He gave her shoulder a slight pressure, and turning his head, smiled triumphantly.
Later, when they had walked to a far corner of the pasture, talking confidentially and laughing a little, he halted and drew her close to him.
“Ruth,” he said, gently, “the world is going very well for you now. You are settled here, you like it, and things are running smoothly. Why not take a ride over to Lazette one of these days. There is a justice of the peace over there. It won’t need to be a formal affair, you know. Just on the quiet—a sort of a lark. I have waited a long time,” he coaxed.
She smiled at his earnestness. But that spark which he had tried in vain to fan into flame still smoldered. She felt no responsive impulse; a strange reluctance dragged at her.
“Wait, Willard,” she said, “until after the fall round-up. There is no hurry. We are sure of each other.”
They went on toward the ranchhouse. When they passed the bunkhouse, and through the open door saw Randerson and Uncle Jepson sitting on a bench smoking, Ruth quickened her step, and Masten made a grimace of hatred.
Inside the bunkhouse, Uncle Jepson, who had been speaking, paused long enough to wrinkle his nose at Masten. Randerson’s expression did not change; it was one of grave expectancy.
“You was sayin’—” he prompted, looking at Uncle Jepson.
“That the whole darned deal was a frame-up,” declared Uncle Jepson. “I was settin’ in the messhouse along in the afternoon of the day of the killin’—smokin’ an’ thinkin’, but most of the time just settin’, I cal’late, when I heard Chavis an’ Pickett talkin’ low an’ easy outside. They was a crack in the wall, an’ I plastered one ear up ag’in it, an’ took in all they was sayin’. First, they was talkin’ about the bad feelin’ between you an’ Pickett. Pickett said he wanted to ‘git’ you, an’ that Masten wanted to get you out of the way because of what you’d done to him at Calamity. But I reckon that ain’t the real reason; he’s got some idea that you an’ Ruth—”