erson following on Patches.

When they reached the narrow path that led to the crossing, just before
entering the brush Randerson looked back. Hagar was still lying in the
grass near the path. A patch of sunlight shone on her, and so clear was
the light that Randerson could plainly see the spasmodic movement of her
shoulders. His teeth clenched tightly, and the muscles of his face corded
as they had done in the Flying W ranchhouse the day that Aunt Martha had
told him of Pickett's attack on Ruth.

He watched silently while Masten got on his horse, and then, still
silent, he followed as Masten rode down the path, across the river,
through the break in the canyon wall and up the slope that led to the
plains above. When they reached a level space in some timber that fringed
the river, Masten attempted to urge his horse through it, but was brought
to a halt by Randerson's voice:

"We'll get off here, Masten."

Masten turned, his face red with wrath.

"Look here, Randerson," he bellowed; "this ridiculous nonsense has gone
far enough. I know, now, that you were spying on us. I don't know why,
unless you'd selected the girl yourself--"

"That's ag'in you too," interrupted Randerson coldly. "You're goin' to
pay."

"You're making a lot of fuss about the girl," sneered Masten. "A man--"

"You're a heap careless with words that you don't know the meanin' of,"
said Randerson. "We don't raise men out here that do things like you do.
An' I expect you're one in a million. They all can't be like you, back
East; if they was, the East would go to hell plenty rapid. Get off your
horse!"

Masten demurred, and Randerson's big pistol leaped into his hand. His
voice came at the same instant, intense and vibrant:

"It don't make no difference to me _how_ you get off!"

He watched Masten get down, and then he slid to the ground himself, the
pistol still in hand, and faced Masten, with only three or four feet of
space separating them.

Masten had been watching him with wide, fearing eyes, and at the menace
of his face when he dismounted Masten shrank back a step.

"Good Heavens, man, do you mean to shoot me?" he said, the words
faltering and scarcely audible.

"I reckon shootin' would be too good for you." Again Randerson's face had
taken on that peculiar stony expression. Inexorable purpose was written
on it; what he was to do he was in no hurry to be about, but it would be
done in good time.

"I ain't never claimed to be no