The Adventures of Drag Harlan, Beau Rand & Square Deal Sanderson - The Great Heroes of Wild West E-Book
Charles Alden Seltzer
Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
In Charles Alden Seltzer's classic Western novel, 'The Adventures of Drag Harlan, Beau Rand & Square Deal Sanderson - The Great Heroes of Wild West,' the reader is transported to the rugged and lawless landscapes of the Wild West. Through a series of interconnected stories, Seltzer masterfully weaves together the tales of three iconic heroes as they navigate the challenges of frontier life, facing outlaws, cattle rustlers, and the harsh realities of survival. Seltzer's vivid descriptions and authentic dialogue bring this era to life, immersing the reader in a world of danger and excitement. With its fast-paced narrative and thrilling adventures, this book is a must-read for fans of Western literature and those interested in the folklore of the American frontier. Charles Alden Seltzer, a prolific writer of Western fiction, drew inspiration from his own experiences living in the West, as well as his deep admiration for the history and culture of the region. His intimate knowledge of the land and its people shines through in 'The Adventures of Drag Harlan, Beau Rand & Square Deal Sanderson,' offering readers a compelling glimpse into the spirit of the American West. I highly recommend this book to anyone looking for a captivating and authentic portrayal of the Wild West, told by one of the genre's most esteemed authors.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 1002
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
The Adventures of Drag Harlan, Beau Rand & Square Deal Sanderson - The Great Heroes of Wild West
Published by
Books
Table of Contents
“Beau” Rand
Chapter I. A Man Spreads Poison
STANDING, though resting one shoulder against a door-jamb of the bunkhouse, Amos Seddon watched his daughter. The shoulder that rested against the door-jamb was slightly drooped, the left arm hanging limply: the thumb of the right hand was hooked in the cartridge belt that encircled Seddon's waist. That hand, too, was limp, and there was a glum pout on the man's lips.
His thoughts were not pleasant, for they ran to Beaudry Rand, his neighbor, with a virulent savagery that made him ache to use the gun, whose stock lay so near to his limp fingers. Some day, he told himself, he would use the gun on Beaudry Rand.
It was not that Rand had done anything to him, particularly; he hated Rand for the things that Rand had not done. That paradox was vague and mysterious to those who did not know; but the torture of it was that Seddon feared some persons — besides Rand — did know. And there was not a time when Seddon rode into Ocate that he did not seem to feel there were many of the town's citizens who were secretly laughing at him. And he suspected that those citizens in possession of the secret were wondering why he did not take the boy from Rand.
To be sure, he had kept his affair with the dance-hall girl a secret — so far as any affair of that character may be kept a secret — and he knew he should not have deserted the girl when he did. But the dread and fear of discovery had seized him, and he had taken the stage to Lazette, and from Lazette he had been whisked westward to San Francisco by rail, where he had spent two weeks trying to convince himself that the girl alone was to blame.
On his return to Ocate he found that the girl had died and that the boy had been adopted by Beaudry Rand.
For a while after returning to Ocate Seddon had wondered if the girl had talked. But if she had talked, the citizens of the town were not eager to disseminate the burden of her last words; and as the days passed Seddon began to believe the girl had said nothing. And then one day, meeting Beaudry Rand on the river trail, Seddon discovered that the girl had talked — to Rand.
For Rand's words and manner had been most convincing. The picture Rand made that day was still vivid in Seddon's mind; even now the reviewing of the scene bloated Seddon's face poisonously.
"Seddon, I want a straight talk with you!" had been Rand's greeting. The mirthless smile on the man's lips, and the glittering contempt in his eyes warned Seddon that the other knew of his guilt.
Seddon's bluster had no effect. "She's a liar if she's mixed me up in that deal!" he sneered. "Why, hell's fire! If a man was to be blamed —"
Rand's smile grew saturnine.
"Not that it makes any difference," he interrupted. "I just want you to know — that I know. An' I want you to know this! I'm takin' the boy—understand? He's mine because I adopted him — no one else wantin' to take the responsibility. He ain't to blame because he's here; an' I'm goin' to keep him from knowin' that his daddy is a sneak an' a coyote! I reckon that's all. You can travel when you're ready!"
But that conversation did not end the incident — for Seddon. For so long as Beaudry Rand was alive — if Rand was the only person the dance-hall girl had taken into her confidence — just so long would Seddon be in danger of discovery. For Rand, despite his declared intention of keeping the incident a secret, might talk.
And, though Seddon's wife had died some years before and he had no concern for public opinion in Ocate, he did not want his daughter to know — the girl he was now watching — who stood in the knee-high sagebrush that swept away from the front of the ranchhouse; her tall, lissom figure clear-cut in the white light of the morning, its gracefully rounded lines revealed by the pressure of the slight breeze that whipped her skirts; her hair in a tangle of ravishing disorder; her cheeks suffused with the bloom of health; her eyes drinking in the beauty of the vast, green world that stretched from her feet across the interminable miles to a raggedly picturesque horizon.
His daughter!
Seddon did not want her to know. This was the beginning of her fourth day at home—at the Bar S — which she had not seen in as many years — and during those four days Seddon had delicately and subtly probed her character—to discover traits that had both pleased and awed him.
First, he had found a sturdy, uncompromising moral structure with no flexibility toward error. He knew she had inherited that attitude from her mother. And he had found her with an astonishingly clear vision of life and a conception of the meaning of life that had rather startled him, so greatly was it at variance with his own ideas.
"I know, Daddy," she had said when he had attempted to impart some of the wisdom of his experience to her, "if a person has clean thoughts there will be little danger of error."
Seddon had not gone very far in that direction; the girl's clear eyes and straight gaze disconcerted him — made him think of the dance-hall girl and the boy — his boy!
