第 15 页

No man could amuse himself with her—at her expense. That had been a rule of her life, so far, and she would continue to abide by it.

Musing, she sank into a chair, from which she could see the cut-bank down which she had ridden the day of her coming to her father’s ranch; her gaze centered on the spot where Gawne had stood only a few minutes before. She wondered if there had been any truth in what the Le Claire woman had said: “Jeff Gawne amuses himself—as nearly all men do.” It was all a game, then—a sharp, cruel, heartless game, wherein one’s wits must clash, like keen blades, with desire. One must not depend upon another’s speeches, or actions—one must suspect and doubt—and hope. Men gave no signs that they loved—that their passion was genuine; they dealt in a counterfeit that had all the appearance of that which they imitated.

Gawne’s passion had been spurious, that was obvious. Well, he had fooled her. Her resentment helped wonderfully—it dulled her regret; it made her eager to punish him. It aroused malice in her; it opened her eyes to the possibilities; it made a subtle appeal to the sex instinct in her, in that it made her conscious of the lure of feminity to men of Gawne’s type—and to Hame Bozzam’s type.

She sat long, considering. Her thoughts were not vicious—they were merely coldly speculative. She felt quite heartless; for this was her first experience with love, and she was confident that it had all been killed—though she wondered if Gawne really did have enough affection for her, real affection, to be susceptible to jealousy. It would be worth a trial anyway. And she simply must hurt him, some way! She would not sit quietly and let him think that he had made any sort of an impression on her. Her cheeks flamed when she thought of the day he had kissed her. Well, he had stolen that! Her speeches? coquetry! Her sympathy, her caresses on the day she had visited him after the shooting at Bozzam’s? merely womanly pity! Thus she waved away the blame he might put upon her, getting a pulse of reluctant joy out of the thought that perhaps those thoughts would hurt him a little.

She would show him that her passions were quite as variable as his own. She would flirt outrageously with Hame Bozzam—because her father had told her that Gawne and Bozzam hated each other. And that would hurt him! And then, her decision fully made, she got up, feeling warm and shameless, and went to her room, where she threw herself on the bed, crying that she never would do it.

Yet when Bozzam visited the Harkless ranch the next afternoon she met him on the porch with a smile. A week before—even yesterday—she would have felt a qualm of fear over the quick, flashing, exultant look he gave her, but today the quickening of his eyes merely amused—and satisfied—her. It even gave her a thrill of conscious power over him.

And yet she felt guilty and gave him no more encouragement—that day. When he stood near her and tried to take her hand, just before he mounted his horse, to leave—she said good-bye to him gravely, and deliberately folded her hands behind her. Then, as he rode away, she waved a taunting hand at him.

The feeling of admiration that she had had for Bozzam the day of their first meeting she had never completely analyzed, or understood. Nor did she understand it while it grew in depth as the days passed. Bozzam came regularly, uninvited. There were days when she would not see him, being oppressed with misgivings. She would sit in her room on these days, listening while he talked with her father, conscious of a growing liking for the deep, rich tones of his voice. There were other days, when, meeting him, she was conscious of a high color that came, unbidden, into her cheeks.

Several times she had gone riding with him. She had noted that, in spite of his bigness, he rode the black horse lightly, with a grace that many a lighter man might have envied. He attended her, on those trips, with a thoughtfulness and consideration—and a suave politeness—that made her think of the Knights of Fable and History.

He had a habit of watching her—she could feel his gaze on her—with a sort of quizzical seriousness that made her sure he was appraising her and wondering how long it would be before he could take her into his arms. She shivered at these times, realizing the animal-like magnetism of the man.

Colonel Harkless absented himself much from the ranchhouse. With craven consideration for his own welfare he had yielded completely to Bozzam. And he saw, with that furtive keenness of the cowardly, that self-effacement was what was needed from him in this campaign of Bozzam’s. Bozzam would win her, he had no doubt; for Bozzam was masterful, and had a way with women. And, winning her on his merits, Bozzam would not demand that he abase himself by reciting to his daughter the series of misdeeds that had made this situation possible.

However, it was Bozzam himself who gave him the cue. It was after Bozzam had been visiting the ranchhouse regularly for three weeks, and the Colonel had ridden a little distance down the river trail with his visitor.

Bozzam’s deep laugh caused the Colonel to look quickly at him.

“You’ve got a week yet, Harkless.”

