his daughter. The shoulder that rested against the door-jamb was slightly drooped, the left arm hanging limply: the thumb of the right hand was hooked in the cartridge belt that encircled Seddon's waist. That hand, too, was limp, and there was a glum pout on the man's lips.
His thoughts were not pleasant, for they ran to Beaudry Rand, his neighbor, with a virulent savagery that made him ache to use the gun, whose stock lay so near to his limp fingers. Some day, he told himself, he would use the gun on Beaudry Rand.
It was not that Rand had done anything to him, particularly; he hated Rand for the things that Rand had not done. That paradox was vague and mysterious to those who did not know; but the torture of it was that Seddon feared some persons — besides Rand — did know. And there was not a time when Seddon rode into Ocate that he did not seem to feel there were many of the town's citizens who were secretly laughing at him. And he suspected that those citizens in possession of the secret were wondering why he did not take the boy from Rand.
To be sure, he had kept his affair with the dance-hall girl a secret — so far as any affair of that character may be kept a secret — and he knew he should not have deserted the girl when he did. But the dread and fear of discovery had seized him, and he had taken the stage to Lazette, and from Lazette he had been whisked westward to San Francisco by rail, where he had spent two weeks trying to convince himself that the girl alone was to blame.
On his return to Ocate he found that the girl had died and that the boy had been adopted by Beaudry Rand.
For a while after returning to Ocate Seddon had wondered if the girl had talked. But if she had talked, the citizens of the town were not eager to disseminate the burden of her last words; and as the days passed Seddon began to believe the girl had said nothing. And then one day, meeting Beaudry Rand on the river trail, Seddon discovered that the girl had talked — to Rand.
For Rand's words and manner had been most convincing. The picture Rand made that day was still vivid in Seddon's mind; even now the reviewing of the scene bloated Seddon's face poisonously.
"Seddon, I want a straight talk with you!" had been Rand's greeting. The mirthless smile on the man's lips, and the glittering contempt in his eyes warned Seddon that the other knew of his guilt.
Seddon's bluster had no effect. "She's a liar if she's mixed me up in that deal!" he sneered. "Why, hell's fire! If a man was to be blamed —"
Rand's smile grew saturnine.
"Not that it makes any difference," he interrupted. "I just want you to know — that I know. An' I want you to know this! I'm takin' the boy—understand? He's mine because I adopted him — no one else wantin' to take the responsibility. He ain't to blame because he's here; an' I'm goin' to keep him from knowin' that his daddy is a sneak an' a coyote! I reckon that's all. You can travel when you're ready!"
But that conversation did not end the incident — for Seddon. For so long as Beaudry Rand was alive — if Rand was the only person the dance-hall girl had taken into her confidence — just so long would Seddon be in danger of discovery. For Rand, despite his declared intention of keeping the incident a secret, might talk.
And, though Seddon's wife had died some years before and he had no concern for public opinion in Ocate, he did not want his daughter to know — the girl he was now watching — who stood in the knee-high sagebrush that swept away from the front of the ranchhouse; her tall, lissom figure clear-cut in the white light of the morning, its gracefully rounded lines revealed by the pressure of the slight breeze that whipped her skirts; her hair in a tangle of ravishing disorder; her cheeks suffused with the bloom of health; her eyes drinking in the beauty of the vast, green world that stretched from her feet across the interminable miles to a raggedly picturesque horizon.
His daughter!
Seddon did not want her to know. This was the beginning of her fourth day at home—at the Bar S — which she had not seen in as many years — and during those four days Seddon had delicately and subtly probed her character—to discover traits that had both pleased and awed him.
First, he had found a sturdy, uncompromising moral structure with no flexibility toward error. He knew she had inherited that attitude from her mother. And he had found her with an astonishingly clear vision of life and a conception of the meaning of life that had rather startled him, so greatly was it at variance with his own ideas.
"I know, Daddy," she had said when he had attempted to impart some of the wisdom of his experience to her, "if a person has clean thoughts there will be little danger of error."
Seddon had not gone very far in that direction; the girl's clear eyes and straight gaze disconcerted him — made him think of the dance-hall girl and the boy — his boy!
After that conversation with his daughter, Seddon became convinced that if she should learn of his escapade with the dance-hall girl she could never give him that' affection and respect for which he yearned.
And this morning as he stood watching the girl, he considered Beaudry Rand and the paradox. The things Rand had not done were glaringly apparent. Rand had not treated him fairly. Rand had no business to interfere, for it was not Rand's affair. And even if Rand had interfered he should have consulted Seddon before he had done anything. No matter what he had done, the boy was his, and he should have had a word to say about his future.
Rand had not consulted him; Rand had neglected to consider him at all. And Rand would hold the threat of exposure over him, he knew; and if Rand should meet his daughter, and become acquainted with her; if a contrary fate should throw them together upon terms of intimacy — Seddon's brain rioted with passion, and his thoughts became abysmal.
That could happen. A man and a girl — neighbors!
But it must not happen. Seddon paled as he left the bunkhouse door and walked to where his daughter stood.
He stood for a time behind her, looking at her, watching her in silence as, unconscious of his presence, she looked far out over the rolling sweep of country at the dim and ragged horizon.
"Ellie!" he said softly.
The girl turned, and flashed a smile at him.
"It's great to be home, Daddy!" Elation and a sheer joy of living were in her eyes, in her swelling breast, and in the glow of her cheeks as she stood erect, with head thrown back, her body rigid, inhaling the sage-scented breeze.
"You like it, eh?" he said with a smile, though with no enthusiasm.
"Like it? I love it! I feel that I have been cheated out of four years of my life!"
"No one cheats himself by goin' to school. It's made a woman of you, Ellie."
"I feel older, Daddy," she laughed. And then she laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "Do you think I am a woman now?"
"Certain."
"And 'Ellie,'" she smiled deprecatingly, "is a girl's e — the name of a young — a very young — girl. And nickname—" She paused and met Seddon's gaze.
"Eleanor," surrendered Seddon. "I reckon I'll have to get used to it." He grinned at her. "This is different — after Denver?" he suggested.
"Different? Oh, yes. But it hasn't changed, Daddy!" She gripped his shoulder hard and wheeled him around so that he faced the river trail. Both could see it, winding around low hills, up rises, disappearing into depressions, reappearing again, narrowing as it receded,