After that conversation with his daughter, Seddon became convinced that if she should learn of his escapade with the dance-hall girl she could never give him that' affection and respect for which he yearned.
And this morning as he stood watching the girl, he considered Beaudry Rand and the paradox. The things Rand had not done were glaringly apparent. Rand had not treated him fairly. Rand had no business to interfere, for it was not Rand's affair. And even if Rand had interfered he should have consulted Seddon before he had done anything. No matter what he had done, the boy was his, and he should have had a word to say about his future.
Rand had not consulted him; Rand had neglected to consider him at all. And Rand would hold the threat of exposure over him, he knew; and if Rand should meet his daughter, and become acquainted with her; if a contrary fate should throw them together upon terms of intimacy — Seddon's brain rioted with passion, and his thoughts became abysmal.
That could happen. A man and a girl — neighbors!
But it must not happen. Seddon paled as he left the bunkhouse door and walked to where his daughter stood.
He stood for a time behind her, looking at her, watching her in silence as, unconscious of his presence, she looked far out over the rolling sweep of country at the dim and ragged horizon.
"Ellie!" he said softly.
The girl turned, and flashed a smile at him.
"It's great to be home, Daddy!" Elation and a sheer joy of living were in her eyes, in her swelling breast, and in the glow of her cheeks as she stood erect, with head thrown back, her body rigid, inhaling the sage-scented breeze.
"You like it, eh?" he said with a smile, though with no enthusiasm.
"Like it? I love it! I feel that I have been cheated out of four years of my life!"
"No one cheats himself by goin' to school. It's made a woman of you, Ellie."
"I feel older, Daddy," she laughed. And then she laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "Do you think I am a woman now?"
"Certain."
"And 'Ellie,'" she smiled deprecatingly, "is a girl's e — the name of a young — a very young — girl. And nickname—" She paused and met Seddon's gaze.
"Eleanor," surrendered Seddon. "I reckon I'll have to get used to it." He grinned at her. "This is different — after Denver?" he suggested.
"Different? Oh, yes. But it hasn't changed, Daddy!" She gripped his shoulder hard and wheeled him around so that he faced the river trail. Both could see it, winding around low hills, up rises, disappearing into depressions, reappearing again, narrowing as it receded, and finally vanishing altogether into the haze of distance.
"It's miles to that point — where you can't see the trail any more," she said. "How many miles? I have forgotten."
"Twelve." His face hardened, for the trail ran through Beaudry Rand's ranch, the Three Bar.
"Oh, yes!" Her eyes glowed. "I always loved that trail! That big wide stretch there"—indicating a broad, black expanse of timberland that seemed to swallow the trail near the point about which they had been talking— "is the wood you always warned me against, isn't it? Where you said the timber wolves prowled? Are there really wolves in there, or did you just tell me that to keep me from going there — when you wanted me to stay at home?"
"There's wolves in there all right," he said. "There always was. I've lost a good many calves there." His eyes became savage, his face reddened with passion. "There's worse than wolves around there now," he said gruffly; "there's Beau Rand!"
"'Beau' Rand?" she said, looking sharply at him, and noting the passion in his eyes. "Is that the name of a man or — or a monster?"
"He claims to be a man, I reckon." Seddon's glance toward the timber was baleful. "He owns the Three Bar now — Halsey sold out to him four years ago. Just after your mother died — an' just before you left to go to school at Denver."
"Beau Rand!" The girl repeated the name, her brows furrowing thoughtfully. "Yes, it must have been — but I don't seem to remember. But what an odd name! Beau!" A twinkle of amusement was in her eyes as she looked at her father; and her lips curved with mockery.
"Beau!" she repeated. "Why, that name suggests a man who is popular with women, doesn't it? A fop; a fashion-plate male; a Beau Brummel who wears spats and a high hat, displays enormous expanses of linen; wears lace cuffs and a wig, and is saturated with perfume. A beau, Father! Oh, it can't be that the Three Bar has descended to that!"
"The Three Bar has descended — if that's the way to say it," declared Seddon, with a malignant grin. It pleased him to discover that Eleanor was already prejudiced against Rand — her attitude would make the task of poisoning her against the man much easier.
"Eleanor," he continued, "the Three Bar ain't what it used to be. Not since this man, Rand, bought it. An' the country ain't what it used to be — so far as that goes. There never was no trouble — you know that. Me an' Halsey an' Link Compton always got along. But lately things is different. The river's taken to goin' dry in the middle of the season. For the last three years there's never been water enough. Last year she was plumb dry durin' the whole summer. The Two Link—that's Link Compton's ranch — an' the Bar S suffered a heap. There wasn't any water except in that big natural basin in the river just opposite the Three Bar ranchhouse. There's always plenty there, for that's a deep basin, an' it gets the last trickle of water that runs down the upper gorge."
"And this Beau—this Rand — wouldn't permit you and Compton to water your stock there?" The girl's eyes flashed with indignation.
"As for that," admitted Seddon, grudgingly, "Rand let us water our stock there. But he was mighty sullen about it." He told the lie so glibly that the girl, watching him closely, had no doubt of the truth of the statement.
"But that ain't neither here nor there," went on Seddon. "Rand don't raise near the number of cattle we raise; an' me an' Compton offered to buy him out at a figure that would have paid him. He grinned like a hyena an' told us he'd sell out when he got damn good an' ready. Them's his very words."
"Well," said the girl hesitatingly, "I don't know that you could blame him for not selling. But he shouldn't have been so stingy about the water. He must be a grouch!"
