“I’m going, ma’am. I’ve left Red Owen in charge. I’m wishing you luck.”
“There, that’s settled,” he said, rising. “But I was hopin’ it would be different. Dreams are silly things—when they don’t come true. I’ll be soured on girls, hereafter,” he told himself, morosely.
He packed his war-bag. While engaged in this work he heard the sound of hoofbeats, but he paid no attention, though he colored uncomfortably, for he thought he had been wrong in thinking that Ruth had been in the cottonwood grove, and that she had been away and was just returning. And when he heard a soft tread downstairs he was certain that it was she, and he reddened again. He stopped his work and sat silent, then he caught the sound of footsteps on the stairs, for now he would have to face her. When he saw the door of his room begin to swing slowly back, he got up, his face grave, ready to deliver his resignation in person. And when the door swung almost open, and he saw Abe Catherson standing in the opening, his heavy pistol in hand, cocked, a finger on the trigger, he stiffened, standing silent, looking at the intruder.
Abe’s eyes still wore the frenzy that had been in them when he had been speaking with Ruth. If anything, the frenzy was intensified. His legs were trembling, the big finger on the trigger of his weapon was twitching; his lips, almost hidden by the beard, were writhing. He was like a man who had been seized by some terrible illness fighting it, resolved to conquer it through sheer effort. His voice stuck in his throat, issuing spasmodically:
“I’ve got you, Randerson,” he said, “where—I want you! I’m goin’ to kill you, empty my gun in you! You mis’able whelp!” He took two steps into the room and then halted, tearing at the collar of his shirt with his free hand, as though to aid his laboring lungs to get the air they demanded.
Randerson’s face was white and set, now. He was facing death at the hands of a man whom he had befriended many times. He did not know Catherson’s motive in coming here, but he knew that the slightest insincere word; a tone too light or too gruff, the most insignificant hostile movement, would bring about a quick pressure of the trigger of Catherson’s pistol. Diplomacy would not answer; it must be a battle of the spirit; naked courage alone could save him, could keep that big finger on the trigger from movement until he could discover Catherson’s motive in coming to kill him.
He had faced death many times, but never had he faced it at the hands of a friend, with the strong drag of regard to keep his fingers from his own weapons. Had Catherson been an enemy, he would have watched him with different feelings; he would have taken a desperate chance of getting one of his own pistols to work. But he could not kill Catherson, knowing there was no reason for it.
He had no difficulty in getting genuine curiosity into his voice, and he kept it to just the pitch necessary to show his surprise over Catherson’s threat and manner:
“What you reckonin’ to kill me for, Abe?”
“For what you done to my Hagar!” The convulsive play of Catherson’s features betrayed his nearness to action. His gun arm stiffened. He spoke in great gasps, like a man in delirium. “I want you to know—what for. You come—sneakin’—around—givin’ me—money—”