in the small of the back, lifted him, and bore him resistlessly out into the mud level, where he landed, face down, while the wagon, released, swished past him on its way to freedom.
The rider took the wagon far up the sloping trail before he brought it to a halt. Then, swinging it sideways so that it would not roll back into the mud, he turned and looked back at Masten. The latter had got to his feet, mud-bespattered, furious.
The rider looked from Masten to the girl, his expression one of hypocritical gravity. The girl’s face was flushed with indignation over the affront offered her friend. She had punished him for his jealousy, she had taken her part in mildly ridiculing him. But it was plain to the rider when he turned and saw her face, that she resented the indignity she had just witnessed. She was rigid; her hands were clenched, her arms stiff at her sides; her voice was icy, even, though husky with suppressed passion.
“I suppose I must thank you for getting the wagon out,” she said. “But that—that despicable trick—” Her self-control deserted her. “I wish I were a man; you would not go unpunished!”
There was contrition in his eyes. For an infinitesimal space he regretted the deed, and his active mind was already framing an excuse. And then out of the tail of his eye he saw Uncle Jepson winking violent applause at him, and a broad grin suffused his face. He made some effort to suppress it, but deepening wrinkles around his eyes contradicted the gravity of his lips.
“Why, I wasn’t reckonin’ to hurt him, ma’am,” he said. “You see, he was right in the way, an’ I reckon I was feelin’ a bit wild right at that minute, an’—” His gaze went to Masten, who was scraping mud from his garments with a small flat stone. The rider’s eyes grew wide; more wrinkles appeared around them.
“Why, I’ve spoiled his white shirt,” he said as though speaking to himself, his voice freighted with awe. And then, as Masten shook a threatening fist at him, he suddenly yielded to the mirth that was consuming him and he bowed his head.
It was Uncle Jepson’s warning shout that impelled him to raise his head. He saw Masten coming toward him, clawing at the foolish holster at his waist, his eyes flashing murder, his teeth bared in a snarl.
“You, Patches!” said the rider, his voice coming with a cold, quick snap. And the piebald pony, his muscles and thews alive with energy in an instant, lunged in answer to the quick knee-press, through the mud, straight at Masten.
So it was a grim and formidable figure that Masten looked up at before he could get his weapon out of his holster. The lean face of the rider was close to his own, the rider’s eyes were steady, blue, and so cold that they made Masten forget the chill in the air. And one of the heavy pistols that the rider carried was close to Masten’s head, its big muzzle gaping forebodingly at him, and the rider’s voice, as he leaned from the saddle, came tense and low. The girl could not hear:
“Listen to this gospel, you mud-wallowin’ swine,” he said. “This is a man’s country, an’ you play a man’s game or you lose out so quick it’ll make you dizzy! You been playin’ kid all through this deal. You’re grumblin’ an’ whinin’ ever since I set eyes on you from the edge of the mesa, there. That little girl thinks you’re all wool an’ a yard wide. You come across, clean—you hear me! You shape up to man’s size or I’ll hunt you up an’ tear the gizzard out of you! You jam that there cap-shooter back where it belongs or I’ll take it away from you an’ make you eat it! You hear me!”
The pistol went back; Masten’s face was ashen beneath the mud on it.
“Now grin, you sufferin’ shorthorn!” came the rider’s voice again, low as before. “Grin like you’d just discovered that I’m your rich uncle come from Frisco with a platter full of gold nuggets which I’m set on you spendin’ for white shirts. Grin, or I’ll salivate you!”
It was a grin that wreathed Masten’s lips—a shallow, forced one. But it sufficed for the rider. He sat erect, his six-shooter disappearing magically, and the smile on his face when he looked at the girl, had genuine mirth in it.
“I’ve apologized to Willard, ma’am,” he said. “We ain’t goin’ to be cross to each other no more. I reckon you c’n forgive me, now, ma’am. I sure didn’t think of bein’ mean.”
The girl looked doubtfully at Masten, but because of the mud on his face could see no expression.
“Well, I’m glad of that,” she said, reddening with embarrassment. “I certainly would not like to think that anyone who had been so accommodating as you could be so mean as to deliberately upset anyone in the mud.” She looked downward. “I’m sorry I spoke to you as I did,” she added.
“Why, I’m sorry too, ma’am,” he said gravely. He urged his pony through the mud and brought it to a halt beside her. “If you’d shake hands on that, ma’am, I’d be mighty tickled.”
Her hand went out to him. He took it and pressed it warmly, looking at it, marveling at it, for the glove on it could not conceal its shapeliness or its smallness. He dropped it presently, and taking off his hat, bowed to her.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said; “I’ll be seein’ you ag’in some time. I hope you’ll like it here.”
“I am sure I shall.”
He grinned and turned away. Her voice halted him.
“May I know who has been so kind to us in our trouble?”
He reddened to the roots of his hair, but faced her.
“Why, I reckon you’ll know, ma’am. I’m King Randerson, foreman of the Diamond H, up the crick a ways. That is,” he added, his blush deepening, “I was christened ‘King.’ But a while ago a dago professor who stayed overnight at the Diamond H tipped the boys off that ‘King’ was Rex in Latin lingo. An’ so it’s been Rex Randerson since then, though mostly they write it ‘W-r-e-c-k-s.’ There’s no accountin’ for notions hereabouts, ma’am.”
“Well, I should think not!” said the lady, making mental note of the blueness of his eyes. “But I am sure the boys make a mistake in spelling your name. Judging from your recent actions it should be spelled ‘R-e-c-k-l-e-s-s.’ Anyway, we thank you.”
“The same to you, ma’am. So long.”
He flashed a smile at Aunt Martha; it broadened as he met Uncle Jepson’s eyes; it turned to a grin of derision as he looked at Masten. And then he was splashing his pony across the river.
They watched him as he rode up the slope on the opposite side; they held their breath as pony and rider climbed the steeper slope to the mesa. They saw him halt when he reached the mesa, saw him wave his hat to them. But they did not see him halt the pony after he had ridden a little way, and kiss the palm of the hand that had held hers.
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