"He's worse," said Seddon eagerly. He saw that he had not made a strong case against Rand. "He's worse. Rand hadn't been at the Three Bar very long when someone took to robbin' the stage. An' about that time cattle thieves began to rustle stock around there. Cattle an' horses. There's been hell to pay! The worst of it is nobody can get a line on who's doin' it. Compton an' some more of the ranchers has organized a vigilance committee, which is nosin' around quite considerable. But that ain't helped none — the stealin' of cattle an' horses, an' the robbin' of the stage is still goin' on."
"Compton suspects Rand?" asked the girl.
"Who else is there to suspect!" demanded Seddon. "Stealin' didn't start until Rand bought the Three Bar an' brought a lot of low-down guys there to work for him. They're a hell-raisin' bunch, Eleanor; an' if I was you I'd steer clear of Rand — an' I'd stay away from that timber. For there's worse than wolves prowlin' around there!"
Seddon had aroused the girl's interest; and he could plainly see that she believed him, for her eyes were glowing with indignation and resentment—and there was a flush on her cheeks and a glint in her eyes which told Seddon that the spirit of resistance to Rand's supposed outlawry was strong within her.
"If they can prove that he is doing those things they should run him out of the country!" she said.
Seddon grinned coldly. "There'll be worse happen to him when they prove up on him!" he declared.
The girl relaxed, and a little shiver ran over her. Tales of violence in which rustlers and other thieves had suf~ fered had not failed to reach her ears.
But Seddon's recital had aroused in her a certain interest in Rand; while his warning about there being "worse than wolves" in the timber near the Three Bar had not affected her in the least. She would go to the timber whenever she took a notion to go — fear of Rand and his men would not deter her.
She spoke a thought that was uppermost in her mind:
"I should like to see that man, Rand. Don't you think that a man who gives so much attention to his personal appearance would hesitate to do the things he is suspected of doing? Beau! Why, Father; it doesn't seem possible!"
"I reckon it ain't his clothes so much," said Seddon. "There ain't nothin' remarkable about them. It's the way he wears them, most likely; an' his name. His real name's Beaudry Rand. Beaudry's too heavy a name to go carryin' around in this country, an' so the boys begun shortenin' it to Beau.
"An' he don't like it none, at that. Call him Beau to his face an' you can see his eyes sort of chill. He'll stand for it all right, but there'll be a grin on his face that'll make you think of a tiger that's got you into a corner. He's a mean, ornery cuss, an' no mistake!"
She laughed, entirely unimpressed by her father's deprecatory words. Never in her life had she formed an opinion of another upon the basis of a verbal description. And despite Seddon's excellent counterfeit of sincerity, she had detected in his manner a bitter vindictiveness that did not seem to be warranted by the declaration that Rand was merely suspected of being a thief.
She knew her father as a man of strong character, of strong passions that boiled, unrestrained, in him; that he was ruled by his prejudices; and that in this case Rand had undoubtedly aroused his enmity because of his attitude over the question of the precious water.
"What is the man — Rand — like, Father?" she asked.
He saw the gleam of mischief in her eyes — the tolerant, half-incredulous smile on her lips. These signs told him though he had made the case against Rand as strong as he could, she was still in doubt. More — he could see that she had not been at all impressed with Rand's vicious-ness — or that if she was impressed, she did not intend to permit her impressions to rule her. She neither believed nor disbelieved her father; she had formed no opinion — Seddon's recital had made no impression upon her, except to arouse her curiosity.
Seddon betrayed a flash of the malignance that seized him whenever he thought of Rand.
"He's a skinny, ugly gawk with pink hair an' an eye like a fish!" he declared. "He's tall an' awkward, with a pigeon chest an' a woman's waist. He's got a nose like an eagle's beak an' a grin like a sneakin' tomcat! That's Rand —Beau Rand!"
"Why, Daddy!" she said, reprovingly, frankly mocking him.
"Look here, Ellie!" said Seddon, earnestly. "He's done me dirt, an' I don't like him. Mebbe he ain't just the buzzard I've described him; but I don't want you to get thick with him — he's poison, sure enough!"
"Thick!" she said. "Why, Father!"
"That's all right, Ellie; I didn't mean that," he said as he placed an arm about her waist and led her toward the house.
Chapter II. A Timber Wolf
AMOS SEDDON said no more to his daughter about Beaudry Rand. Seddon had caught certain expressions in the girl's eyes during his first talk about the man, and those expressions had warned him that he might talk too much, and thus arouse the girl's suspicions.
Already, he divined from the way she had looked at him several times, she was wondering why he exhibited so much feeling toward Rand. He didn't want her to ask questions, for some of them might have embarrassed him. And so for two days following the talk about the Three Bar owner, he did not again refer to him.
Besides, various activities engaged Seddon's attention. It was the time of the late spring round-up, and Seddon was compelled to spend much of his time with the Bar S outfit. He wanted Eleanor to accompany him on some of his rides, to watch the men at work, but range work was no novelty to the girl, and she smilingly refused.
However, she spent little of her time at the ranchhouse. Her favorite horse — which she had ridden much before leaving the ranch for Denver, four years before — she found had been pasturing during most of the interval of her absence, and when one morning she went down to the far pasture and looked at him through the rails of the fence, she saw that he had grown fat and slow and old.
She called to him — the old, familiar and peculiar whistle with which she had summoned him years before. He answered, whinnying, approaching the fence haltingly ; and when he stuck his muzzle between the rails she patted it and talked to him, renewing their friendship.
But she did not ride him. From the horse corral near the stable she selected a gray, rangy beast, which her father had pointed out to her, recommending him as "reliable." "Silver," Seddon had named him.
Silver was reliable. It did not take the girl long to discover that. She knew horses, and during her rides she tested the gray animal in various ways; and at last patted him admiringly and confided into his ears that he would "do."
