though she were certain to appreciate the joke, he held it out to her. "Read it, Ruth," he invited, "it's from Masten, askin' Hagar to meet him, tomorrow, down the crick a ways.
Paula, who knew every one by sight and assiduously read the society papers, volunteered much information while Isabel ordered the dinner; Stone had been detained half-way down the room by a party of friends. "That is Mrs. Masten," she whispered, with a respectful accent on the name and in the significant tone she always employed when addressing a person of social importance.
If he expected the action would produce other results, the rider gave no indication of it. Only the girl, watching him closely and seeing a hard gleam in his eyes, sensed that he was determined to achieve a double result, and she cried out to Masten. The warning came too late.
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.
When they reached a level space in some timber that fringed the river, Masten attempted to urge his horse through it, but was brought to a halt by Randerson's voice: "We'll get off here, Masten." Masten turned, his face red with wrath. "Look here, Randerson," he bellowed; "this ridiculous nonsense has gone far enough. I know, now, that you were spying on us.
She had no reply to make to this, but she was vaguely disturbed over the expression in Vickers' eyes; that look seemed to indicate that her own first impression of the two men, and Uncle Jepson's later condemnation of them, might be correct. However, they did not bother her, and she felt certain that Masten could care for himself.
Distant they were, but unmistakable. For a moment Masten listened to them, the cold damp breaking out on his forehead again. Then he cursed, drove the spurs deep into the pony and leaning forward, rode frantically away.
Her first emotion was one of sickening, maddening jealousy. It made her physically weak, and she trembled as she fought it down. But the sensation passed and, though she felt that her face was hot and flushed, the cold calm of righteous resentment was slowly seizing her. "Did Mr. Masten send you here to tell me this?" she asked icily. "Why, no. I did it on my own hook.
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