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Updated: June 20, 2025
And a voice came to her also Randerson's; she mentally repeated the words he had spoken on the day he had told her about the rustlers: "I reckon you'd fight like a tiger, ma'am, if the time ever come when you had to." Yes, she would fight. Not as a tiger would fight, but as Randerson himself had fought not with a lust to do murder, but in self-protection.
Apparently, in spite of Randerson's prediction, Vickers did not get drunk in town. Through him Ruth learned much about the Flying W. He gave her the fruit of his experience, and he had been with the Flying W as range boss for nearly five years. Vickers was forty.
Twice that day had riders clattered the narrow trail with remarkable speed, but Patches would have led them. He was going his best when within fifty feet of the shack he heard Randerson's voice and slowed down. Even then, so great was his impetus, he slid a dozen feet when he felt the reins, rose to keep from turning a somersault, and came down with a grunt.
She looked up, and this time met Randerson's gaze with more confidence, for his pretense of casualness had set her fears at rest. "Mr. Masten come over to see him, too." The lie came hesitatingly through her lips. She looked at Masten as though for confirmation, and the latter nodded. "Catherson is hard to catch," he said. "I've been over here a number of times, trying to see him."
There was a single rapid movement to his right hip, the twilight was split by a red streak, by another that followed it so closely as to seem to make the two continuous. Pickett's hand dropped oddly from the half-drawn weapon, his knees sagged, he sighed and pitched heavily forward, face down, at Randerson's feet.
Randerson seemed to be speaking, to Pickett; the latter had faced him. Then, as she breathlessly watched, she saw Pickett reach for his gun. Randerson leaped. Pickett's gun did not come out, Randerson's hand had closed on Pickett's wrist. There was a brief, fierce struggle, blows were struck, and then the men sprang apart.
Inside the bunkhouse, Uncle Jepson, who had been speaking, paused long enough to wrinkle his nose at Masten. Randerson's expression did not change; it was one of grave expectancy. "You was sayin' " he prompted, looking at Uncle Jepson. "That the whole darned deal was a frame-up," declared Uncle Jepson.
There was one other thing that Ruth did not know the rage that dwelt in Randerson's heart against Chavis and Kester. He had shown no indication of it when she had related to him the story of her adventure with the men, nor did he mention it to any of his associates.
He could even hear the intonations of the voice that had uttered them: "This country is too crowded for both of us." Masten was beginning to believe that. He had thought that very morning, of leaving, of escaping, rather. But Chavis had reassured him, had ridiculed him, in fact. "Randerson's four-flushin'," Chavis had laughed. "He's took a shine to Ruth, an' he's aimin' to scare you out.
She saw them all, the cowboys at a respectable distance, Pickett and Randerson in front, with Masten and Chavis far behind, come to a halt. She divined she believed she had suspected all along what the march to the ranchhouse meant, but still she did not move, for she feared she could not stand. Ruth was roused, however, by Randerson's voice. It reached her, sharp, cold, commanding.
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