“It ain’t your fault that there’s indacint women in the world; an’ no taint of them will ever reach you. But the fools in this world is always waggin’ their tongues, associatin’ what’s happened with what they think will happen. An’ mebbe they’ll wonder about you. It’s your uncle that’s there with you, you say? Well, then, don’t you worry. You run right along to see Squint Taylor, now, an’ find out what he knows about your father. Taylor’s a mighty fine man, darlin’.”
And so Marion went on her way again, grateful for Mrs. Mullarky’s kindness, but depressed over the knowledge that the atmosphere of suspicion, which had enveloped her in Westwood, had followed her into this new country which, she had hoped, would have been more friendly.
She came in sight of the Arrow ranchhouse presently, and gazed at it admiringly. It was a big building, of adobe brick, with a wide porch—or gallery—entirely surrounding it. It was in the center of a big space, with timber flanking it on three sides, and at the north was a green stretch of level that reached to the sloping banks of a river.
There were several smaller buildings; a big, fenced enclosure—the corrals, she supposed; a pasture, and a garden. Everything was in perfect order, and had it not been for the aroma of the sage that assailed her nostrils, the awe-inspiring bigness of it all, the sight of thousands of cattle—which she could see through the trees beyond the clearing, she could have likened the place to a big eastern farmhouse of the better class, isolated and prosperous.
She dismounted from her horse at a corner of the house, near a door that opened upon the wide porch, and stood, pale and hesitant, looking at the door, which was closed.
And as she stared at the door, it swung inward and Quinton Taylor appeared in the opening.
CHAPTER IX—A MAN LIES
Taylor was arrayed as Marion had mentally pictured him that day when, in the Pullman, she had associated him with ranches and ranges. Evidently he was ready to ride, for leather chaps incased his legs. The chaps were plain, not even adorned with the spangles of the drawings she had seen; and they were well-worn and shiny in spots. A pair of big, Mexican spurs were on the heels of his boots; the inevitable cartridge-belt about his middle, sagging with the heavy pistol; a quirt dangled from his left hand. Assuredly he belonged in this environment—he even seemed to dominate it.
She had wondered how he would greet her; but his greeting was not at all what she had feared it would be. For he did not presume upon their meeting on the train; he gave no sign that he had ever seen her before; there was not even a glint in his eyes to tell her that he remembered the scornful look she had given him when she discovered him listening to the conversation carried on between her uncle and Carrington. His manner indicated that if she did not care to mention the matter he would not. His face was grave as he stepped across the porch and stood before her. And he said merely:
“Are you looking for someone, ma’am?”