The four-year interval of her absence had not made the far timber less alluring; nor had she taken her father's warning seriously. She had never taken the wolf story literally—it had been a childhood bogey by w T hich both her father and mother had tried to keep her from exploring the timber.
For, despite their warnings, she had gone there many times, impressed by its vastness, awed by the solemn silence that reigned there; a religious reverence stealing over her whenever she traversed its majestic aisles, with the towering, tapering trees, like cathedral spires, thrusting into the azure blue above.
On this morning—three days after Seddon had talked to her about Beaudry Rand, she watched her father mount his horse and ride away. Shortly after he vanished westward to join the outfit she saddled Silver and headed him toward the river trail.
Familiar landmarks came into view as she rode. She did not travel fast, for there were some things she wished to see—a shady nook at the edge of a sheer butte that fringed the river, where she had spent many hours; a "hole" in the river, far down in a shallow canon — where she had bathed, with no danger of discovery; and other well-remembered places with which were connected incidents that were still vivid in her recollection.
This tour of memory-exploration took time. It was nearly noon when she reached the edge of the timber, and she smilingly reflected that she had consumed several hours in riding about twelve miles.
Memories thrilled her as she entered the timber—following a faint trail that she remembered well — for she had not seen the timber in four years. Those four years, she saw, had not brought much change in the aspect of the forest. Over here, as she entered a narrow aisle and sent Silver loping along it, descended the atmosphere of mystery that had always encompassed her — the lingering, whispering, sighing voices of the trees, bearing a threat or a promise — she had never been able to decide which.
She spent some hours in the forest; though she penetrated no farther than she had gone many times in the past. For she rode only those trails she remembered — cattle paths, made by refractory steers that insisted upon betraying yearnings to revert to type.
She reflected that some of the most marvelous profanity she had ever heard had been provoked among the Bar S men by the predilection of some range steers for the mazes and tangle of timber. When they went in — as some of them would — the men had to get them out.
It was a vast forest. Eleanor had never ridden far enough eastward to reach its edge in that direction; though she had almost attained its northern radius — and she always entered the timber from the south.
And she did not attempt today to reach the eastern limits; she rode as far as she had ridden other times, and twice almost lost herself— for most of the trails she had known were overgrown with wild brush and carpeted with the fallen leaves of past seasons, and she had some trouble to find them.
She was in no hurry. Her father, she knew, would not return until late in the evening—probably not until late tomorrow, for she had heard him tell the straw-boss that the distance to where the outfit was going was "pretty far." So she had no fear that he would discover where she had gone.
As for that she was nearly twenty, and the spirit of independence in her had grown and flourished during her four years' absence. She had always been self-reliant. Not aggressively self-reliant—she disliked a mannish woman. She preferred to feel that she was merely confident— confident of her ability to take care of herself. Certainly she had spirit enough to demonstrate that trait — her trip to the timber despite her father's warning proved that!
She smiled, remembering her father's gravity.
"Worse than wolves," he had said; "there's Beau Rand!"
Her smile grew. Beau Rand, according to her father, might be some prehistoric monster roaming the timber, seeking to devour pygmy humans — herself especially! She laughed aloud.
Later, reaching a small clearing where some wild flowers grew, delicately tinted, their stems frail and transparent, she dismounted and began to gather them.
Engrossed in the task, the bunch of tinted beauties in her hand growing larger and larger, she spent much time in the clearing — more time than she realized. For when, after a while, she stood erect, satisfied with the size of the fragrant bunch in her hands, she discovered that Silver was nowhere to be seen!
She gasped, astonishment confounding her, until she remembered that she had forgotten to trail the reins over Silver's head!
Every range horse expected that; no range horse would stand if the reins were not trailed, unless he had been carefully trained otherwise. They were taught, during their training days, to fear the rope, and no range horse would walk far with the reins at his hoofs. She had forgotten that; her four years' absence from the Bar S had robbed her of that most essential, and very common, knowledge.
She dropped the flowers — for the stern business of getting out of the timber would fully occupy her mind and energy for some time, if Silver had strayed far—and ran to the western edge of the clearing, leaping to the trunk of a fallen tree.
From this vantage point she looked southward — toward the Bar S — which direction the horse would naturally take had he decided to desert her. Far down a narrow aisle, fully a quarter of a mile away, she saw a gray shape moving among the trees.
It was Silver, idly browsing—she could see his neck slanting downward, and his tail swishing back and forth.
She gulped with thankfulness, leaped down from the fallen tree trunk, and began to run toward Silver, her face a trifle pale and her eyes filled with a wistful expression.
But she had not taken more than three or four steps toward the horse when she halted and stood rigid, catching her breath with a shrill gasp; her face whitening, her eyes filled with horror. For not more than a dozen paces from her, and directly in the narrow aisle through which she must go to reach Silver, stood a huge, gray timber wolf, his mouth open, his jaws agape, slavering; his eyes flaming with a fire which, she knew, was a sign of the malignant ferocity that had set him across her path.
She did not know how long she stood there, watching the great gray beast. She knew that the wolf did not move, but stood there returning her gaze, its sides heaving with its rapid breaths, its tongue hanging far out of its mouth — the fangs bared a little in a hideous, grinning smirk. It seemed to her that the animal knew of her helplessness and was mocking her, content to wait, certain that she could not escape.
She did not move—she was convinced that if she made the slightest motion the beast would leap. Nor did she permit her gaze to wander for the slightest fraction of a second from the beast's eyes. She stood that way for, it seemed, many minutes; her breath catching in her throat, her heart pounding, and her nerves tingling with the horror of it.
And then she heard a sharp sound near—the crackling of a twig or a branch, it seemed. She saw the wolf raise its head, snap its ears erect and look past her — a little to her right. The fur on its neck bristled, as though it saw something that aroused it to a fighting resentment, or a craven, gripping fear. Then it snarled, wheeled, and leaped — away from her.
