At breakfast his eyes dwelt much upon Louise Dent’s face, gentle and pleasant. He had always liked her, and since her coming on this visit she had seemed very attractive. He knew she had strength and poise of character and a nature refined and cheerful. These qualities in her, with a certain genial, unobtrusive companionableness, had long ago won his warm friendship. But was there not in her steady gray eyes a hint of passionate depths he had never thought of before? It stirred him so deeply that for a little while, as they lingered over the breakfast table, he forgot the other facts of life, noting the faint rose flush in her cheeks, the graceful turn of her wrists, and the soft whiteness of her throat as she threw back her head and laughed. And Lucy loved her so devotedly! If she were willing to marry him their household would surely be harmonious and happy.
Lucy fluttered beside him to the gate, her arm in his, as she chattered to him of the funny things her Chinese cook had been saying and doing. She lingered there, her eyes following his figure, until he turned, half a block away, to wave his hat in response to her farewell handkerchief.
By the time he reached the foot of the hill Bancroft’s mind was once more engrossed with the need of knowing whether or not he was at last secure from ignominious exposure. He no longer disguised from himself the fact that news of Conrad’s death would be most welcome. He looked eagerly up and down the main streets; there was no sign of excitement. Had nothing happened, then? But it was still early; moreover, news of the affair might not reach the town for a day or two. The sound of horses’ feet coming at a swift trot down the street on the other side of the stream made his heart beat quickly. He lingered at the door of his bank until the horseman came into view under the big cottonwoods at the next corner. It was Red Jack from the Socorro Springs ranch. At once his heart leaped to certainty. He turned to enter the bank, but stopped and looked back, undecidedly. Red Jack had not dismounted, but had drawn rein in front of the court-house at the next corner, and was sitting there quietly, looking up and down the road as if expecting somebody. He led a saddled horse. Perhaps he was to take a physician back with him. But he seemed in no haste, and in his manner there was neither excitement nor anxiety. Bancroft could wait no longer to learn what had happened. With hands in pockets he sauntered down the street.
“Hello, Jack,” he said indifferently to the waiting horseman. “You’re in town early this morning.”
“I sure hiked along from the ranch early enough,” the cowboy replied. “The boss hired a new man last night; and I had to come over this morning after him.”
Bancroft’s eyes were on the cigar he was taking from his pocket, which he handed to the cowboy, saying idly, “Why, he intended last night to carry the man behind him. Did he change his mind? The man was a Mexican, wasn’t he?”
“Y-e-s; a measly coyote! The boss didn’t bring him last night because he thought it would be too hard on Brown Betty to carry double. I wonder if mebbe that ain’t my man comin’ down the street right now! I’ve done forgot his name; do you happen to know it, Mr. Bancroft?”
“I think it’s José Gonzalez. He came here from Dellmey Baxter, who recommended him to me as a first-rate cowboy.”
“Well, he’ll have to be a peach if he strikes the boss’s gait,” Red Jack rejoined, motioning to the Mexican.
Bancroft walked back to his place of business with brows knitted and mouth drawn into grim lines. His mind was acting rapidly and ruthlessly. The sudden collapse of his house of cards, the knowledge that danger was still as imminent as ever, left him savage with desire for Curtis Conrad’s death, or, rather, for the delectable land that lay beyond it. Nobody but this young hothead with his insensate desire for revenge knew or cared anything about that old affair now. With him out of the way there would be no danger from anybody or anything. Why wasn’t the man sensible enough to take the money he was willing to pay, and be satisfied? Perhaps the receipt of another check or two would soften his purpose; it was worth trying. And—there was still the Mexican! Baxter had surely said something to him, and the fellow seemed to understand that he, also—but he had said nothing about it, and whatever the creature suspected was his own inference. Evidently the Mexican did suspect something and had some purpose in his mind. With Conrad so intent upon his destruction had he not every right to protect himself and his child? Of course he had, he told himself fiercely, and what means he might use were his own affair.