第 16 页

“Meanin’ that I don’t grade up, eh?” said Cass.

Kathleen raised her chin disdainfully, and Cass laughed harshly.

“Highfalutin—eh? You’re too good for me?” He stepped closer to her, upon the porch, where he would not seem so ineffably small and mean. “Well, let’s average up. Mebbe you won’t feel so superior. I’m Hame Bozzam’s right hand man. Bozzam’s my boss—same as he’s your dad’s boss.”

She gave him a look of scornful incredulity. “My father is his own boss,” she said, coldly.

“So he ain’t wised you up—eh?” Cass grinned at her in silent, malicious mirth. “Your dad works for Hame Bozzam,” he told her. “He makes a bluff at runnin’ his own ranch. Where’s his cattle?” he suddenly demanded, and laughed shortly when he saw her face pale. She had asked her father that question—he had given her an evasive answer, she remembered. She looked at Cass quickly, with a fear that everything might not be just right, for she had noted, and deplored, her father’s many weaknesses. Yet Cass’ words must not go unchallenged.

“My father is able to run his ranch without assistance from you,” she said, scornfully.

“Where’s his cattle?” insisted Cass. “There ain’t none,” he went on, answering his own question. “There’s never any. A calf, now an’ then—or a cow or two—which keeps up appearances. Ha, ha! Your dad’s cattle are where mine is, where all of Bozzam’s men keep their cattle, in other folks’ corrals—till Hame Bozzam wants them! You git me, now—eh?” he jeered as he saw her cheeks blanch. “I’ll make it a heap plainer, if you want me to, so’s you won’t misunderstand. You don’t dare gas about it. Hame Bozzam’s the boss rustler of this here country! I’m his right hand man. Your father’s—”

“You liar!” said the girl, falteringly. She tried, courageously, to face Cass with some semblance of scorn for his accusation, but felt her knees shake, and her body sway, and to save herself from falling she sank into a chair, where she sat, gazing at Cass in cold, mute terror.

No longer did a sense of his inferiority trouble Cass. With a word he had brought about that equality for which he had yearned. He half-turned and winked significantly at Reb Haskell, who nodded understandingly and enthusiastically.

Cass’ manner, as he approached the girl and stood near her, was that of a victor dictating terms. While Kathleen looked at him dumbly, in the grip of an icy dread, Cass pointed to Haskell.

“There’s the sheriff of this county,” he told her. “He’s lookin’ for a cattle thief—named Colonel Harkless. He’s got the goods on the Colonel, an’ he’s dead set on hangin’ him. But Haskell’s a friend of mine, an’ he don’t do no hangin’ till I say the word. It’s up to you to say when I talk. Haskell’s a bang-up official, and applies the law without fear or favor; but he says he ain’t hangin’ the Colonel—if the Colonel’s my father-in-law.”

Kathleen got up, her face ashen, she was coldly contemptuous and indignant.

“Get off this porch, you beast!” she ordered. “Go—at once, or I shall kill you!”

Cass sneered experimentally, and started to speak. Without a word the girl went into the house, returning immediately with a rifle.

“Now go!” she commanded. “If you are not on your horse and riding away when I finish counting ten I shall kill you as sure as my name is Kathleen Harkless!”

Cass knew determination when he saw it. He wheeled, walked off the porch and mounted his horse. But he turned in the saddle before applying the spurs, and called back at her:

“We’ll give you until this time tomorrow to come across with your answer. If it ain’t what I want it to be—!”

Evidently Kathleen had finished counting. For a sharp, venomous crack from the rifle interrupted Cass’ speech. Whether she had intended to hit him, or had merely shot to warn him, Cass never knew.

He bent low over his horse’s mane, unhurt, and raced after Haskell, who was already far down the trail.

Kathleen was sitting in a chair on the porch with the rifle in her lap an hour later. She saw her father and Hame Bozzam dismounting at the corral. It occurred to her that she looked very warlike holding the rifle, and she got up, set it against the front of the house, and resumed her chair, and sat, watching Bozzam and her father. Her face was very white.

Bozzam, she noted, had observed her place the weapon against the house, and when he stepped on the porch she saw him glance at it inquiringly, then straight at her, intently.

She met his gaze hostilely. She saw his eyes flash with some quick emotion, then pressing his lips, he strode to the rifle, picked it up and examined the lock—working with the ejector and throwing out the spent cartridge. He set the gun down again and turned to her, smiling.

“Shooting at a mark?”

“Yes,” she said, coldly.

“That would explain why the rifle has been discharged, but it does not explain your—emotion.”

