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Updated: June 25, 2025
I cal'late, if you was to ask her, she'd be able to tell you a heap more about Masten, Ruth." Ruth got up, pale and terribly calm, disengaging herself from Aunt Martha and standing before Uncle Jepson. He too got to his feet. Ruth's voice quavered. "You wouldn't, oh, you couldn't lie to me, Uncle, because you like Rex Randerson? Is it true?"
Wonderingly, she sank into a chair near him. "You're sure thinkin' of marryin' Masten, girl?" he said. "Yes," she declared firmly. "Well, then I've got to tell you," said Uncle Jepson decisively. "I've been puttin' it off, hopin' that you'd get shet of that imp of Satan, an' I wouldn't have to say anything." "Uncle Jep!" she protested indignantly.
Masten noticed it, for he looked narrowly at her and, though he said nothing, there was that in his eyes which told he had divined what was in her mind. It was not Randerson, however, but Vickers, who was coming.
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.
"It's bound to come," he commented. "Let's finish our game; it is your deal." On the mesa, Randerson urged Patches along the edge, over the trail that Ruth had taken when, months before, she had come upon Chavis and Kester at the declivity. "Nothin' would have happened, if it hadn't been for Masten," he told himself as he rode away.
She did not open her lips until Uncle Jepson had concluded, and then she murmured a low "Oh!" and sat rigid, gripping the arms of her chair. "An' that ain't all, it ain't half of it!" pursued Uncle Jepson vindictively. "Do you know that Masten set that Watt Kelso, the gunfighter, on Randerson?" He looked at Ruth, saw her start and draw a long breath, and he grinned triumphantly.
It staggered Masten, sent him back several feet, and his legs shook under him, sagging limply. His lips, where the blow had landed, were smashed, gaping hideously, red-stained. Randerson was after him relentlessly. Masten dared not clinch, for no rules of boxing governed this fight, and he knew that if he accepted rough and tumble tactics he would be beaten quickly.
Her hands had been clasped in front of her; they dropped to her sides when she saw Randerson, and her fingers began to twist nervously into the edges of her apron. A deep breath, which was almost a sigh of relief, escaped her. "I thought it was Dad!" she said. Evidently Masten had likewise expected the horseman to be her father, for at her exclamation he turned swiftly.
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.
"After waitin' this long, too! But I reckon you're right; it wouldn't be no use waitin'. I'll go too, I reckon. We'll ride to the Flyin' W together." "I don't want to force my company on you, Randerson," laughed Masten nervously. "Besides, I had thought of taking the river trail back toward Lazette, you know." Randerson looked at him with a cold smile.
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