— Beau Rand!"
She succeeded in getting a remarkable touch of her father's venom into the description, and she expected her escort to laugh. But to her astonishment and chagrin when she looked quickly at him she saw that there was no sign of emotion on his face. He might not have heard her.
"That description doesn't coincide with yours, I presume?" she asked.
"No, ma'am." And now his lips curved with a slight, mirthless smile. "I expect it wouldn't please Rand a heap, either."
"There is bad feeling between Rand and Father," she said; "that is evident. Do you know why?"
"I ain't never asked your father about it, ma'am," he answered.
She said nothing more until they reached a broad level beyond the edge of the timber, and were riding at a good pace through some tall bunch grass. Then she said:
"How old is Beaudry Rand?"
"I'd say about thirty."
They had crossed the broad level, and were loping their horses down a rocky, uneven slope that led to the river before the girl spoke again.
"Why do they call him 'Beau'?"
"That's his name, ma'am."
"Did you ever call him that?" she asked. "Because," she went on, noting the sudden flush that came into his cheeks, "Father says that whenever a man calls him Beau to his face he'll look at you like a tiger about to devour you!" She laughed. "You must have called him that, judging from your embarrassment — and he must have shown you that he wanted to eat you!" She leaned close to him, intensely curious. "Did you?" she asked.
"I've called him Beau."
"And what did he do?"
"Nothin'."
She straightened with a sigh. "Father said he'd 'stand' for it. If I were a man, and another man profaned my name like that, I'd certainly punish him some way. This man Rand must be a sort of spiritless fellow after all. I had hoped — when I heard about him — that he'd have more gumption."
"I reckon he's a sort of mild critter, ma'am, or he'd not stand for what's bein' said about him. But Rand ain't no trouble-hunter — if that's any use to you."
Thereafter she questioned him no further; for she had seen from the flush on his face that he must have had trouble with Rand — over the nickname, possibly — and she had no desire further to embarrass him. But her resentment over his lack of interest in her still lingered.
She dropped behind him, riding at a little distance, while they traversed the irregular slope to the edge of the deep basin, full of water, about which her father had spoken.
The basin belonged to the Three Bar — the girl recognized it, for she had ridden here many times while the Three Bar was still owned by Halsey — and she saw that what her father had said about the river was true.
When she had left the Bar S there had been considerable water in the river, but now there was a small stream of it, barely a yard wide, trickling over its rock bed into the basin. And very little water flowed from the southerly end of the basin into the almost dry bed of the river that dropped down into the gorge that ran past the Bar S.
The two horses clattered across a shallow that skirted the basin, reached a gradual rise that began at the basin's edge, and stretched to some level land westward. When they reached the crest of the rise the girl saw the Three Bar buildings farther back, at the edge of a grove of spruce and fir-balsam and cottonwood. The buildings looked no different than they had looked when she had left the country four years before, and she had some difficulty in believing that they were now inhabited by an outlaw.
For the girl's memory was retentive, and while she was riding forward toward the ranch buildings, she kept seeing mental pictures of the Halseys — of Halsey himself, and of his girls — who had chummed with her; and of the Halsey home life — which had been gentle and ideal.
So deeply interested was she with her mental pictures, she had almost forgotten the man who had escorted her out of the timber; and she did not look up until her horse came to a halt of his own volition. Then she started and looked about her, for her escort had dismounted and was standing at the head of her horse, smiling at her.
"You'll find Beaudry Rand in the house."
She reddened; for now that she was here, and the mental pictures had vanished, she realized that she had done a bold and unconventional thing in coming.
"Why," she said; "I — I don't believe, after all, that I care to make Mr. Rand's acquaintance. I thought, perhaps, that if he should happen to be around anywhere — outside, that is — I might like to see him. But to go into the house! Can't you bring him out here?"
"The last I saw of Beaudry Rand, the outlaw, he couldn't do any walkin'," said her escort. His eyes were quizzical and mocking. No doubt he was aware of her sudden trepidation.
"Hurt — do you mean?" she asked. "Well, in any case, I shall not go in."
"Scared?" said the man, derisively, as though daring her.
Her flush deepened, and a reckless impulse seized her.
"No," she declared; "I am not scared." And she laughed at the flash of admiration that lighted the man's eyes.
Dismounting—this time trailing the reins over Silver's head — she followed the man across a broad gallery and into a big, gloomy front room which, she knew, had served the Halseys as a parlor.
Her escort halted midway in the room and pointed to a small picture on the wall — a full-length photograph of a man in cowboy rigging, with a large, flowing mustache, and a cruel, drooping mouth.
Perplexed, she stared hard at the picture, and then at her escort.
"Why," she said coldly; "is this a hoax? I came in here to see Beaudry Rand, and you show me a photograph!"
He looked gravely at her. "I reckon it ain't a hoax, ma'am. That is a picture of Beaudry Rand, the outlaw. Beaudry Rand, the outlaw, is dead; an' that's all he left to remember him by — exceptin' some mighty excitin' stories that folks will tell you—mostly lies, I reckon."
"But I — I thought Beaudry Rand was alive! Father said he is alive! Why," she added, standing stiffly before him, her eyes flashing, accusation in her voice; "you told me — as much as told me he was alive! And you said he was about thirty years of age!"
"Beaudry Rand, the outlaw, is dead, ma'am," he repeated gravely. "But Beaudry Rand, his son, is a heap certain that he's a whole lot alive. An' he's about thirty, too, ma'am — as I told you. An' I'd be willin' to swear that he ain't got no pink hair — unless this is pink," he added, running the fingers of one of his hands through the short, dark-brown, virile mass that covered his head.
"An' while I ain't claimin' to be vain, I ain't admittin' that I've got a pigeon chest, an' an eagle-beak nose; an' I'm right certain I ain't no sneakin' tomcat! As for me bein' awkward, an' a lot of other things that I can't seem to remember—there bein' so much of it — why, you'll have to be the judge of that, ma'am; for you've been lookin' at me quite considerable this afternoon!"
She had started back, and now stood looking at him in dismayed astonishment.
