His glance roved around the fire. Seven men, besides the cook—asleep under the wagon—and Randerson, were lying around the fire in positions similar to his own. Randerson, the one exception, was seated on the edge of the chuck box, its canvas cover pushed aside, one leg dangling, his elbow resting on the other.
Randerson had been rather silent for the past few days—since he had ridden in to the ranchhouse, and he had been silent tonight, gazing thoughtfully at the fire. Owen’s gaze finally centered on the range boss. It rested there for a time, and then roved to the face of the new man—Dorgan, he called himself. Owen started, and his chin went forward, his lips straightening. For he saw Dorgan watching Randerson with a bitter sneer on his lips, his eyes glittering coldly and balefully!
Evil intent was written largely here—evil intent without apparent reason for it. For the man was a stranger here; Randerson had done nothing—to Owen’s knowledge—to earn Dorgan’s enmity; Randerson did not deliberately make enemies. Owen wondered if Dorgan were one of those misguided persons who take offense at a look unknowingly given, or a word, spoken during momentary abstraction.
Owen had disliked Dorgan before; he hated him now. For Owen had formed a deep attachment for Randerson. There was a determination in his mind to acquaint the range boss with his suspicions concerning Dorgan’s expression, and he got up, after a while, and took a turn around the campfire in the hope of attracting Randerson’s attention.
Randerson paid no attention to him. But through the corners of his eyes, as he passed Dorgan, Owen noted that the man flashed a quick, speculative glance at him. But Owen’s determination had not lessened. “If he’s suspicious of me, he’s figgerin’ on doin’ some dog’s trick to Wrecks. I’m puttin’ Wrecks wise a few, an’ if Dorgan don’t like it, he c’n go to blazes!”
He walked to the rear of the chuck box and stood within half a dozen feet of Randerson.
“Figger we’ve got ’em all out of the timber?” he asked.
There was no answer from Randerson. He seemed absorbed in contemplation of the fire.
“W-r-e-c-k-s!” bawled Owen, in a voice that brought every man of the circle upright, to look wildly around. Taylor was on his feet, his hair bristling, the pallor of mingled fear, astonishment, and disgust on his face. Owen grinned sardonically at him. “Lay down an’ turn over, you wall-eyed gorilla!” admonished Owen. He turned his grin on the others. “Can’t a man gas to the boss without all you yaps buttin’ in?” he demanded.
“What for are you-all a-yowlin’ that-a-way for?” questioned a gentle-voiced Southerner reproachfully. “I was just a-dreamin’ of rakin’ in a big pot in a cyard game. An’ now you’ve done busted it up.” He sank disgustedly to his blanket.