reckon it's me, ma'am," he grinned. "Looks like you ain't figurin' to lose any time workin' on Bud."
"Poor little fellow," she said, smoothing Bud's short hair. "He needs someone to care for him. It seems Aunt Betsey has never heard him — er — use profanity. Besides, she has plenty to do to take care of the house. When I got here some time ago, Bud was sitting on the gatepost there, swearing horribly."
"He's a wolf at it, ma'am," stated Rand gravely; "he's a dyed-in-the-wool pirate for cussin'. Why, ma'am, I've heard him slingin' words around that would scare a steer off the range."
"How awful!" exclaimed Miss Seddon. "And he is such a nice little fellow, too!"
"As to his cussin'," resumed Rand, his gaze unwavering as it met the lady's; "there's a heap to do in the reformin' line. Teachin' is what he wants, ma'am — plenty of teachin'."
"I'll do what I can, of course," stated the lady. "But you might help, too. Why, he swears horribly!"
"I was helpin' him only last night," assured Rand, without winking an eyelash. "What he needs is someone like you, ma'am, to wean him from them terrible habits of cussin'."
However, Bud received little instruction that day. Indeed, it seemed to Bud that he was being sadly neglected. For though he felt the lady's hand gripping his, and at times felt her fingers running lingeringly through his hair, he became aware that her attention was centered chiefly upon his father.
He watched closely, unnoticed by both, and saw the lady's eyes glow in those moments when Rand was not looking at her, when he seemed, his face slightly flushed, to be gravely thinking. But always, Bud noticed, she drooped her eyes when Rand turned to look at her. And at such times Rand's eyes did the glowing.
It was puzzling to Bud; he would have wished their eyes to glow when both were looking.
Later, Bud was lifted from his comfortable position on the lady's lap and placed upon the top step of the porch. He heard them speak of "riding," and, receiving a final tender patting on the crown of his head, he was left disconsolate and brooding on the porch, to watch Silver and Midnight lope away toward the timber, their riders laughing and talking, seemingly having forgotten that such a thing as profanity had ever been mentioned.
Bud watched them until they vanished behind a ridge in the distance; then he got down from the porch, walked to the corral gate, climbed the post, and began, with grave deliberation, to voice his opinion of the sorrel horse.
Chapter XVII. A Fresh Deal
FOR a time, following the departure of Rand, Link Compton stood in the rear room of the Gilt Edge talking with his friends. There was a smile on Compton's face as he talked, and his eyes were glinting with a bland good humor; for he had publicly defied Rand, and he was filled with a grim amusement over the occurrence. The big man could be engaging when he desired, and now his friends grinned sympathetically with him, remembering his icy composure when facing the passion in Rand's eyes.
Compton did not speak of Rand. When an admirer mentioned the occurrence, Compton smilingly rebuked him.
But after Kinney's hand had been attended to, and the gunfighter and Compton were in the street, walking toward the sheriff's office, Compton looked at the other, a gleam of venomous disgust in his eyes.
"You're a hell of a gunslinger!" he charged. "Lost your nerve, eh? You stood there shivering like a coyote in a blizzard, and let him bust you wide open! You didn't even get started!"
The reason Kinney hadn't got "started" was a mystery to the gunfighter himself. Even now, having had some time to meditate upon the miracle, he was mystified. He brushed his good hand uncertainly over his eyes, as though to dispel the blank amazement that still afflicted him.
"That ain't never happened to me before," he muttered. "He had me clean flustered. I didn't seem to know I had any guns on me; an' when I did get goin', it was too late."
Compton laughed grimly, contempt of Kinney blazing in his eyes.
"Well," he said, "we lost that trick. There's no use whining over it."
They found Webster in his office, and they went in, Kinney dropping himself disconsolately in a chair, Compton standing, huge anil furious, beside Webster's desk.
"Webster," he said coldly, meeting the other's gaze, "somebody peached. Who was it?"
Webster spread both hands upon the desk, the palms upward, in eloquent denial of all responsibility.
"How in hell should I know?" he growled. "The first I knowed everything was goin' to smithereens was when I seen Kinney standin' there like a snubbin' post, his eyes poppin' out of his head — scared plumb stiff. An' Rand, grinnin' like a tiger, throwin' a scrap of paper at his number 'leven's!"
Compton looked at Kinney. "What was written on that paper?"
"It was a bill of sale for that Midnight horse — from Seddon," growled Kinney.
Compton's face paled with rage. He strode out of the office and mounted his horse. Riding southward many miles, he encountered the Bar S outfit.
Seddon was not with the outfit.
Compton waited, expecting him. But Seddon did not come that day; and Compton, reluctant to visit the Bar S ranchhouse for fear Eleanor Seddon might overhear some of the vitriolic things he intended to say to her father, stayed with the outfit.
It was not until sunrise the next day that Seddon appeared. And then, drawing the Bar S owner aside, Compton learned the story of Rand's appearance at the Bar S to demand the bill of sale. But the information came after Compton had charged Seddon with disloyalty to him.
With rage still gripping him, Compton abruptly left Seddon and rode back to town.
He spent the greater part of the day in the saddle, riding to the Two Link from the Bar S camp, and talking long and earnestly with his range boss. Then, late in the afternoon, he was standing near the front door of the Gilt Edge talking with Labrue, the proprietor, a suave, smooth-spoken, dark-faced man, with sleek, black hair and steady, cruel eyes.
He laughed harshly while Compton was talking with him.
"So, she did that, eh? Queered the whole deal. I was wondering if it wasn't something like that. What? Sure! I don't give a damn what you do to her!"
Smiling mirthlessly, Compton walked through the barroom, strode across the dance-hall, and climbed the stairs to the second story. There were a number of doors oft" a hall, but Compton did not hesitate, pausing before one and knocking softly upon it.
When the door swung open an instant later—just a trifle, to permit a woman's face to peer outward inquiringly— Compton placed a shoulder against it, and forced his way into the room, closing the door behind him, barring it, and grinning sneeringly at Lucia Morell who, arrayed in a loose gown, her hair disheveled, her eyes gleaming with fury over the ruthlessness of Compton's entrance, stood back at a little distance from the door, glaring at him.
"Clever — eh, Lucia?" said Compton, his lips smiling, though his eyes were gleaming with a ferocity that was unmistakable. "Ha, ha!
