:

"Aren't you going to do something Mr. Masten? Such a thing ought not to
go unpunished."

"Thunder!" he said fretfully, "what on earth _can_ I do? You don't expect
me to go out and _fight_ that man, Pickett. He'd kill me!"

"Mebbe he would," said Aunt Martha in a slightly cold voice, "but he
would know that Ruth was engaged to a _man!_" There was a silence. And
again came Aunt Martha's voice:

"There was a time when men thought it an honor to fight for their women.
But it seems that times have changed mightily."

"This is an age of reason, and not muscle and murder," replied Masten.
"There is no more reason why I should go out there and allow Pickett to
kill me than there is a reason why I should go to the first railroad, lay
my head on the track and let a train run over me. There is law in this
country, aunty, and it can reach Pickett."

"Your self-control does you credit, Mr. Masten." Aunt Martha's voice was
low, flavored with sarcasm. Masten turned abruptly from her and went in
to Ruth. Her face was still in her hands, but she felt his presence and
involuntarily shrank from him.

He turned his head from her and smiled, toward the stable, and then he
laid a hand on Ruth's shoulder and spoke comfortingly.

"It's too bad, Ruth. But we shall find a way to deal with Pickett without
having murder done. Why not have Randerson discharge him? He is range
boss, you know. In the meantime, can't you manage to stay away from
places where the men might molest you? They are all unprincipled
scoundrels, you must remember!"

He left her, after a perfunctory caress which she suffered in silence.
She saw him, later, as he passed her window, talking seriously to Chavis,
and she imagined he was telling Chavis about the attack. Of course, she
thought, with a wave of bitterness, Chavis would be able to sympathize
with him. She went to her room shortly afterward.

The sun was swimming in a sea of saffron above the mountains in the
western distance when Ruth again came downstairs. Hearing voices in the
kitchen she went to the door and looked. Aunt Martha was standing near
the kitchen table. Randerson was standing close to her, facing her,
dwarfing her, his face white beneath the deep tan upon it, his lips
straight and hard, his eyes narrowed, his teeth clenched; she could see
the corded muscles of his lean under-jaw, set and stiff. Aunt Martha's
hands were on his sleeves; her eyes were big and bright, and glowing with
a strange