Carrington had finished his talk with the three men he had set to guard the Huggins house. The men were told to stay until they received orders from Carrington to leave. And they were to report to him immediately if anyone came.
Carrington had watched Parsons go down the big slope; and for a long time after he had finished his talk with the three men he stood on the front porch of the house watching the progress made by Parsons through the basin.
“Following Marion,” Carrington assured himself, with a crooked smile. “Well, I’ll know where to get both of them when I want them.”
Carrington felt not the slightest tremor of pity for Parsons. He laughed deep in his throat with a venomous joy as he saw Parsons slowly making his way through the big basin; for he knew Parsons—he knew that the craven nature of the man would prevent him from attempting any reprisal of a vigorous character.
Yet the exultation in the big man’s heart was dulled with a slight regret for his ruthless attack on Marion Harlan. He should not have been so eager, he told himself; he should have waited; he should have insinuated himself into her good graces, and then——
Scowling, he got on his horse and rode up the Dawes trail, shouting a last word of caution to the three men—one seated on the front porch, the other two lounging in the shade of a tree near by.
Half a mile from the house, riding through a timber grove, he met the man Danforth had sent to him. The latter gave Carrington the message he carried, which was merely: “Taylor is looking for you.”
“Coming here?” he asked the man sharply.
“I reckon he will be—if he can’t find you in town,” said the man. “Danforth said Taylor was a heap fussed up, an’ killin’ mad!”