While its body was in the air the solemn silence of the forest was rent by a splitting, crashing report. The girl saw the wolf collapse in mid-air and come down limply, landing on its head and shoulders; its legs asprawl and jerking spasmodically.
She wheeled, aware that the wolf had received a death wound, to see a man on a big black horse directly behind her. He was lounging in the saddle, a smoking pistol in his right hand. There was a slight smile on his lips, and his eyes were agleam with interest and curiosity.
"You're scared, ma'am, eh?" he said in a low but distinct voice. "Well, you don't need to be — now. I reckon Mr. Lobo won't ever be any deader than he is right this minute."
Eleanor walked totteringly to the fallen tree trunk and sank to it, holding tightly to some barkless branches that projected from it to keep herself from slipping off — for she knew that she had never been nearer to fainting than at this minute.
Her rescuer watched her with grave concern, the smile having departed. The pistol was still in his hand, and noting that she looked at it wonderingly—as though not quite certain what he intended to do next — he sheathed it — first ejecting the empty shell and replacing it with a loaded one. The pistol in the holster, he looked at her with a straight, level gaze.
"What's happened, ma'am? You sure didn't walk into this timber!"
She stood erect now, for she had conquered the faintness that had stolen over her, and smiled at him — though her voice quavered a little when she spoke:
"I stopped to pick some flowers and my horse strayed," she told him.
His eyes gleamed with humor. "You ain't Eastern, ma'am — I can see that. Then how —"
"I forgot. You see, I haven't been home in four years — and I left the reins on Silver's saddle."
"Then he would slope," said the man; "there bein' nothin' to stop him, an' him thinkin' that mebbe you didn't need him any more. An' then — when he'd gone — old Lobo thought he'd devil you. It's likely — if you've been in the timber any time—he's been followin' you. Well, he died hungry."
"So he did," she laughed. And then seriously: "I want to thank you. I'm afraid if you hadn't come when you did—" She shivered.
He laughed lowly. "Why, I've been watchin' you for hours, ma'am," he said gravely. "Hangin' around — quite a piece away."
She flushed angrily and stood rigid, facing him. Ready to tell him what she thought of him for spying upon her, she saw a big Bar S brand on the hip of the black horse — her father's brand. And then she knew that her father had distrusted her — had been convinced that she would ride to the timber — and that he had set this man to watch her, to see that no harm befell her.
The man saw the resentment shining in her eyes, and his expression became apologetic — so obviously apologetic that her anger vanished and a fugitive smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. The man grinned with her — sensing her forgiveness. But instantly she frowned, determined that though the man had saved her from the wolf he should not be permitted to presume upon his service — for he had been employed to do what he had done.
She wondered, though, even while she looked straight at him with a slightly belligerent gaze — how it happened that her father had selected so striking a cowboy to stand guard over her.
He was not handsome — men were never that, she was convinced—for that would make them seem effeminate. But he was undeniably good-looking. And his steel-gray eyes, now watching her with a glint of humor in them, were also aglimmer with the light of an intelligence that was rare in cowboys she had known'—those who had worked for her father, for instance.
He was tall, lithe, and muscular; he looked capable — that was the word that thoroughly described him, she thought — until she began to be affected by the atmosphere of grave and grim deliberation that seemed to envelop him.
The humor which seemed to glint his eyes was, she became convinced as she studied him, oddly mingled with malice, not vicious, but cynical — as though he was continually alert for deceit and trickery.
His gaze was highly disconcerting — she felt that were she a man she would not care to trifle with him. For in his eyes, in the way he moved, and in his attitude, was a lingering threat of cold preparedness — a readiness for anything that might happen.
However, she was indignant because he had admitted he had been watching her, and was not so deeply impressed by him as she might have been had she me f him under different circumstances. She raised her chin defiantly.
"So you were watching me. Then, when you asked me if I had walked here, you were merely trying to be humorous, is that it?"
His eyes twinkled. "I wasn't intendin' to tell you." His lips twitched into a smile. "But when you shivered that way, gettin' ready to faint, I just had to let you know that you wasn't in any great danger. You see, women ain't got much nerve, ma'am."
"Well," she said scornfully, "so long as there are men in the world I suppose women do not need nerve. I suppose you mean to infer that it was a good thing for me that a man happened to be near?"
"Men are sort of handy—sometimes," he grinned.
"Well," she ordered, looking coldly at him, "catch my, horse, and don't stand there trying to be amusing. That is not what Father employs you for, is it?"
He bowed, smiled, kicked the black horse in the ribs, and rode down the aisle toward the point where Silver had disappeared.
The girl watched him until he could no longer be seen, and then she again seated herself on the fallen tree trunk and gazed reflectively at the dead body of the wolf.
And now that he had gone, and she was left with the memory of her experience, she realized that, even though he had been employed to watch her, he had rendered valuable service; and that he had been as delicate in his espionage as had been possible.
And he certainly was gentlemanly— for a cowboy; and — hadn't she been a little too severe? He had done what he had been ordered to do — and had done it well; and she had censured him when he deserved commendation.
So her thoughts ran, with the result that when the man reappeared a little later, leading the recreant Silver, her rnanner toward her rescuer was slightly more gracious. She even smiled at him when he offered to help her mount the horse. And then, when she was in the saddle, and he was lounging in his own, watching her gravely, she said:
"As long as I know you are watching me, I suppose you might as well ride with me. Have you any special orders regarding me?"
At his slow negative she resumed:
"Father warned me against going to the Three Bar. But there is still time, and I am going there. I want you to go with me. That will take the edge off Father's displeasure when he discovers I disregarded his warning. Do you know Beaudry Rand?"
