Hagar covered her face with her hands and sank into the grass beside the path, crying.
“By God, Randerson!” blustered Masten, “what do you mean? This is going too—”
A look silenced him—choked the words in his throat, and he turned without protest, at Randerson’s jerk of the head toward the ford, and walked without looking back, Randerson following on Patches.
When they reached the narrow path that led to the crossing, just before entering the brush Randerson looked back. Hagar was still lying in the grass near the path. A patch of sunlight shone on her, and so clear was the light that Randerson could plainly see the spasmodic movement of her shoulders. His teeth clenched tightly, and the muscles of his face corded as they had done in the Flying W ranchhouse the day that Aunt Martha had told him of Pickett’s attack on Ruth.
He watched silently while Masten got on his horse, and then, still silent, he followed as Masten rode down the path, across the river, through the break in the canyon wall and up the slope that led to the plains above. When they reached a level space in some timber that fringed the river, Masten attempted to urge his horse through it, but was brought to a halt by Randerson’s voice:
“We’ll get off here, Masten.”
Masten turned, his face red with wrath.
“Look here, Randerson,” he bellowed; “this ridiculous nonsense has gone far enough. I know, now, that you were spying on us. I don’t know why, unless you’d selected the girl yourself—”
“That’s ag’in you too,” interrupted Randerson coldly. “You’re goin’ to pay.”
“You’re making a lot of fuss about the girl,” sneered Masten. “A man—”