eyes of the man of the photograph. For they were not like his father's; there was nothing cruel in them. On the contrary, they were wise, subtle, humorous eyes; the hard steel-gray of them softened by a luminous glow that hinted of gentleness.
But there was something more in them, too, she knew — a something that baffled her — a glint of recklessness mingled with the gentleness she knew was there — a slumbering something that convinced her he was an enigma not to be solved at a glance — or perhaps not to be solved at all.
"Well," he said, "mebbe your horse wasn't runnin'; but from where I stood it seemed to me he was doin' somethin' that looked mighty like runnin'."
"So you watched me?" she said.
"Why sure, ma'am," he grinned.
"You had been watching me in the timber, too!" she said, remembering that he had told her that; and remembering, too, that since it had turned out that he was not employed by her father he could have no excuse for spying upon her in the timber. She had not forgiven him for that!
"I reckon I've got to do some explainin' about that," he told her gravely. "I saw you comin' toward the timber. I was mendin' a saddle-cinch on Midnight, an' I saw you headin' for the timber. I didn't know then that you was Eleanor Seddon — though mebbe I had a mighty strong suspicion — you comin' from this direction, an' me havin' got a glimpse of you the day you left Ocate to go to school at Denver.
"That timber is alive with wolves, ma'am; an' you was alone. So I jumped on Midnight an' moseyed around, keepin' you in sight. But mostly, I was keep in' in sight that wolf I salivated. He'd picked up your trail mighty soon after you got into the timber, an' I wasn't allowin' I wanted him to get that kind of a dinner."
"He did look hungry," she said, shuddering.
He laughed lowly, and stepped toward the door, for now that Seddon had set him right with the girl he felt he had no right to linger longer—much as he wished he might.
For the girl had made a deep impression upon him. The lure of her had seized him; he felt its strength; he was aware of the gripping desire that had fastened upon him. His experience with women had been elemental — he had seen few good ones and had avoided the bad ones. However, his lack of experience with them had not prevented him visioning an ideal; and he knew the ideal was in the flesh before him.
As a matter of fact, it had been upon the glimpse of the girl, four years before, that he had fashioned his picture of the ideal that was to rule him, and during the elapsed interval she had achieved that perfection of which he dreamed.
Yet he strongly suspected she was not for him. For Fate, in the shape of the boy — Seddon's boy—had erected a barrier he could not destroy. It had aroused Seddon's malignant enmity, it had made thoughts of an agreement between him and Seddon impossible. And he also strongly suspected that the girl would be influenced by her father's attitude toward him, even if Seddon said no word to her about him.
For, though Seddon might not talk, he would inevitably betray his hatred with glances or gestures, or by inference or innuendo or abstract reference. There were many ways he could show her that he did not like Rand.
And so Rand entertained no false expectations. That was why, when he looked at the girl now, his gaze was direct and steady. Without the conviction that he could never attain his desires he could not have met her gaze with equanimity, for the passion in his heart would have betrayed him. A grim humor kept him from betraying himself now; it kept his face from reddening, as it must have reddened if there were no obstacles and he had been able to stand before her in the role of suitor.
The humor was visible in the slight smile that wreathed his lips as he looked at her; the grin grew when he glanced around the room and saw that Seddon had deserted them. At that instant Seddon was standing on the front porch gazing ferociously into the gulf of distance, his soul warped with the bitterness of the rage that had seized him.
Rand's gaze returned to the girl; his voice was gentle and drawling:
"Why, your dad ain't here any more!"
She turned swiftly. "I hadn't noticed!" she said. "That is hardly polite, is it? Do you want to talk with him?"
"Don't bother," he smiled, "we had finished our talk." He opened the outside door and stood on the threshold, looking back at her, his eyes gleaming with an emotion that she could not fathom.
"Your daddy ain't a heap well," he said. "He was tellin' me, before you come in. It's his heart, I reckon — it's sort of fluttery an' uncertain. At his age a man ought to take a day off once in a while — takin' things easy. He looks sort of excited an' touchy. He's been ridin' too much, mebbe. If I was you I'd kind of hint that he'd ought to hang around the house today—not goin' anywhere. I've told him the same thing, an' when I'm gone you can remind him of it."
An expression of concern leaped into her eyes.
"Do you think it is serious?" she questioned. "Why, I hadn't thought — or noticed. But if you think "
He laughed. "I reckon it ain't serious — not if he's careful. You tell him that, so he won't be forgettin' what I told him."
She was looking closely at him, and she saw a subtle, humorous gleam in his eyes.
"Oh," she said, with a relieved smile, "you are only joking!"
"Sure," he laughed, "that's it." It was a joke, though a grim one. He wanted to spare her, and he felt that by arousing her concern for her father — and thus inducing her to keep him at the ranchhouse — he might prevent the tragedy that was sure to follow if Seddon disregarded his warning. For he meant what he had said to Seddon.
Because of Lucia Morell's warning he knew his own life was threatened; and if Seddon should apprize Compton, Webster, and Kinney of the fact that their intentions were known to him, they would be certain to arrange another trap for him.
His warning to Seddon was no idle one. Beneath the mask of mild gentleness on his face as he looked at the girl was an implacable determination to kill her father should the latter apprize his enemies of his knowledge of their scheme to murder him.
The violent, destroying passions he had inherited from his father were tugging at him as he stood there in the doorway. But the girl saw none of them; they were hidden deep, like a slow fire smoldering in the bowels of the earth, ready to belch forth with the raging fury of a volcano.
She saw only the baffling humor in his eyes, and she decided that between him and her father was some jocose secret, an aspect of which Rand wanted to impress upon her parent through her.
"Very well," she said, her fears at rest; "I shall warn him."
She followed him outside, and when he halted near the door and smiled at her she stood silent and watched him, for she felt he had something more to say to her.
"I reckon — now that you know I ain't what you thought I was — that you won't be afraid to ride over to the Three Bar sometime. It ain't what it was when the Halseys used to live there, but we'll be glad to treat you to the best we've got."
"Then you know I used to visit the Three Bar?"
"Halsey told me." His grin broadened. "There ain't no girls at the Three Bar now; but there's Aunt Betsey an' Uncle Ephraim an' Bud could entertain you right royal. An' if you're still scared of guys with pink hair an' such, why, I'll just mosey into the brush some-wheres where you can't look