She did not answer him, but got up and met her father at the edge of the porch.

“Father,” she said, evenly; “I want you to give me a direct answer. Do you work for Hame Bozzam?”

She saw his face redden, then turn pale, and her lips straightened. She interpreted his swift glance at Bozzam as an appeal for permission to speak—and saw his brows draw together with a worried expression—and she knew Bozzam had answered negatively.

“You won’t let father answer,” she said, turning to Bozzam. “I shall ask you. Does father work for you?”

Bozzam laughed, though she could see his eyes gleaming with speculation and perplexity. “No,” he said, meeting her gaze fairly; “your father does not work for me. The Colonel is my friend, nothing more.”

“Kathie—” began the Colonel, speaking softly. But she waved him away without taking her eyes from Bozzam.

“Mr. Bozzam,” she said, “I take a natural pride in my reputation, and in my father’s. If you wish our acquaintance to continue you will answer this question truthfully: Are you a cattle thief?”

She saw his eyelashes flicker once, and then his gaze was steady and level. “Definite and direct,” he said, gravely, “a question that requires a direct answer. You shall have it. But first, Miss Kathleen, I ought to know who accuses me. Do you?”

“No.” She saw that his face was pale; that he was standing stiff and tense. She could see no guilt in his manner, and she was surprised at the queer feeling of gladness that came over her. But of course that was because of her father.

Bozzam laughed shortly. “Thanks,” he said. His eyes narrowed. “Somebody has accused me,” he added. “That was the mark you shot at. You didn’t believe. Who was it?”

“A man who called himself Jess Cass,” she said; “and the sheriff—Haskell.”

“Jess Cass—and Haskell,” repeated Bozzam, eyeing her keenly. “What were they doing here?”

She told him, and saw his eyes fill with a smiling hardness. That was the only effect her story seemed to have on him. There was no evidence of perturbation.

“It seems to be a question of your father’s, and my veracity, against Cass’,” he said, suavely. “You are the judge, you know.”

“You haven’t given me a straight answer,” she declared.

“I promised you an answer,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “You promised to do me the honor to visit me at the H-B. Suppose we make one conditional upon the other. You come to the H-B tomorrow afternoon and I shall give you my answer. Shall we call it an agreement?”

Because it meant a possible vindication of her father, Kathleen had decided to visit the H-B. Bozzam’s ranch, she noted, as she and the Colonel approached it, was in a fertile valley between a range of hills and the desert. Surrounding the ranch-house was a level, with a river glimmering in the distance. The girl observed well-kept fences, enclosing pastures; she saw cattle, sleek and fat; horses in abundance, substantial outbuildings; signs of irrigation; the ranchhouse itself was an imposing structure of adobe, with wide porches and a gable roof. There was nothing to suggest the outlawry specified by Jess Cass; and Kathleen’s fears had almost vanished by the time she dismounted at the door of the ranchhouse.

Bozzam had been waiting—she saw him from a distance, standing on the porch; but she did not permit him to help her dismount—remembering another time. She caught his quizzical glance, though, as she got off her horse; it made the recollection of the incident grow vivid in her thoughts. She blushed, and saw a faint smile curve his lips.

The old admiration for the man thrilled Kathleen as she stood on the porch and watched him lead the horses to the corral. She tried to tell herself that it was merely the pleasurable feeling that every woman has for physical perfection in any man; but she knew it was a futile lie; she had seen other men, equally attractive, and none of them had made her feel as she felt when looking at Bozzam. She was conscious, though, of a certain sensation of guilt, of shame, that accompanied the admiration; it was as though she were yearning for something forbidden; it was stealthy, clandestine—she feared it. Yet she could not control it, and when a little later she saw Bozzam coming toward her—alone, she felt her pulses leap.

He had arrayed himself in her honor, she knew; and in good taste—for the locality. He wore a gray suit, which fitted him admirably; the coat tight at the waist, accentuating a slimness which his ordinary attire had concealed—betraying the admirable development of his chest and shoulders; he wore tight-fitting riding boots—the bottoms of the trousers folded neatly in them—and except for the heavy six-shooter that swung from the cartridge belt at his waist he might have appeared the country gentleman about to mount a horse for a trip over his estate.

His eyes were agleam with pleasure as he stepped on the porch and stood near her; so dose that his arm was not fully extended when he took her hand in his. He held it without betraying any of the embarrassment that was troubling her—as though he had an unquestioned right to hold it. He radiated a confidence that made her catch her breath. The pressure of his fingers on her hand was significant of the passion she saw shining in his eyes.

“So you came, after all,” he said. “I knew you would—you’re game.”

