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Updated: June 20, 2025
He intended to make this one trip, present to Ruth his excuses for staying away, and then go back to Chavis' shack, there to remain out of Randerson's sight, until he could devise another plan that, he hoped, would put an end to the cowpuncher who was forever tormenting him.
But that violence, open, deadly, was imminent, foreshadowed by Dorgan's word, every man knew, and all sat tense and pale, awaiting Randerson's reply. They knew, these men, that it was not Randerson's way to force trouble that he would avoid it if he could do so without dishonor. But could he avoid it now?
A great many of his blows had reached their mark also. Randerson's face was covered with livid lumps and welts. But he seemed not to mind them, to be unconscious of them, for on his lips was still the dogged smile that had reached them soon after the fight had started, and in his eyes was the same look of cold deliberation and unrelenting purpose.
Two or three hours later, in a little basin near the plateau where Ruth had overheard the men talking, Chavis and Kester were watching the crooked smile; their own faces as pale as Randerson's, their breath swelling their lungs as the threat of impending violence assailed them; their muscles rippling and cringing in momentary expectation of the rapid movement they expected and dreaded; their hearts laboring and pounding.
Ruth had confirmed the news through questioning several Flying W men, and, because of their reluctance to answer her inquiries, their expressionless faces, she gathered that the shooting had not met with their approval. She did not consider that they had given her no details, that they spoke no word of blame or praise. She got nothing but the bare fact that Randerson's gun had again wrought havoc.
A ripple of scornful laughter greeted Randerson's reply, and with a sneering glance around, Owen again sought his blanket. The reception that had been accorded his effort had made him appear ridiculous, he knew. It would be days before the outfit would cease referring to it. He stretched himself out on the blanket, but after a few moments of reflection, he sat up, doggedly.
"Did you notice Randerson's face, the night he come to hunt you, when you hurt your ankle? Marked up, kind of, it was, wasn't it? An' do you know what Masten went to Las Vegas for? Business, shucks! He went there to get his face nursed up, Ruth because Randerson had smashed it for him! They'd had a fight; I saw them, both comin' from the same direction, that night.
Masten cleared his throat and looked intently at Randerson's imperturbable face. Did he know anything? A vague unrest seized Masten. Involuntarily he shivered, and his voice was a little hoarse when he spoke, though he attempted to affect carelessness: "I don't think I will wait for Catherson," he said, "I can see him tomorrow, just as well." "Well, that's too bad," drawled Randerson.
His gaze met Randerson's, his shoulders sagged a little, his eyes wavered and shifted from the steady ones that watched him. His composure returned quickly, however, and he smiled blandly, but there was a trace of derision in his voice: "You've strayed off your range, haven't you, Randerson?" he said smoothly. "Why, I reckon I have."
I ain't passin' around no more warnin's, an' you two is talkin' mighty sudden or the mourners will be yowlin'. What's the verdict?" Chavis sighed. "We wasn't meanin' no harm," he apologized, some color coming into his face again. "An' you?" Randerson's level look confused Kester. "I ain't travelin' that trail no more," he promised, his eyes shifting.
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