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“I hadn’t noticed.”

“That is quite remarkable.” Her voice was dryly sarcastic.

“What is?”

“That you hadn’t noticed. And you have been here so long, too.”

He started; then the subtle meaning of her words sank home, and he yielded to an impulse of contempt. She was like the rest of her kind—trifling, trickish, selfish, shallow. It was curious how all women of her kind—Marie Calvert’s kind—for he unconsciously made her a standard of judgment—tried to make playthings of men. They donned a mask of demure innocence, from behind which they launched investigating barbs, words of honeyed sarcasm. They watched, keen and eager, for the effects that might result. If the weapon found a mark others followed, freighted with deeper meaning, curiosity-luring darts. They began the game, and when their victim’s passions were aroused they drew off and permitted him to pursue; mocking him, taunting him, meditating his destruction.

He had studied her picture; he had had a hope—had it reached the proportions of a “hope”? A wish, rather; a wish, then, that she would not be like some others. He had thought he had seen promise in the eyes he had studied, and had she not boldly taken the initiative he might have builded upon that promise—though that was conceit.

“Yes, I have noticed,” he said, shortly. “It’s because in this country people have a habit of probing character at a glance, I suppose. It is depressing—sometimes. I have lived here six years.”

“Oh!” she said, her eyes flashing with knowledge and resentment; “then your ability to probe character is—er—what one might call immature?”

He smiled wryly and looked narrowly at her. “I make no claim to infallibility. What is the use of bothering about it?”

“When a person makes a rash claim he ought to be able to defend it!” she shot at him.

“Well, then, consider me on the defense. But I don’t care to demonstrate.”

“But you must!” she insisted. “Don’t you see that you—that you have laid claim to a very definite accomplishment; you have insinuated, and you certainly must tell me exactly what you think of me. You have glanced at me several times, and you have implied that one glance is enough. Come now, what do you think of me? Am I hoydenish, bold, brazen, effervescent? Or am I staid, old-fashioned, set in my ways, and crabby? I should like to have you tell me.”

He looked straight at her, his eyes steady and hostile. “I think you are like all the rest of them—a puzzle,” he said, shortly.

This was far from dismaying her. “As we left Bozzam City I heard another character-at-a-glance expert speak,” she said, meeting his glance, her eyes sparkling derisively, tauntingly. “Evidently he had an off-day, too,” she jibed; “for he called you ‘Riddle’. And you tell me your real name is ‘Jefferson’. Don’t tell me that you are like all other men—conceited, self-sufficient, and all-wise. You see, I have decided that you are—er—something else, and I do not want to be disappointed.”

A saturnine humor seized him; it helped to assuage his disappointment in her character. There was no depth to women. Here she was, at their first meeting, mocking him, tantalizing him, trying to snare him. Women were magicians with words; they were keener than men, more keen with him, at least. He was no match for any of them. He expected—wanted—sincerity from them. They gave him fickleness, levity, and derision.

Yet her manner became her. Did she know it? He decided she did; women were wise in those things.

“I decline to be flattered,” he told her.

“I assure you that I had no thought of flattering you,” she declared, with a malicious look at him.

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Well,” she said, after a short silence, during which she studied him narrowly, “you don’t look glad.” When he did not answer she gave him up and allowed her pony to fall back, trailing him in silence.

They rode several miles in that fashion. They passed through a big basin, climbed a slope and loped over a mesa. The girl saw a ranchhouse in the distance, on the mesa, the Diamond Bar, and at first she thought it was her father’s, but Gawne swerved when within two or three miles of it, leading her sharply to the right, along the bank of a shallow, rock-bottom river. Later, they passed a herd of cattle with some cowboys trailing it. They passed quite close to the cowboys; the latter doffed their hats and grinned. The girl saw the cowboys twist in their saddles to watch her as she passed.

A little later they sighted a house that stood in the timber grove near the river they had been following, and the girl gasped with delight; it made a beautiful picture.

“Is that my father’s place?” she asked.

“Yes,” he returned shortly, and urged his horse down a cutbank to a level. He halted his animal and watched hers take the slope, and when she was safely down he rode on again.

When they rode up to the porch Gawne did not get off his horse. He hallooed, and when Colonel Harkless came out he sat and stared indifferently into the distance while the girl and her father greeted each other, then doffed his hat to them, wheeled his horse and rode away.

The girl looked after him curiously. He was fully half a mile away when she turned to Harkless.

“Who is he, Father?”

“That’s Jefferson Gawne.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” she said, a hint of impatience in her voice. “But what does he do? Is he one of your men?”

Harkless laughed. “Gawne? No. He owns the Diamond Bar. That is,” he modified, “he don’t exactly own it; he’s holding it in trust for Sunshine Jane.”