Twice she tried to withdraw her hand; each time he gripped it tighter, though seemingly in ignorance of her effort. The last time she attempted it he laughed.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “When I tried to kiss you the other day I wasn’t quite myself. I shouldn’t have done it. I won’t do it again—until I get your permission.”

She drew her hand away now, and looked at him, defiantly.

“There will never be another time!” she said; “I—I hate you for that!”

He looked keenly at her. “Of course you do!” he said, with a low, vibrant chuckle. “You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t. There will come a—”

“Here is father,” she interrupted, as she saw the Colonel coming toward the house.

Bozzam bowed. “That means—”

“That I am chaperoned,” with a maliciously challenging look at him—which made him laugh again—deep in his throat.

“You women!” he said; “how you do like to tantalize a man!”

Bozzam’s manner for the next hour was that of the gracious and pleased host. The ranchhouse was comfortable—“cozy” was the descriptive term that stuck in Kathleen’s thoughts. Everywhere she could see evidences of a woman’s touch. Her thoughts went skittering to the Le Claire woman, and she watched Bozzam covertly for signs. There were none. Kathleen wondered why she looked for them. Once, he caught her looking closely at a bit of fancy work wrought in linen and lace that graced the center of the library table.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” he asked. “Miss Le Claire found time to do fancy work in spite of her many other duties.”

Kathleen turned from him in swift embarrassment. She heard him speak to her father. There was a note of subdued mirth in his voice, and by that token she knew he had divined her thoughts.

She was standing in front of a bookcase a little later, reading the titles of volumes on the shelves, when she heard Bozzam move, quickly. She turned, and saw him standing near the center of the room, looking out of one of the windows.

A startling change had come over him. His graciousness had gone. Kathleen saw his hands slowly clench, his body stiffen, his lips harden, his eyes glitter. Following his gaze, she saw, on the level that stretched from the ranchhouse to a distant timber grove, two horsemen approaching.

Bozzam watched them with cold intentness, until they were within fifty feet of the porch. Then he turned to Kathleen, smiling coldly, his voice low and even.

“Do you recognize them?”

“Yes,” she said, chilled by his voice; “they are Haskell and Cass.”

“I sent for them,” he said, looking at her with a mirthless smile. “Please stay where you are, and don’t let them see you. Excuse me, for just a moment.”

He took off his coat, placed it carefully on a chair, stepped to the door leading to the porch, opened it and called to the two men, who were just dismounting:

“Come in, Cass! So you got my note—eh? Haskell—you wait just a minute, please!”

Kathleen realized now. It was Bozzam’s way of answering her question. She stood, very straight and white, in the place where she had been standing when Bozzam had told her not to move, trembling with dread.

She saw, too, as soon as he stepped over the threshold and entered the room, that Cass realized. For the man’s eyes had met hers instantly. She saw him start; saw his face whiten; saw his eyes fill with a furtive terror.

Bozzam closed the door. He moved lightly, with seeming carelessness, and yet the girl noted that he watched Cass with a cold, malicious alertness. He stood back of Cass; Cass did not turn his head. It seemed to Kathleen that he was afraid to; that there was a menace behind him which he understood and feared. She saw a tremor run over him when Bozzam placed a hand on his shoulder, from behind, and spoke:

“You met Miss Harkless yesterday, Cass. Remember? You and Haskell. You told her a weird story about some cattle thieves. It shocked her quite a bit. She won’t believe a word I say. You do the talking, won’t you?”

His voice was low, almost caressing; but the pallor of Cass’ face deepened. Twice his lips moved in an effort to speak before he blurted:

“It was a lie. Miss Harkless. Your dad is square. So’s Bozzam. I was only foolin’, ma’am—figurin’ to ring in. I’d taken a shine to you. I reckon I went too far. An’ I wanted to git even with—”

“That will do, Cass!” interrupted Bozzam, shortly. He wheeled his visitor, opened the door, and, shoving Cass ahead of him, went out, flinging back over his shoulder:

“I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Kathleen saw her father watching her curiously—he appeared to be on the verge of collapse. But her attention was distracted from him by a sudden movement on the porch. She saw Bozzam, still behind Cass, snatch the latter’s pistol from its holster and throw it viciously from him, into the dust. She saw Cass wheel, snarling, and try to strike. The blow was caught on Bozzam’s left arm; he lashed out with the right, smashing a heavy fist into Cass’ face. She noted the queer sag of Cass’ body as the fist landed; observed him stagger. Before he could recover, Bozzam’s fingers were encircling his throat, and kicking and struggling feebly, Cass was dragged out of sight along the porch.