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On his way to join Aunt Martha, Uncle Jepson, who had watched the rider narrowly during his talk with Willard, found time to whisper: "I had a mule once that wasn't any stubborner than Willard Masten." "You don't recollect how you cured him of it?" "Yes sir, I do. I thumped it out of him!" And Uncle Jepson's eyes glowed vindictively.
The muzzle wavered, describing wide circles, and before he could steady it enough to be reasonably certain of hitting the target, Catherson had vanished behind a low hill. Masten wiped the cold moisture from his forehead. For an instant he stood irresolute, trembling. And then, panic-stricken over a picture that his imagination drew for him, he dropped the rifle and ran, crouching, to the corral.
"Mebbe he would," said Aunt Martha in a slightly cold voice, "but he would know that Ruth was engaged to a man!" There was a silence. And again came Aunt Martha's voice: "There was a time when men thought it an honor to fight for their women. But it seems that times have changed mightily." "This is an age of reason, and not muscle and murder," replied Masten.
"I reckon you're Ruth Harkness the ol' man's niece?" he said. "Yes," returned the girl, smiling. Perhaps she had misjudged these men. "Well," said the man, looking at her with a bold glance that made her pulse skip a beat, "you're a stunner for looks, anyway." He reached out his hand. She took it, feeling that it was the proper thing to do, although with the action she heard a grumble from Masten.
"You see, he was right in the way, an' I reckon I was feelin' a bit wild right at that minute, an' " His gaze went to Masten, who was scraping mud from his garments with a small flat stone. The rider's eyes grew wide; more wrinkles appeared around them. "Why, I've spoiled his white shirt," he said as though speaking to himself, his voice freighted with awe.
"I reckon you'll take up with Masten again," she said, trying to control her voice. Ruth looked intently at her, but she did not notice the girl's emotion through her interest in her words. "What do you mean by 'again'?" "I heard that you'd broke your engagement." "Who told you that?" Ruth's voice was sharp, for she thought Randerson perhaps had been talking.
There was a leap in Catherson's voice: "You're almost a man, after all!" he said. They got on the pony after a while, riding as before, Masten in front, Catherson behind him, steadying him. And in this manner they rode on toward Catherson's shack, miles down the river. It was late in the morning when they came in sight of the shack, and seeing them from afar Hagar ran to them.
He had hoped that she might answer lightly, and then he would have known that she would forgive him, in time. But her chin went up and she looked coldly at him. "You will be able to leave the Flying W shortly, Randerson," she said. "I am going to leave such matters for Mr. Masten to look after." She urged her pony away and left him, staring somberly after her.
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.
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.
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