You!" she said; "you are Beaudry Rand?"
"I'm Beaudry Rand, ma'am," he said gently. And he stood near the center of the room, watching her with a grave smile as she backed through the door, across the porch, and to the steps. At the steps she turned, ran to Silver, mounted hurriedly, and sent the animal racing toward the river trail.
Chapter III. The Man Himself
FOR perhaps ten minutes following the abrupt departure of Eleanor Seddon, Beaudry Rand stood on the big gallery of the ranchhouse watching the girl as she rode steadily down the river trail. He saw the gray horse cross the long stretch of plain that began at the ranch-house; he watched while the animal fled over some bare hills; and when at last horse and rider came for an instant into bold relief on the crest of a high ridge that formed the southern sky-line, Rand smiled mirthlessly, walked into the big front room, took the picture of his father from the wall, stuck it under an arm, and strode into another room — his bedroom.
There he removed a bust photograph of a woman from the wall near his bed; and with both pictures — one under his arm and the other in his right hand—he returned to the porch and seated himself in a chair.
Holding the two pictures close together, so that the strong north light shone on them, he studied them.
Had Eleanor Seddon been there to see him, she would have marveled over the swiftly changing expression of Rand's face. For when his gaze rested on the photograph of the woman, his eyes grew wistful, gentle, and worshipful; his lips curved into a smile that was tenderly reminiscent. Again, reverently he kissed the photograph, holding it tightly to his lips, while his face paled and the love-hunger of a loyal son for his dead mother held him in a mighty clutch.
His eyes grew hard and his lips formed two straight, stiff lines when he turned the woman's picture face down on his lap and looked at the photograph of the man. His muscles grew taut, his chin went outward in a vicious thrust, and his eyes gleamed with a cold fire. He sat there, rigid and motionless, while passions, virulent and blighting, seethed through him.
It was not the first time he had held the two pictures together, comparing them; nor was it the first time the passion had gripped him. Since he had been old enough to think for himself he had known what it was to feel the blood-lust gripping him. It had been a heritage from his father — the man of the photograph — this bitter, malignant passion; and it had come upon him when he had been very young—its earliest manifestation had occurred when in his fifteenth year, back in the Durango country — where he had been born — a boy from a neighboring ranch had displeased him. The boy had drawn a gun and, half in jest, half in earnest, he had pointed it at Rand.
Young Rand had worn no gun — his mother had forbidden that. And yet, facing the weapon in the other boy's hand, Rand had yielded to the first bitter, destroying passion that had ever seized him. He had walked straight to the boy — the muzzle of the weapon menacing him, the other boy's finger wavering on the trigger — daring him to shoot.
And when he had seen the cringing indecision in the other's eyes he knocked the weapon from his hand and leaped upon him in demoniac fury.
It had been his mother who had saved him that day — saved him from committing the murder which would have made him like his outlaw father—a conscienceless killer of men.
He had not known then, of course, that he had inherited his violent passions from his father; that the queer, cynical, and malevolent feeling that came over him at sight of another man wearing a six-shooter was a yearning to kill — a lust that his father had bequeathed him.
Later, though, he knew. And during all his days — from the instant the knowledge had burst upon him until the present — he had fought the passion. He had fought it with his love for the woman of the photograph; with the memories of her gentleness, her goodness, and by centering his thoughts upon the things she had taught him.
For when he had grown old enough to understand — after his father's death — she had warned him. She had seen in him the evidence of those violent, savage impulses which had made an outlaw of his father; and she had told him that once he drew a gun to slay a fellow-man he would be lost—for he had inherited his father's terrible blood-lust.
There were men, she had said, who had slain without yielding to the passion to slay; but they were men in whom the will to withhold violence was stronger than the will to slay. He would not be of that type, she told him. And he knew she had spoken the truth.
He had known "killers"—men who had not been able to resist the impulse to slay once they had yielded to it. He had seen them cruel and venomous, taunting prospective victims, provoking them to some action that would give them an excuse to shoot.
He did not try to condone their actions — he despised the type. And yet he knew their passion for his own; and several times, when men had provoked him, and when he had been forced to draw his gun in self-protection, he had almost yielded to it.
But at those times he had kept his mother's face in mind, and thoughts of her had saved him. Twice since he had bought the Three Bar—once in Ocate and once just outside the town — he had clashed with men who had deliberately sought trouble with him. And both times, with the yearning to slay them deep in his soul, he had withheld his hand, merely wounding the men.
But though he had not yet killed a man, he knew that in a section of the country where law and order had not been established, a man's ability with the six-shooter was his only hope of clinging to life. And in his clashes with the two men of Ocate, he had exhibited his uncanny cleverness with the weapon — and the inhabitants of the town had not failed to record the incidents in the storerooms of their brains.
Looking at the two pictures now he knew that his battle against the inherited vicious impulses was not yet won. Several times he had conquered them when he had been on the point of yielding; but he knew that one day, if the provocation came, he would yield. That was why, when the bitter mood came upon him — as it had today—he took his mother's picture from the wall and studied it, certain that he would get from it the encouragement he needed.
And at this instant he was in need of all the encouragement the study of his mother's picture could give him. He had never liked Amos Seddon; and now, with the knowledge that Seddon had lied about him, a bitter rage had seized him.
He knew why Seddon had lied about him. Seddon knew that he had always been straight; that the Three Bar outfit — himself included — was composed of men not less honest than the men of other ranch outfits. But Seddon no doubt was possessed of a fear that his daughter would discover the secret of the boy — that she would learn of his guilt through him; and Seddon had deliberately poisoned the girl's mind against him.
That was the reason Rand had not revealed his identity to the girl sooner. He had been on the point of telling her when she had referred to him as an "outlaw." And because Rand knew that no one in the vicinity knew of "his father's reputation—for if they had he would have heard of it in the four }< T ears he had been at the Three Bar — he had been certain the girl had meant that he, himself, was the outlaw to whom she referred.
He had permitted her to talk, for he had been eager to discover just what Seddon had said. And he had not been greatly surprised when the girl had told him that Link Compton's purpose in organizing the vigilance committee was to get evidence against him, for he was aware that Link Compton hated him as heartily.
That hatred had nothing tangible upon which
