the man at first sight — when he had met him in Ocate soon after he had come to the Three Bar; and he had seen in Compton's eyes at that time the venomous, smoldering dislike that had endured until now.
And the times when Rand fought hardest against his savage impulse to slay was during those moments when some accident threw him in Link Compton's presence. He knew that if the time ever came when Compton provoked him to the point of drawing his gun, he would kill him and run the risk of yielding entirely to the passion that he was trying to crush.
He had heard enough from the girl to convince him that Seddon and Compton were plotting against him; but, strangely, as he sat in the chair looking at the two pictures his thoughts grew less vicious, and he found himself thinking of the girl.
He had been watching her while she was riding in the timber. He had heard from one of his men that she was back from school, and he had wanted to see her again. For on a day about four years before—just after he had bought the Three Bar—he had seen her boarding the stage at Ocate, to begin her journey to Denver, and the picture she made at that time had remained vivid in his memory.
And there had been times when he wondered if it had not been thoughts of her that influenced him to adopt Seddon's illegitimate boy and to keep secret the identity of the boy's father.
Certainly he had not kept silent on Seddon's account. Nor was he absolutely certain that thoughts of the daughter's mental distress — should she discover her father's guilt — had influenced him. He was afflicted with a growing conviction that he had yielded to a selfish impulse in adopting the boy; for in his heart, since the death of his mother, had reigned an acute hunger for something to love — something innocent and helpless — which would not be found among the women he had seen.
And when the dance-hall girl had sent for him — with rare accuracy selecting from among the many men of her acquaintance the one most likely to prove dependable in the crisis that had overtaken her — he had promptly and without question accepted the charge.
He had not even inquired the name of the boy's father — that information had been given him voluntarily, together with the injunction that he should not let Amos Seddon have the boy, even for an instant.
That had been something more than four years ago — just after Amos Seddon's wife had died; and Rand had known of Seddon's guilt before Eleanor Seddon had left the Bar S for Denver. And he had wondered then, as he wondered now, what she would say if she knew.
Then as Rand's thoughts went to the boy the savage passions that had held him for some time gradually subsided, and for a space he sat silent in the chair, the photographs forgotten, a huge grin on his face. A few minutes later he got up, went into the house, and hung the pictures on the wall in their places; and then, still grinning, he strode into the kitchen, where the boy, in a clean blue gingham pinafore, was shooting wooden Indians with a toy pistol, and shouting "Pow!" each time he pulled the trigger of the imitation weapon.
Seated in a chair near a table was a kindly faced woman far past middle age. She was peeling potatoes and smiling benignly at the boy over the rims of her spectacles when Rand entered. In the kitchen, smoking a brier pipe, which he held between tight, withered lips as he talked to the boy, was a man who was slightly older than the woman.
Rand's smile included them all as he entered, but he went instantly to the boy and stretched out on the floor beside him.
"Knockin' 'em over, eh, Bud?" he said. "Well, darn 'em, if they're like some Apaches I used to know they deserve it!" And then, until the woman, whom he called "Aunt Betsey," announced that supper was ready, he helped the boy slaughter the red savages — though the slaughter was not characterized by the grimly bitter passions that had held him when on the porch he had been studying the two pictures.
Chapter IV. A Woman's Perversness
AT ABOUT the time Rand and Eleanor Seddon were mounting their horses to ride to the Three Bar — after Rand had killed the wolf — Link Compton was riding across the Three Bar range in a southerly direction.
Compton knew that Eleanor Seddon had arrived in Ocate some days ago, and he was eager to see her — for he had been forced to listen much to Seddon's eulogies of her, and his interest had been awakened. But he did not wish to seem precipitate by visiting the Bar S so soon after the girl's arrival, so he had delayed.
As a matter of fact, Link Compton was not addicted to haste — in anything. He was big, massive, well proportioned; was in excellent physical condition; and the set of his head indicated that he had supreme confidence in himself.
He was handsome, though his features were rather heavy and sensuous. If Compton had affected to be fashionable in his attire — or if he had been scrupulously neat and particular — he would not have made so attractive a figure, for fine raiment would have accentuated the impression of sensuality which one was only vaguely conscious of in his present garb.
That Compton seemed to know this was indicated by the fact that he habitually attired himself in a careless fashion, though he was careful to be certain — when in the presence of women, at least — that his soft felt sombrero was creased exactly right, that his flowing tie was arranged so that it imparted the impression of negligent unconcern; also, he saw to it that his boots were always well polished and his face cleanly shaven.
And yet Compton did not affect any mannerisms; he was always perfectly natural; and though his movements were deliberate, he somehow gave the impression that he could move quickly enough on occasion, and that tremendous force and virility lay masked beneath his outward deliberation.
That several reckless and unlawful citizens of Ocate and the surrounding country feared and respected him, suggested that there had been manifestations of the character that was hidden beneath his calm exterior.
Compton did not ride the river trail to cross Rand's land; he took the back trail — which intersected the Ocate trail at a point about two miles west of the Three Bar ranchhouse, and about the middle of the afternoon he was sitting on his horse before the front door of the Bar S, convinced that the house was deserted.
Frowning and disappointed, Compton got off his horse, walked across the porch, and knocked on the door. There was no response, and his frown deepening, Compton opened the door, entered the house, and went from one room to another, half expecting Seddon or his daughter had deliberately refused to answer the door.
When, after searching all the rooms, Compton became aware that his mean suspicions were unfounded, he went outside again, carefully closing the front door behind him, so that he left no evidence of his presence in the house.
Stepping down from the porch he went to the bunk-house; then to the stable and corral. And when at the corral fence he noted the absence of Silver, he grinned slightly, returned to the porch, and seated himself in a chair.
There, an hour later, riding rapidly along the river trail, Eleanor Seddon saw him.
The girl had almost recovered from the shock that had resulted from the knowledge that she had spent part of the afternoon riding with Beaudry Rand; but she had not forgiven Rand for deceiving her, for permitting her to think during the entire ride from the timber to the Three Bar that he was one of her father's men employed to watch her.
Nor had she forgiven him for permitting her to take him into her confidence — in airing to him her father's opinions concerning him, and in repeating to him her
