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Updated: June 20, 2025
He was not embarrassed enough, did not seem to feel his disgrace keenly enough. For though he twisted and squirmed under the threat in Randerson's voice, there was an odd smirk on his face that impressed her as nearly concealing a malignant cunning. And his voice sounded insincere to her there was even no flavor of shame in them: "I'm sorry I done what I did, ma'am."
It was Randerson's voice, and it made Ruth's heart feel heavy and cold within her, for in it was contempt, intolerance, rage suppressed she felt that the words had come through clenched teeth. "I reckon I'll be seein' Pickett, aunty." And then he patted Aunt Martha's shoulders and started for the back door. Ruth heard him open it; he must have been standing on the threshold when he spoke again.
There was a determination in his mind to acquaint the range boss with his suspicions concerning Dorgan's expression, and he got up, after a while, and took a turn around the campfire in the hope of attracting Randerson's attention. Randerson paid no attention to him. But through the corners of his eyes, as he passed Dorgan, Owen noted that the man flashed a quick, speculative glance at him.
Randerson's voice was low, almost gentle, and he smiled mildly at Hagar, who blushingly returned it but immediately looked downward. "I expect dad must be gone somewhere that you're lookin' for him," Randerson said. "I thought mebbe I'd ketch him here." "He went to Red Rock this mornin'," said the girl.
For he saw Willard Masten coming along the path, smiling and talking, and beside him, his arm around her waist, also smiling, but with her head bent forward a little, was Hagar Catherson. The color slowly left Randerson's face as he watched.
Several times she had observed meetings between him and Chavis and Pickett; invariably Chavis was sullen and disagreeable in his presence, and a number of times she had seen Pickett sneer when Randerson's back was turned. No one had told her of the open enmity that existed between Pickett and Randerson; the latter had not hinted of it.
For he felt his own strength waning, and he knew what the end would be, should he no longer be able to hold Randerson off. He went in now with a left jab, and instead of dancing back to avoid Randerson's counter, he covered with the left, swiftly drawn back from the jab, and hooked his right to Randerson's face. The blow landed heavily on Randerson's jaw, shaking him from head to foot.
But its glitter at his side was met by the roar and flame spurt of Randerson's heavy six, the thumb snap on the hammer telling of the lack of a trigger spring, the position of the weapon indicating that it had not been drawn from its holster.
The toe of Randerson's right boot struck Pickett's hand, driving it away from the holster; the hand was ground into the dust by Randerson's boot. And then, so quickly that she could not follow the movement, Randerson's gun was out, and Pickett lay still where he had fallen. Presently Ruth saw Pickett get up, still menaced by Randerson's gun.
But it had become known that Kelso had been a mere tool in the hands of an unscrupulous plotter, and until the plotter had been sent on the way that Kelso had gone there could be no end. Already there were whispers over the country because of Randerson's delay. Of course, they would wait a reasonable time; they would give him his "chance."
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