A nod was her answer. It was accompanied by a swift, intent glance, as though he was speculating over her.
"Then you can introduce me!" she said, laughing. "It will be decidedly novel to be formally presented to an outlaw!"
He grinned. "I expect it will, ma'am."
She looked around, perplexity in her eyes.
"I really believe I am lost!" she said. "I have no sense of direction since — since that beast came upon me."
Silently he urged the black horse out of the clearing and sent it westward through the timber. Eleanor, after glancing sharply around, smiled, for she had not really lost her sense of direction — she had merely wanted the man to ride ahead of her so that upon him would rest the burden of finding the trail. For she was tired, though determined to go to the Three Bar — and she wanted to look at the man, for he interested her.
She did not let him get very far in advance of her — there were times when the head of her horse was at the withers of the black. But the man paid no attention to her — seemingly. He rode onward, silent, looking straight ahead; and his apparent lack of interest in her soon irritated her.
She spoke almost sharply to him at last, resentment plain in her voice:
"Are you sure you are going in the right direction?"
"Pretty sure," came the answer. Still he did not look around.
For a time the solemn silence of the forest was not broken except by the whipping tread of their horses' hoofs. Again the man's detached attitude provoked the girl to speech.
"Did Father tell you not to talk to me?" she demanded.
"No."
Silence for a hundred yards. Then —
"Do you know Beaudry Rand well?"
"Pretty well."
"Is he really an outlaw?"
"Some say he is."
"And you — what is your opinion?"
"I ain't expressin' it."
"Oh — you aren't! Well, you have one, I presume?"
"Yes."
"But you won't express it. How odd! I suppose that is because you are afraid Rand would shoot you if he heard you had talked about him?" There was much sarcasm in her voice, provoked by the man's obvious reluctance to talk with her.
He laughed, and his voice floated back to her:
"I ain't afraid of Rand shootin' me."
She believed him. But that conviction did not lessen her resentment. And she persisted, determined to make him talk.
"But Rand is considered a dangerous man, isn't he? That is, I mean he has the reputation of being a gunfighter — a cattle rustler, a horse thief, and a stage robber?"
"There's folks that think that about him, I reckon. Who was tellin' you?"
"My father told me," she answered. "He said that Rand was suspected of doing all those things, though there was no evidence against him. The stealing began about the time Rand bought the Three Bar. Link Compton has organized a vigilance committee to endeavor to get evidence against Rand."
This did not seem to interest her escort, for he did not answer, nor did he turn his head. When they began to approach the edge of the timber, and the trail grew wider, she spurred her horse beside his and looked furtively at him. He paid no attention to her—his attitude being that of the respectful employee whose business it was to speak when spoken to.
There was a flash of malice in her eyes—humorous malice. For he was so strikingly good-looking that she suspected he would betray condescension toward those of his fellows less generously endowed by nature. She had heard women make "cattish" remarks about other women, and she supposed men were not unlike her own sex in that regard. At least, if her escort had a weak point it was likely to be just here — and it was worth a trial.
"What do you think of Rand — his appearance, I mean. Is he good-looking or ugly?"
"I'd say he was good-lookin'," he answered, flashing a sharp glance at her.
She was disappointed, for he had not spoken the derogatory word she had expected. Also, she was resentful, for she had wanted him to exhibit a very human trait, and he had not done so.
"That is remarkable," she said.
"What is?" Again his glance rested on her — fleeting; she could not fathom it.
"That you seem to think he is good-looking. Father has a decidedly opposite opinion. Shall I tell you what Father says about him — about his appearance?"
"I ain't particular."
"No-o? Well, perhaps you have heard Father describe him. Father says"—she remembered the words well; she felt she would never forget them—" Rand is a skinny, ugly gawk, with pink hair and an eye like a fish. He's tall and awkward, with a pigeon chest and a woman's waist. He's got a nose like an eagle's beak and a grin like a sneaking tomcat! That's Rand — Beau Rand!"
She succeeded in getting a remarkable touch of her father's venom into the description, and she expected her escort to laugh. But to her astonishment and chagrin when she looked quickly at him she saw that there was no sign of emotion on his face. He might not have heard her.
"That description doesn't coincide with yours, I presume?" she asked.
"No, ma'am." And now his lips curved with a slight, mirthless smile. "I expect it wouldn't please Rand a heap, either."
"There is bad feeling between Rand and Father," she said; "that is evident. Do you know why?"
"I ain't never asked your father about it, ma'am," he answered.
She said nothing more until they reached a broad level beyond the edge of the timber, and were riding at a good pace through some tall bunch grass. Then she said:
"How old is Beaudry Rand?"
"I'd say about thirty."
They had crossed the broad level, and were loping their horses down a rocky, uneven slope that led to the river before the girl spoke again.
"Why do they call him 'Beau'?"
"That's his name, ma'am."
"Did you ever call him that?" she asked. "Because," she went on, noting the sudden flush that came into his cheeks, "Father says that whenever a man calls him Beau to his face he'll look at you like a tiger about to devour you!" She laughed. "You must have called him that, judging from your embarrassment — and he must have shown you that he wanted to eat you!" She leaned close to him, intensely curious. "Did you?" she asked.
"I've called him Beau."
"And what did he do?"
"Nothin'."
She straightened with a sigh. "Father said he'd 'stand' for it. If I were a man, and another man profaned my name like that, I'd certainly punish him some way. This man Rand must be a sort of spiritless fellow after all. I had hoped — when I heard about him — that he'd have more gumption."
"I reckon he's a sort of mild critter, ma'am, or he'd not stand for what's bein' said about him. But Rand ain't no trouble-hunter — if that's any use to you."
