She sat down again, aware of the startling unconventionality of this visit and of the conversation that had resulted from it, but oppressed with no sense of shame. For it seemed entirely natural that she should have come to Taylor, though she supposed that was because he had been her father’s friend, and that she had no other person to go to—not even if she went East, to Westwood. But she would not have mentioned what had happened at the big house if Martha had not taken the initiative.
She was startled over the change that had come in Taylor. Watching him covertly as he stood near her, and following his movements as he walked around in the room, helping Bud, generously leaving her to herself and her thoughts, she looked in vain for that gentleness and subtle thoughtfulness that hitherto had seemed to distinguish him. She had admired him for his easy-going manner, the slow deliberateness of his glances, the quizzical gleam of his eyes.
But she saw him now as many of the men in this section of the country had seen him when he faced the necessity for rapid, determined action. It was the other side of his character; before she had heard his voice, and before she had seen him smile—the stern, unyielding side of him which she had discovered always was ready for the blows of adversity and enmity—his fighting side.
And when she went into the house to breakfast, feeling the strangeness of it all—of the odd fate which had led her to the Arrow; the queer reluctance that affected her over the action in accepting the hospitality of a man who—except for his association with her father—was almost a stranger to her—she found that he did not intend to insinuate his presence upon her.
He called her, and stood near the table when she and Martha went in. Then he told her gravely that the house was “hers,” and that he and Bud would live in the bunkhouse.
“And when you get settled,” he told her, as he stood in the doorway, ready to go, “we’ll write those articles of partnership. And,” he added, “don’t you go to worrying about Carrington. If he comes here, and Bud or me ain’t here, you’ll find a loaded rifle hanging behind the front door. Don’t be afraid to use it—there’s no law against killing snakes out here!”
CHAPTER XVIII—THE BEAST AGAIN
Carrington was conscious of the error his unrestrained passion had driven him to committing. Yet he had not been sincere when he had declared to Martha that he wouldn’t bother the girl again. For after leading the two horses to Dawes and arranging for their care, he hunted up Danforth. It was nearly midnight when Danforth reached Carrington’s rooms in the Castle, and Carrington was in a sullen mood.
“I want two or three men who will do what they are told and keep their mouths shut,” he told Danforth. “Get them—quick—and send them to the Huggins house—mine, now—and have them stay there. Nobody is to leave the house—not even to come to town. Understand? Not even Parsons. Hustle! There is no train out of here tonight? No? Well, that’s all right. Get going!”
Danforth had noticed Carrington’s sullenness, and the strained excitement of his manner, and there was in Danforth’s mind an inclination to warn Carrington about including the woman in the scheme to subjugate Dawes—for he knew Carrington of old; but a certain light in the big man’s eyes warned Danforth and he shut his half-opened lips and departed on his errand.