“It’s Rex!” ejaculated the girl. Her hands had been clasped in front of her; they dropped to her sides when she saw Randerson, and her fingers began to twist nervously into the edges of her apron. A deep breath, which was almost a sigh of relief, escaped her. “I thought it was Dad!” she said.
Evidently Masten had likewise expected the horseman to be her father, for at her exclamation he turned swiftly. His gaze met Randerson’s, his shoulders sagged a little, his eyes wavered and shifted from the steady ones that watched him.
His composure returned quickly, however, and he smiled blandly, but there was a trace of derision in his voice:
“You’ve strayed off your range, haven’t you, Randerson?” he said smoothly.
“Why, I reckon I have.” Randerson’s voice was low, almost gentle, and he smiled mildly at Hagar, who blushingly returned it but immediately looked downward.
“I expect dad must be gone somewhere—that you’re lookin’ for him,” Randerson said. “I thought mebbe I’d ketch him here.”
“He went to Red Rock this mornin’,” said the girl. She looked up, and this time met Randerson’s gaze with more confidence, for his pretense of casualness had set her fears at rest. “Mr. Masten come over to see him, too.”
The lie came hesitatingly through her lips. She looked at Masten as though for confirmation, and the latter nodded.
“Catherson is hard to catch,” he said. “I’ve been over here a number of times, trying to see him.” His voice was a note too high, and Randerson wondered whether, without the evidence of his eyes, he would have suspected Masten. He decided that he would, and his smile was a trifle grim.
“I reckon Catherson is a regular dodger,” he returned. “He’s always gallivantin’ around the country when somebody wants to see him.” He smiled gently at Hagar, with perhaps just a little pity.