Thereafter she questioned him no further; for she had seen from the flush on his face that he must have had trouble with Rand — over the nickname, possibly — and she had no desire further to embarrass him. But her resentment over his lack of interest in her still lingered.
She dropped behind him, riding at a little distance, while they traversed the irregular slope to the edge of the deep basin, full of water, about which her father had spoken.
The basin belonged to the Three Bar — the girl recognized it, for she had ridden here many times while the Three Bar was still owned by Halsey — and she saw that what her father had said about the river was true.
When she had left the Bar S there had been considerable water in the river, but now there was a small stream of it, barely a yard wide, trickling over its rock bed into the basin. And very little water flowed from the southerly end of the basin into the almost dry bed of the river that dropped down into the gorge that ran past the Bar S.
The two horses clattered across a shallow that skirted the basin, reached a gradual rise that began at the basin's edge, and stretched to some level land westward. When they reached the crest of the rise the girl saw the Three Bar buildings farther back, at the edge of a grove of spruce and fir-balsam and cottonwood. The buildings looked no different than they had looked when she had left the country four years before, and she had some difficulty in believing that they were now inhabited by an outlaw.
For the girl's memory was retentive, and while she was riding forward toward the ranch buildings, she kept seeing mental pictures of the Halseys — of Halsey himself, and of his girls — who had chummed with her; and of the Halsey home life — which had been gentle and ideal.
So deeply interested was she with her mental pictures, she had almost forgotten the man who had escorted her out of the timber; and she did not look up until her horse came to a halt of his own volition. Then she started and looked about her, for her escort had dismounted and was standing at the head of her horse, smiling at her.
"You'll find Beaudry Rand in the house."
She reddened; for now that she was here, and the mental pictures had vanished, she realized that she had done a bold and unconventional thing in coming.
"Why," she said; "I — I don't believe, after all, that I care to make Mr. Rand's acquaintance. I thought, perhaps, that if he should happen to be around anywhere — outside, that is — I might like to see him. But to go into the house! Can't you bring him out here?"
"The last I saw of Beaudry Rand, the outlaw, he couldn't do any walkin'," said her escort. His eyes were quizzical and mocking. No doubt he was aware of her sudden trepidation.
"Hurt — do you mean?" she asked. "Well, in any case, I shall not go in."
"Scared?" said the man, derisively, as though daring her.
Her flush deepened, and a reckless impulse seized her.
"No," she declared; "I am not scared." And she laughed at the flash of admiration that lighted the man's eyes.
Dismounting—this time trailing the reins over Silver's head — she followed the man across a broad gallery and into a big, gloomy front room which, she knew, had served the Halseys as a parlor.
Her escort halted midway in the room and pointed to a small picture on the wall — a full-length photograph of a man in cowboy rigging, with a large, flowing mustache, and a cruel, drooping mouth.
Perplexed, she stared hard at the picture, and then at her escort.
"Why," she said coldly; "is this a hoax? I came in here to see Beaudry Rand, and you show me a photograph!"
He looked gravely at her. "I reckon it ain't a hoax, ma'am. That is a picture of Beaudry Rand, the outlaw. Beaudry Rand, the outlaw, is dead; an' that's all he left to remember him by — exceptin' some mighty excitin' stories that folks will tell you—mostly lies, I reckon."
"But I — I thought Beaudry Rand was alive! Father said he is alive! Why," she added, standing stiffly before him, her eyes flashing, accusation in her voice; "you told me — as much as told me he was alive! And you said he was about thirty years of age!"
"Beaudry Rand, the outlaw, is dead, ma'am," he repeated gravely. "But Beaudry Rand, his son, is a heap certain that he's a whole lot alive. An' he's about thirty, too, ma'am — as I told you. An' I'd be willin' to swear that he ain't got no pink hair — unless this is pink," he added, running the fingers of one of his hands through the short, dark-brown, virile mass that covered his head.
"An' while I ain't claimin' to be vain, I ain't admittin' that I've got a pigeon chest, an' an eagle-beak nose; an' I'm right certain I ain't no sneakin' tomcat! As for me bein' awkward, an' a lot of other things that I can't seem to remember—there bein' so much of it — why, you'll have to be the judge of that, ma'am; for you've been lookin' at me quite considerable this afternoon!"
She had started back, and now stood looking at him in dismayed astonishment.
" You!" she said; "you are Beaudry Rand?"
"I'm Beaudry Rand, ma'am," he said gently. And he stood near the center of the room, watching her with a grave smile as she backed through the door, across the porch, and to the steps. At the steps she turned, ran to Silver, mounted hurriedly, and sent the animal racing toward the river trail.
Chapter III. The Man Himself
FOR perhaps ten minutes following the abrupt departure of Eleanor Seddon, Beaudry Rand stood on the big gallery of the ranchhouse watching the girl as she rode steadily down the river trail. He saw the gray horse cross the long stretch of plain that began at the ranch-house; he watched while the animal fled over some bare hills; and when at last horse and rider came for an instant into bold relief on the crest of a high ridge that formed the southern sky-line, Rand smiled mirthlessly, walked into the big front room, took the picture of his father from the wall, stuck it under an arm, and strode into another room — his bedroom.
There he removed a bust photograph of a woman from the wall near his bed; and with both pictures — one under his arm and the other in his right hand—he returned to the porch and seated himself in a chair.
Holding the two pictures close together, so that the strong north light shone on them, he studied them.
Had Eleanor Seddon been there to see him, she would have marveled over the swiftly changing expression of Rand's face. For when his gaze rested on the photograph of the woman, his eyes grew wistful, gentle, and worshipful; his lips curved into a smile that was tenderly reminiscent. Again, reverently he kissed the photograph, holding it tightly to his lips, while his face paled and the love-hunger of a loyal son for his dead mother held him in a mighty clutch.
