had no right to permit me to say that!" she declared. "You know it was your fault!"
"Well," he said, "there ain't no harm done."
"Aunt Betsey and Uncle Ephraim and Bud," she said. "They sound good, don't they? They hint of sturdiness and old-fashioned reliability."
"They're all wool an' a yard wide," he stated, his eyes glowing. "My mother's sister an' her husband. They was with me in Durango — after my folks died; an' they've been with me since. Neither of them has got any vicious notions."
"And Bud?"
He regarded her steadily. "Bud is an orphan," he said. "His mother is dead, an' his father didn't feel responsible enough to take care of him. I'm tickled to do it. Bud's a humdinger, ma'am," he added with an enthusiastic leap in his voice; "he's the greatest kid that ever struck this neck of the woods. An' he ain't got no faults — barrin' his cussin'."
"Cussing!" She betrayed her amazement with a blush and a startled look at him. "Do you mean that he curses?"
"Some," he grinned. "I can't coax it out of him. He don't cuss nothin' mean — it's just words that the boys teach him when I ain't around. An' he's so smart that he picks them up, just like a parrot. I'd thrash them out of him — them swear words, I mean — if I thought I could!"
"Oh, don't do that!" she objected. "I'm sure it wouldn't do any good! Why don't you try to shame him! Can't Aunt Betsey do something—or Uncle Ephraim?"
"They've done all they can, I reckon. He just won't listen. I'm a heap scared that if somethin' ain't done he'll turn into a pirate or somethin', ma'am. An' I've thought, since you come home, that mebbe if you'd ride over once in a while you'd be able to teach him better manners. It would sure be a shame to let him grow up to be a cussin', swaggerin' pirate."
"Well, I certainly shall come over!" she declared.
"That's right, ma'am — he'll need you. Why, I reckon right now that he's pretty near hopeless."
"How old is Bud?" Her eyes were wide with interest now, and a certain crafty gleam in Rand's eyes was battling with the elation in them. He concealed both expressions by veiling his eyes with his lashes.
"He's between four and five, ma'am — an' big for his age. If it wasn't for his cussin' he'd be pretty much of a man. I reckon I'll have to salivate some of the boys if they don't stop teachin' him them things!"
"Well," she said determinedly, "it is time something was done!"
"You could cure him if anyone can," he said, glancing covertly at her, his voice heavy with conviction.
"Then you'll take a whirl at him, ma'am?" he asked presently, when she did not comment upon his last statement.
"Of course. It would be a shame to let him continue in that habit!"
"So it would, ma'am."
His voice trailed off to an expressionless, mechanical monotone. She was looking directly at him when he spoke, and she saw that his lips had not moved, and she knew he had spoken almost automatically, hardly knowing what he had been saying.
Startled and puzzled, she saw that his gaze was directed toward the front of the house. She turned swiftly, to see her father standing at the edge of the front porch. The man's face was pale, his eyes were gleaming with a bitter light, and one hand was resting on his cartridge belt just above the butt of his pistol; the other, holding a brier pipe with a smoking bowl, was hooked in the belt at his left side.
He was standing slightly sidewise, the pipe projecting from his fingers. He did not seem to be paying any attention to Rand and his daughter.
But Rand knew he had been paying attention. At the instant Rand had begun to utter the words, "So it would, ma'am," Seddon had dropped his right hand to the butt of his pistol.
He had heard every word spoken by his daughter and Rand; he had stationed himself at the porch edge purposely, to hear what Rand would have to say about the boy. And he had determined that if Rand mentioned the boy he would kill him.
And Rand had mentioned the boy. However, the black passion that had swept over Seddon had been so strong as to almost overwhelm him, and he had stood for a long time fighting to regain control of himself. For the dread fear of Rand's deadly marksmanship was in his heart, and he knew that when he drew his gun he must use it quickly and accurately.
And at the instant Rand became aware of Seddon's presence at the edge of the porch, Seddon had decided that the time had come.
Seddon's fingers were encircling the butt of his pistol when Rand moved. His right hand went to his hip with the rapidity of a striking rattlesnake, flashed upward with the same swiftness and precision. The gleam of his pistol and its crashing report came simultaneously.
Seddon's pipe flew to pieces in his fingers, the stem alone remaining. And Seddon staggered, looking foolishly downward at the remains of the pipe, his eyes vacuous, his mouth open. He seemed to have forgotten the gun at his hip; and he turned his face toward Rand and the girl, looking at them as though amazed to see them.
For an instant the girl stood breathless, both hands pressed tightly over her bosom, looking from Rand to her father, a dread horror in her eyes. But when she saw that Rand did not intend to shoot again; that there was a grin on his face — as though the whole thing were a joke, that he was heartily enjoying—she darted to her father and looked him over, searching for a wound.
She saw no wound — Seddon gave no indication of having been wounded, for he was standing erect, both hands at his side, undoubtedly untouched by the bullet. And, indeed, the girl had seen where the bullet had struck; she still saw the evidence in the shape of the pipestem that Seddon's fingers still gripped.
"You're not hurt, Father?" she demanded, seizing one of his arms and twisting him around so that he faced her. He shook his head negatively, and the girl left him and walked to Rand, standing before him, her eyes blazing with passion.
"Perhaps you can tell me just what you meant by shooting at my father!" she demanded.
He looked at her steadily, the smile on his face becoming enigmatic.
"I reckon I can," he said; "but I won't. Mebbe I shot the pipe out of his hand to warn him that he has a weak heart, an' that if he goes to gettin' reckless he'll die a heap sudden. An' then mebbe I didn't. I don't feel none talkative right now, an' explanations don't come natural to me. Mebbe your dad will do the explainin'."
He grinned felinely at Seddon, who gave him a pallid sneer; then he looked at the girl, in his eyes the baffling humor that had puzzled her all along.
"I was hopin'," he said evenly. Then he paused, to continue almost instantly: "I reckon Bud will go plumb to the devil now!"
He wheeled and walked to the stable, to vanish around a corner of it. Presently he reappeared, on Midnight, and loped the animal over the river trail toward the Three Bar.
Chapter IX. Time to Clean up
HOWEVER, Rand did not go to the Three Bar. He rode the river
