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Updated: June 20, 2025
For the dreaded guns were out of Randerson's reach, he was a fair match for Randerson in weight, though Randerson towered inches above him; he had had considerable experience in boxing at his club in the East, and he had longed for an opportunity to avenge himself for the indignity that had been offered him at Calamity.
"I reckon shootin' would be too good for you." Again Randerson's face had taken on that peculiar stony expression. Inexorable purpose was written on it; what he was to do he was in no hurry to be about, but it would be done in good time. "I ain't never claimed to be no angel," he said. "I reckon I'm about the average, an' I've fell before temptation same as other men.
If Ruth had any secret dread over the inevitable meeting between Masten and the new range boss, it must have been dispelled by Randerson's manner, for he was perfectly polite to Masten, and by no word or sign did he indicate that he remembered the incident of Calamity. Ruth watched him covertly during the meal, and was delighted to find his conduct faultless.
For an instant there was no movement in the vast realm of space except the terrific thunder of Patches' hoofs as they spurned the hard alkali level over which he was running; the squeaking protests of the saddle leather, and Randerson's low voice as he coaxed the pony to greater speed.
And when they saw him they stiffened and stood rigid, with not a finger moving, for they had seen men, before, meditating violence, and they saw the signs in Randerson's chilled and narrowed eyes, and in the grim set of his lips. His lips moved; his teeth hardly parted to allow the words to come through them. They writhed through: "Where's Masten?"
Yes, that was it, Owen saw now; the recollection of his defeat at Randerson's hands still rankled in the gunman's mind. Owen saw him glance covertly at Randerson, observed his lips curl. One of the other men saw the glance also. Not having the knowledge possessed by Owen, the man guffawed loudly, indicating the gunman.
There had been words, and then Kelso had essayed to draw his pistol. There was a scuffle, a shot, and Kelso had been led away with a broken arm, broken by Randerson's bullet blaspheming, and shouting threats at Randerson. And now, after years of waiting, Kelso had come to carry out his threats. It was all plain to Owen, now.
And then again she heard Randerson's voice. It was low, but so burdened with passion that it seemed to vibrate in the perfect silence. There was a threat of death in it: "You can tell Miss Ruth that you're never goin' to play the skunk with a woman ag'in!" Pickett writhed. But it seemed to Ruth, as her gaze shifted from Randerson to him, that Pickett's manner was not what it should be.
While they sat the darkness came on, the kerosene lamp inside was lighted, delicious odors floated out to them through the screen door. Presently a horseman rode to the corral fence and dismounted. "One of the boys, I reckon," said Randerson. Uncle Jepson chuckled. "It's Willard," he said. He peered into Randerson's face for some signs of emotion. There were none.
But there was no thought of the dramatic in Randerson's mind as he stood there nothing but cold hatred and determination nothing except a bitter wish that the man on the pony would reach for his gun and thus make his task easier for him. The hoped-for movement did not come, and Randerson spoke shortly: "Get off your cayuse!" Masten obeyed silently, his knees shaking under him.
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