hat the other men had all
turned and were watching the two. Randerson seemed to be speaking, to
Pickett; the latter had faced him. Then, as she breathlessly watched, she
saw Pickett reach for his gun. Randerson leaped. Pickett's gun did not
come out, Randerson's hand had closed on Pickett's wrist.

There was a brief, fierce struggle, blows were struck, and then the men
sprang apart. Ruth saw Randerson's right arm describe a rapid
half-circle; she seemed to hear a thud as his fist landed, and Pickett
reeled and fell sideways to the ground, close to the wall of the
bunkhouse. She heard him curse; saw him reach again for the gun at his
hip. The toe of Randerson's right boot struck Pickett's hand, driving it
away from the holster; the hand was ground into the dust by Randerson's
boot. And then, so quickly that she could not follow the movement,
Randerson's gun was out, and Pickett lay still where he had fallen.

Presently Ruth saw Pickett get up, still menaced by Randerson's gun.
Cursing, crouching, evidently still awaiting an opportunity to draw his
gun, Pickett began to walk toward the ranchhouse, Randerson close behind
him. At a safe distance, the other men followed--Ruth saw Masten and
Chavis come out of the bunkhouse door and follow also. The thought struck
her that they must have witnessed the incident from a window. She saw
them all, the cowboys at a respectable distance, Pickett and Randerson in
front, with Masten and Chavis far behind, come to a halt. She
divined--she believed she had suspected all along--what the march to the
ranchhouse meant, but still she did not move, for she feared she could
not stand.

Ruth was roused, however, by Randerson's voice. It reached her, sharp,
cold, commanding. Evidently he was speaking to Aunt Martha, or to Uncle
Jepson, who had gone into the house:

"Tell Miss Ruth to come here!"

Ruth obeyed. A moment later she stood on the front porch, looking at them
all. This scene seemed unreal to her--the cowboys at a distance, Masten
and Chavis in the rear, looking on, Pickett near the edge of the porch,
his face bloated with impotent rage, his eyes glaring; the grim figure
that Randerson made as he stood near Pickett, gun in hand, his eyes
narrowed, alert. It seemed to her to be a dream from which she would
presently awaken, trembling from the horror of it.

And then again she heard Randerson's voice. It was low, but so burdened
with passion that it seemed to vibrate in the perfect