silence. There was
a threat of death in it:

"You can tell Miss Ruth that you're never goin' to play the skunk with a
woman ag'in!"

Pickett writhed. But it seemed to Ruth, as her gaze shifted from
Randerson to him, that Pickett's manner was not what it should be. He was
not embarrassed enough, did not seem to feel his disgrace keenly enough.
For though he twisted and squirmed under the threat in Randerson's voice,
there was an odd smirk on his face that impressed her as nearly
concealing a malignant cunning. And his voice sounded insincere to
her--there was even no flavor of shame in them:

"I'm sorry I done what I did, ma'am."

"I reckon that's all, Pickett. You draw your time right now."

Randerson sheathed his pistol and turned slightly sidewise to Pickett,
evidently intending to come up on the porch.

Ruth gasped. For she saw Pickett reach for his gun. It was drawn half out
of its holster. As though he had divined what was in Pickett's mind,
Randerson had turned slightly at Pickett's movement. There was a single
rapid movement to his right hip, the twilight was split by a red streak,
by another that followed it so closely as to seem to make the two
continuous. Pickett's hand dropped oddly from the half-drawn weapon, his
knees sagged, he sighed and pitched heavily forward, face down, at
Randerson's feet.

Dimly, as through a haze, Ruth saw a number of the cowboys coming toward
her, saw them approach and look curiously down at the thing that lay
almost at her feet. And then someone took her by the arm--she thought it
was Uncle Jepson--and she was led toward the door. At the threshold she
paused, for Randerson's voice, cold and filled with deadly definiteness,
reached her:

"Do you want to take his end of this?" Ruth turned. Randerson was
pointing to Pickett's body, ghastly in its prone slackness. He was
looking at Chavis.

Evidently Chavis elected not to avenge his friend at that moment. For
there was a dead silence while one might have counted fifty. Then Ruth
was drawn into the house.

[Illustration: The twilight was split by a red streak]

CHAPTER VIII

WHAT UNCLE JEPSON HEARD

Every detail of the killing of Jim Pickett remained vivid in Ruth's
recollection. She felt that she would never forget it. But her horror
gradually abated, and at the end of a week she was able to look at
Randerson without shuddering. During the week she had ev