“It can never be Randerson,” Ruth said firmly—not, however, as firmly as she had intended. “Randerson is a murderer—a reckless taker of human life!”
“He had to shoot, they say,” defended Aunt Martha. “I don’t believe he would harm a living thing except in defense of his own life. Defending themselves is their way out here, girl—they know no other way. And he is a man, dear. I don’t know when I have met a man who has impressed me more!”
“Please don’t talk about it any more.” Ruth’s face was pale, her brows contracted, for Aunt Martha’s reference to Randerson had brought back haunting sensations that, she thought, she had succeeded in putting out of her life. She was ready to cry, and when she thought of Randerson—how calmly he had accepted his dismissal, with what manliness he had borne her insults, a chill of sympathy ran over her. She believed she would never forget him as he had looked on the night he had ridden away after telling her that he would leave the Flying W—riding into the darkness of the plains, with his hopes blasted, bravely making no complaint.
She got her pony, after a while, and rode far and long, coming in to the ranchhouse about noon. After she had turned the pony into the corral and was coming toward the house, she saw Uncle Jepson sitting on the porch, puffing furiously at his pipe. She spoke to him in greeting, and was about to pass him to go into the house, when he called to her:
“I want to talk to you a minute, Ruth.” He spoke rapidly, his voice dry and light, and she could see his facial muscles twitching. Wonderingly, she sank into a chair near him.
“You’re sure thinkin’ of marryin’ Masten, girl?” he said.
“Yes,” she declared firmly.
“Well, then I’ve got to tell you,” said Uncle Jepson decisively. “I’ve been puttin’ it off, hopin’ that you’d get shet of that imp of Satan, an’ I wouldn’t have to say anything.”
“Uncle Jep!” she protested indignantly.
“That’s just what he is, Ruth—a durned imp of the devil. I’ve knowed it from the first day I saw him. Since he’s come out here, he’s proved it.” He swung his chair around and faced her, and forgetting his pipe in his excitement, he told her the story he had told Randerson: how he had gone into the messhouse on the day of the killing of Pickett, for a rest and a smoke, and how, while in there he had overheard Chavis and Pickett plotting against Randerson, planning Pickett’s attack on her, mentioning Masten’s connection with the scheme. She did not open her lips until Uncle Jepson had concluded, and then she murmured a low “Oh!” and sat rigid, gripping the arms of her chair.