“Why,” said the girl, “why then—I’ve been rude to him! I thought he worked for you!” A quick color flamed in her cheeks, suffusing her temples. “Did you send him over to Bozzam City to meet me?”

“I sent Joe Allen. Joe didn’t meet you, eh? I wonder—”

The girl was looking inquiringly at him. “Who is Sunshine Jane, Father?” she asked, evenly.

“An orphan. Six years ago the Indians murdered her parents. Gawne found them at work, killed them, and took Jane to raise. He’s done a good job of it, too. He’s built up the—”

“How old is Jane, father?”

“Why—er—about twelve, they say. As I was saying, Gawne built up the ranch, and made it prosperous. And he’s been teaching Jane—”

“Where did Mr. Gawne come from, Father?”

“Nobody knows. He’s a mystery. Never talks about himself. He’s the slowest lightning flash of a man with a gun in the territory. There’s no telling whether he’s mad or mild—so nobody trifles with him. They tell me it’s his eyes; men who have clashed with him say they freeze you. As I was saying, Jane has been learning a—”

“You are friendly with Mr. Gawne, father?”

“Why, certainly. He’s done much for me. Much for Jane, too. He took her when she didn’t know very much about anything, her father and mother being ignoramuses, and—”

The girl was standing erect, her eyes shining.

“Do you know, Father,” she said, interrupting him, “I think I shall like it here.”

CHAPTER V

A CHALLENGE

Hame Bozzam had twisted his ankle the day before, and he had been cursing and fuming over the pain when he saw several Bozzam men, led by Jess Cass, riding toward him. Sitting in a rocker on the porch of the ranchhouse, the injured ankle, swathed in bandages, resting on another chair in front of him, Bozzam watched the approach of Cass and the others. It was late afternoon and the light was perfect, so that when the men reached the clearing at the edge of the timber grove skirting the big level around the ranchhouse, Bozzam saw one of the men reeling as he rode, with two others supporting him, riding beside him. He saw, too, that Jess Cass was riding rather limply, his right arm in a sling, and the pain in Bozzam’s ankle was forgotten in the swift curiosity that seized him.

He leaned forward, rigid, watching. When, ten minutes later, he had been told by Cass what had happened some hours before in Bozzam City—and the men had ridden to their quarters in the bunkhouse—he was still rigid, staring straight into the evening glow, the muscles of his jaws corded, his big hands gripping the arms of his chair.

Bozzam’s deep, wide chest was heaving more rapidly than usual; his heavy neck was red and strained, his lips were in an ugly pout, his yellow-brown beard was bristling as though each hair had received the electric shock of antagonism that racked the man’s entire body.

He saw it coming; he had known it must come since that morning about six years before when with the others—seeing from Bozzam City the glare on the plateau—he had ridden to the Diamond Bar to see Jeff Gawne standing near the burned outbuildings holding the unconscious form of Sunshine Jane in his arms.

He knew that Gawne had not recognized him—he had not feared that then, nor during the six years interval, for this particular member of the Gawne family had never seen him, so far as he knew—and he had grown a beard and otherwise disguised himself. It was not that. But he had seen the quick hatred that had flashed in Gawne’s face at sight of him, the hostile fire that had leaped into Gawne’s eyes, and he knew that, recognized or not, the birth of a bitter enmity had resulted from the meeting.

And inside the house, later, with the bodies of the murdered parents lying near, he had experienced his first qualm of fear—the puzzling, baffling, cringing pulse of terror that affected every man with hostile intentions who looked into Gawne’s eyes. It was inexplicable, but it was a thing that sapped the fire from his courage and made him consider all his movements thoroughly.

Not once in the six years had he spoken to Gawne; nor had their knowledge of the existence of each other gone beyond a curt nod of recognition or greeting. And yet Bozzam knew a clash between them was inevitable. Subtle forces working naturally—as naturally as good and evil array themselves in eternal conflict—were tugging and pulling them toward the day when their differences must be settled as man to man.

Gawne’s action in shooting Cass and the other Bozzam man had made a breach in the wall of indifference which both had tacitly erected between them. Hereafter, both must be aware that the other was an open enemy, and since Gawne had been the aggressor, and his action a taunting challenge, it was Bozzam’s business to retaliate in kind. And he met the issue eagerly. Action swift and deadly would forever end the fear that was gnawing at him day after day; the fear that had haunted him for thirteen years.

He laughed derisively, got up and hobbled to the bunkhouse, calling Nigger Paisley out.

“I want Reb Haskell,” he told this man—a dark-skinned, rat-eyed individual of medium height. “Go get him. Tell him I want to see him right away! ”

He watched Paisley ride away, then hobbled to the open doorway of the bunkhouse and stood in the lamp glare, blinking at a dozen of his men who were draped within in various picturesque attitudes.

