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Updated: June 14, 2025
It is a great event in your life, dear, and once it is done, it can't be undone. Don't be hasty." "It can never be Randerson," Ruth said firmly not, however, as firmly as she had intended. "Randerson is a murderer a reckless taker of human life!" "He had to shoot, they say," defended Aunt Martha. "I don't believe he would harm a living thing except in defense of his own life.
It had fitted perfectly. Thereafter she had yielded to another period of thoughtfulness longer this time. A decision had resulted from those periods, for the day before, when a puncher had come in from the outfit, on an errand, she had told him to send Randerson in to the ranchhouse to her, on the following day. And she was expecting him 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.
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."
"Oh, I'm afraid he'll do somethin' terrible!" she faltered. "Before you came, he asked me if if it had been Randerson. I told him no, but he didn't seem satisfied, an' when I wouldn't tell him who it was, he went out, cursin' Rex. I'm afraid, Ruth I'm afraid!" She glanced wildly around, and her gaze rested on the piece of paper that Catherson had left on the edge of the porch.
His excuses had been accepted by Ruth, for she was in the mood to restore him to that spot in her heart that Randerson had come very near to occupy. She listened to him calmly, and agreed, without conscious emotion, to his proposal that they ride, on the Monday following, to Lazette, to marry.
Randerson met her puzzled look at him with a grave smile. "It was me, ma'am, killed him." She drew a sharp breath, her cheeks suddenly flooded with color; she shook Hagar's arm from around her waist, seized Randerson's shoulders, gripping the sleeves of his shirt hard and staring at him, searching his eyes with eager, anxious intensity. "Don't lie to me, Randerson," she pleaded.
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.
But he held her tightly to him, her head on his shoulder, so that she might not see the guilt in his eyes. Randerson continued his policy of not forcing himself upon Ruth. He went his way, silent, thoughtful, attending strictly to business.
Nor did Ruth know that on the day she had discovered the neckerchief dangling from the knot, Aunt Martha had spoken again to Uncle Jep concerning it. "Jep Coakley," she said earnestly; "you like your joke, as well as any man. But if I ever hear of you mentioning anything to Randerson about that bandanna, I'll tweak your nose as sure as you're alive!"
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