“I—I thought—” began the Colonel, paling.

“We’ll extend the time—another month,” said Bozzam. “I’d rather she didn’t know it—if I can win her without having to tell her. She’s the kind of a girl that puts a man on his mettle, Harkless, even if she is your daughter. Gad! I’m half inclined to believe—” He roared with laughter at the dull resentment that glowed in the Colonel’s yes. “It must be her mother’s spirit,” he added, more soberly; “she’s got loads of it!” He rode down the trail, chuckling, the Colonel watching him with a scowl.

The Colonel was not at home when Hame Bozzam called the next day; and Bozzam noted that Kathleen’s smile, when she greeted him from the doorway of the ranchhouse, was a trifle forced. She had been wielding the scalpel of self-analysis during the night, and her discoveries had left her not feeling very well satisfied with herself. It was a new and repugnant role that she was playing; it was not in conformity with her ideals. Frankness, and straight thinking, had been her method in dealing with men, and she was convinced that now she was deceiving herself. The satisfaction she got out of her flirtation with Bozzam was not as complete as she had expected it to be. She felt like a criminal when she thought of Gawne. For she had liked Gawne, and in flirting with Bozzam she was disloyal to herself.

During the night she had realized, with a pulse of alarm, that her fascination for Bozzam was growing. During his absences she could think clearly enough to understand the danger that threatened her, but when he was close to her the spell of his presence intoxicated her, filling her with a joyous dread of surrender. This game, she saw, was not for women of her type—it was for the Blanche Le Claires of society. The hardening sophistication of experience, and the cold calm of cynicism, were the weapons; and those, she felt, were ineffective, sometimes. She had reached the danger point, and now she was going to turn back.

She had decided to refuse to go riding with Bozzam today, but when he dismounted at the edge of the porch and smiled at her—big, masterful, virile—the light in his eyes kindled her own to an eager flame. It was not until they were riding northwestward over the river trail that she remembered that she had made resolutions during the night. And for a time she was silent and thoughtful.

The mood passed, as it always did when Bozzam was with her; they bantered each other, lightly, inconsequentially, but Bozzam’s words were freighted with an undercurrent of subtleness that she sometimes divined, but more often ignored. Bozzam noted her heightened color, the drooping glances she threw at him—and with the wisdom of past successes he fought down his exultation, so that it might not show in his eyes. But he could not keep the confidence out of his manner when at last they returned to the ranchhouse and dismounted.

Kathleen could not have told how it happened. Bozzam knew it for the intense and overpowering passion excited by physical contact. He helped her down from her horse, and for a maddening instant her hands were on his shoulders. Then he was holding her tightly, pressing her pliant, yielding body close to his. She surrendered, momentarily, trembling, half-smiling, her face crimson. But when she saw the passion in his eyes—when he bent his head toward her, she fought him, twisting herself out of his grasp—and shamed, terror-stricken, furious over her momentary weakness, went into the house and threw herself into a chair, shuddering.

Bozzam mounted the black horse. Not until his back was turned did he smile.

“Too soon,” he muttered, disappointedly, then.

Later, in Bozzam City, he came upon Blanche Le Claire, who had taken a dwelling near the Palace.

Some hint of his pursuit of Kathleen he confided to the woman.

She looked, mockingly, at him. “You’re wasting your time, Hame,” she said. She appraised him calmly, with a faint irony in her smile. “You are fascinating, Hame—you always were. And the girl might be infatuated. You would have to win quickly, to win at all. For there is something about you that repels—once a woman begins to know you. I think you have lost already; she’ll keep you off, after this. For she loves Jeff Gawne, Hame—I must admit it—much as I would like to deny it. She’s hurt, now—over the thought that Gawne has been playing with her. But she will always love him.”

“Bah!” he jeered, brutally; “what do you know about women like Kathleen Harkless?”

She paled, but laughed evenly, and a bit maliciously. “I know something that you will never learn, Hame—that no good woman will ever have anything to do with you.”

“I’ll get her,” he said, grimly.

“I hope you do. But if you are wise, you will wait—wait. Get Gawne to make a fool of himself—which a man always does in his dealings with women. Make him do some rash thing that will steel her against him. Get her to appear in public with you. People will talk, you know—if you give them a chance. Why, nobody knows you want the girl—not even your own men. Gawne merely suspects, now, that she is your property. But once you are seen together—in town, for instance—nothing in the world would ever induce Gawne to take her. He does not like the kind of women that prefer men of your type,” she ended, bitterly.