His eyes grew hard and his lips formed two straight, stiff lines when he turned the woman's picture face down on his lap and looked at the photograph of the man. His muscles grew taut, his chin went outward in a vicious thrust, and his eyes gleamed with a cold fire. He sat there, rigid and motionless, while passions, virulent and blighting, seethed through him.
It was not the first time he had held the two pictures together, comparing them; nor was it the first time the passion had gripped him. Since he had been old enough to think for himself he had known what it was to feel the blood-lust gripping him. It had been a heritage from his father — the man of the photograph — this bitter, malignant passion; and it had come upon him when he had been very young—its earliest manifestation had occurred when in his fifteenth year, back in the Durango country — where he had been born — a boy from a neighboring ranch had displeased him. The boy had drawn a gun and, half in jest, half in earnest, he had pointed it at Rand.
Young Rand had worn no gun — his mother had forbidden that. And yet, facing the weapon in the other boy's hand, Rand had yielded to the first bitter, destroying passion that had ever seized him. He had walked straight to the boy — the muzzle of the weapon menacing him, the other boy's finger wavering on the trigger — daring him to shoot.
And when he had seen the cringing indecision in the other's eyes he knocked the weapon from his hand and leaped upon him in demoniac fury.
It had been his mother who had saved him that day — saved him from committing the murder which would have made him like his outlaw father—a conscienceless killer of men.
He had not known then, of course, that he had inherited his violent passions from his father; that the queer, cynical, and malevolent feeling that came over him at sight of another man wearing a six-shooter was a yearning to kill — a lust that his father had bequeathed him.
Later, though, he knew. And during all his days — from the instant the knowledge had burst upon him until the present — he had fought the passion. He had fought it with his love for the woman of the photograph; with the memories of her gentleness, her goodness, and by centering his thoughts upon the things she had taught him.
For when he had grown old enough to understand — after his father's death — she had warned him. She had seen in him the evidence of those violent, savage impulses which had made an outlaw of his father; and she had told him that once he drew a gun to slay a fellow-man he would be lost—for he had inherited his father's terrible blood-lust.
There were men, she had said, who had slain without yielding to the passion to slay; but they were men in whom the will to withhold violence was stronger than the will to slay. He would not be of that type, she told him. And he knew she had spoken the truth.
He had known "killers"—men who had not been able to resist the impulse to slay once they had yielded to it. He had seen them cruel and venomous, taunting prospective victims, provoking them to some action that would give them an excuse to shoot.
He did not try to condone their actions — he despised the type. And yet he knew their passion for his own; and several times, when men had provoked him, and when he had been forced to draw his gun in self-protection, he had almost yielded to it.
But at those times he had kept his mother's face in mind, and thoughts of her had saved him. Twice since he had bought the Three Bar—once in Ocate and once just outside the town — he had clashed with men who had deliberately sought trouble with him. And both times, with the yearning to slay them deep in his soul, he had withheld his hand, merely wounding the men.
But though he had not yet killed a man, he knew that in a section of the country where law and order had not been established, a man's ability with the six-shooter was his only hope of clinging to life. And in his clashes with the two men of Ocate, he had exhibited his uncanny cleverness with the weapon — and the inhabitants of the town had not failed to record the incidents in the storerooms of their brains.
Looking at the two pictures now he knew that his battle against the inherited vicious impulses was not yet won. Several times he had conquered them when he had been on the point of yielding; but he knew that one day, if the provocation came, he would yield. That was why, when the bitter mood came upon him — as it had today—he took his mother's picture from the wall and studied it, certain that he would get from it the encouragement he needed.
And at this instant he was in need of all the encouragement the study of his mother's picture could give him. He had never liked Amos Seddon; and now, with the knowledge that Seddon had lied about him, a bitter rage had seized him.
He knew why Seddon had lied about him. Seddon knew that he had always been straight; that the Three Bar outfit — himself included — was composed of men not less honest than the men of other ranch outfits. But Seddon no doubt was possessed of a fear that his daughter would discover the secret of the boy — that she would learn of his guilt through him; and Seddon had deliberately poisoned the girl's mind against him.
That was the reason Rand had not revealed his identity to the girl sooner. He had been on the point of telling her when she had referred to him as an "outlaw." And because Rand knew that no one in the vicinity knew of "his father's reputation—for if they had he would have heard of it in the four }< T ears he had been at the Three Bar — he had been certain the girl had meant that he, himself, was the outlaw to whom she referred.
He had permitted her to talk, for he had been eager to discover just what Seddon had said. And he had not been greatly surprised when the girl had told him that Link Compton's purpose in organizing the vigilance committee was to get evidence against him, for he was aware that Link Compton hated him as heartily.
That hatred had nothing tangible upon which to rest; but hatred was there. Rand had hated the man at first sight — when he had met him in Ocate soon after he had come to the Three Bar; and he had seen in Compton's eyes at that time the venomous, smoldering dislike that had endured until now.
And the times when Rand fought hardest against his savage impulse to slay was during those moments when some accident threw him in Link Compton's presence. He knew that if the time ever came when Compton provoked him to the point of drawing his gun, he would kill him and run the risk of yielding entirely to the passion that he was trying to crush.
He had heard enough from the girl to convince him that Seddon and Compton were plotting against him; but, strangely, as he sat in the chair looking at the two pictures his thoughts grew less vicious, and he found himself thinking of the girl.
He had been watching her while she was riding in the timber. He had heard from one of his men that she was back from school, and he had wanted to see her again. For on a day about four years before—just after he had bought the Three Bar—he had seen her boarding the stage at Ocate, to begin her journey to Denver, and the picture she made at that time had remained vivid in his memory.