“How’s Connor?”

“Comin’ ’round,” a voice answered. “His shoulder’s bruk.”

“You’re a set of damned bunglers,” he growled at them, tauntingly. “You had it all framed up on him, and you let him slide out. Jess Cass, you’re a killer, ain’t you? Ho, ho, ho!”

Cass glared malignantly at him. “You’ve been wantin’ him for six years—why don’t you down him yourself?” he questioned.

Bozzam started. “How do you know that?” His face paled.

“How do I know? That’s good. How does everybody know? It’s in your eyes, in your actions. Don’t you fight shy of Riddle? Don’t you look at him like you’d like to guzzle him—if you had the nerve?”

Bozzam snarled, cursing lowly. So they had all noticed! He had thought he had kept his feelings masked. If his men had noticed, why not everybody in Bozzam City?

“I’ve been laying low, hoping he’d give me a chance,” he rumbled, blinking at Cass. “Nerve? Hell! I wanted to save him. But the bars are down on him—now! I’m going to get him, but I ain’t going to be stingy. I want him, but I ain’t discouraging any of you boys that’s got a lot of valor that’s going to waste. Don’t let me interfere with you if you’re thinking of perforating him, Cass.” He hobbled away, chuckling harshly.

Two hours later he sat on the porch talking with Reb Haskell, the sheriff. Bozzam’s back was toward the light that flickered out of a window of the house, and from the darkness surrounding his face his eyes gleamed craftily as they scanned the sheriff’s lean visage. The sheriff wore a harassed expression.

“I ain’t backin’ that there play awful enthusiastic, Bozzam,” he said.

“No?” grinned Bozzam, coldly. “Well, it’s up to you, you’re sheriff. Bozzam City’s reputation can’t be allowed to suffer. Gawne comes in there, shoots up Connor and Cass, and gets away without having a hair ruffled. You’ve got to go and get him. What’s the new jail for?”

“Hell!” said the sheriff; “it’s a dodge, an’ you know it. Cass an’ Connor an’ the others was lookin’ for trouble—I seen Cass rustlin’ up the boys myself. It wasn’t Gawne’s play; they forced it on him. Besides, Connor ain’t hurt bad, an’ Cass just got a scratch. If I take Riddle in I can’t hold him.”

Bozzam grinned. Gawne in jail, without weapons, presented a different hazard from Gawne, free and fully armed. “You take him, and we’ll do the holding,” he said. “You get him—tomorrow.”

The sheriff’s face whitened. “Look here, Bozzam,” he said; “you’re wantin’ me to pull your irons out of the fire with my bare hands. You’ve got somethin’ ag’in the cuss an’ you’re hidin’ behind me. Why in hell don’t you go out in the open an’ get him yourself?”

Haskell had noticed, too. Cass was right. But it wasn’t his way to expose himself needlessly. He had never done that. Craft was the thing, craft, and the swift blow in the dark. He grinned coldly at Haskell.

“You’re the sheriff, Reb, go get him. If you don’t, you’re done in Bozzam City.” He chuckled, as though amused over the other’s predicament. “Get him, Reb; you’ve got the law behind you.”

He sat, his lips in a pout again, watching the sheriff ride away, and a sense of the subtleness of his action in sending the sheriff after Gawne stole over him. Without risking his own life he had sent a challenge to Gawne. The latter would appreciate the peculiar humor of the situation, because he knew that Reb Haskell was a bond brother of the Bozzam outfit in outraging that law which Reb professed to uphold.

Bozzam went into the house. The parlor, into which he clumped later, having found the kitchen and dining-room dark, was illuminated by the kerosene lamp that had provided the porch with the light that had enabled Bozzam to watch Reb Haskell’s face. The room was large, sparsely furnished, but comfortable.

“Still reading, eh?” remarked Bozzam, as he halted on the threshold of the dining-room. “You’re doing a lot of it lately, since you got hold of them French novels.”

A low, amused laugh rewarded his impatient greeting, and a woman who had been curled comfortably in a big leather chair near the center table on which stood the lamp, got up, yawned, stretched her arms languidly and smiled. Bozzam’s eyes quickened as he watched her. There was in her manner a latent charm that hinted of good breeding that even her mode of life could not destroy. She was wearing a gown of some flimsy material which clung tenaciously to the graceful curves of her figure. The low neck and short sleeves permitted a full view of throat, arms, and shoulders. Her movements were panther-like; her lithe muscles, as she stretched her arms, flowed sinuously, with velvety ease, beneath the warm, soft skin. The movement of the arm with which she motioned Bozzam to a chair was accompanied by a curiously flexible turn of the body which told of a latent strength and muscular control rivaled only by the animal she resembled.