CHAPTER XIX

BOZZAM’S RULE

Bozzam City’s ordinary vices were of the kind that appeal most strongly to primitive men in a half-wild environment. Gambling, drinking, shooting, and other diversions of a like character continued to absorb the interest of the town’s citizens. The activities of Hame Bozzam—never a subject of gossip—were as mysterious as usual, except for the story of the raid by Riddle Gawne, which burst upon the town in a breath, and was forgotten in another. Colonel Harkless was of negligible interest; his daughter, after the first natural curiosity had been allayed, was mentioned casually; Gawne, from his habit of holding himself grimly aloof, was more of a memory than a reality. Bozzam City concerned itself with none of them unless they obtruded. There was, to be sure, a general, broad smile of amused speculation when Blanche Le Claire returned to town and took up her residence in a house previously inhabited by her, but in the main the town’s citizens concerned themselves merely with the things that interested them most—the vices that made Bozzam City’s existence possible.

Jess Cass and Reb Haskell were in the grip of one vice—poker playing. They dabbled in other vices; yet a man is known by the passion that rules him.

However, a man cannot play good poker when his thoughts refuse to concentrate on the game, and Haskell and Cass grew daily less enthusiastic. There came a day when both stood at the hitching rail in front of the Palace, glumly cursing their luck. A certain scar on Cass’ right wrist occupied his attention for a time, and Haskell saw him looking at it. Haskell deliberately rolled up his right sleeve and indicated a thin scar on the flesh, with another opposite it. Cass’ drooping mouth twisted malignantly.

“We’ve been stung by the same hornet,” he offered, with bitter humor.

“I’d die a-grinnin’ if I could square with the cuss for that!” said Haskell.

“How much of that is gas?” demanded Cass.

“None of it!” said Haskell, paling, for he noted a cruel glitter in Cass’ eyes.

“I reckon we’ll go talk,” suggested Cass, after a period during which he carefully scrutinized the sheriff’s face.

Uppermost in Jess Cass’ mind during the talk was a memory of the bitter humiliation he had suffered at Gawne’s hands on the day of Kathleen Harkless’ coming to Bozzam City; and there ran in his thoughts a recollection of the Riddle’s warning that word of the Colonel’s connection with the Bozzam gang be not permitted to reach the girl’s ears. Some mystery was here; the effort to solve it had worried Cass long. Only lately had he felt that he had stumbled on the solution—that Gawne wished in some way to protect the girl. By severely straining his mental faculties, Cass finally comprehended the subtle psychology of the situation, thus convincing himself that Gawne, having fallen in love with the girl, was fearful that she, gaining knowledge of her father’s guilt, would refuse Gawne. Women were like that, Cass assured himself; they held some queer notions of equality, though Cass had no sympathy with that high point of honor. He divined, though, that here was his one opportunity to hurt Gawne. And—here was the basic impulse behind Cass’ motive to repay Gawne—he liked the girl himself. The first glimpse of her had set his senses reeling with a passion to possess her. The hunger for her had gnawed at him all along; reckless thoughts had rioted in his brain until they had erected an artificial standard of self-judgment and values. He was a big man in this locality. If there was a woman to be won, why should not he enter the lists of competition? He had one advantage, the Colonel was an outlaw like himself; and the girl was no better than her father. Gawne had implied that by his threat. Logical, it all seemed to Cass; it was reasonable to suppose that he had a chance.

And yet, that afternoon, standing at the porch step of the Harkless ranchhouse—Haskell sitting on his horse near the corral fence, watching—some idea of the incongruity of the situation smote Cass. He felt his inferiority; his previous reasoning glared with faults. The calm, cold eye of quality was surveying him, probing him, valuing him, and Cass saw that the value was not high. He felt it—which was worse. He had forgotten to consider that baffling and obstinate element called “spirit”, when building his hopes. The glance of her eye did not humble him; it filled him with an unreasoning and vicious rage.

“So you have come as a suitor?” said Kathleen—after Cass had succeeded in making his errand plain. She remembered him as the crooked-mouth man whom Gawne had wounded. She was not flattered; there was a derisive curve to her lips as she spoke. “I appreciate the compliment, I assure you, but I must tell you, frankly, that it is impossible.”