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“I’ve returned your challenge, Bozzam,” he said. “Take good care of him. I had much rather you had come instead of Haskell,” He backed Meteor away, beyond pistol-shot distance, then wheeled him, waved a hand to his enemy and touched the gray with his spurs.

Bozzam watched him, gritting his teeth impotently, until he was far out on the plains toward Bozzam City. Then he turned on Haskell with a grin of grim derision.

“He herd-rode you, eh? You’re a hell of a sheriff!”

CHAPTER VII

CONCERNING WOMEN

It took Kathleen Harkless two weeks to realize that Jefferson Gawne had made an impression on her. It was not an elusive knowledge, centering definitely upon the conviction that despite his discourteous treatment of her he was a very manly person who had been—at some time in the dim past, though not so very long ago, either—badly mistreated himself, and had not yet succeeded in ridding himself of the incubus. What she thought of the nature of the mistreatment she concisely communicated to her father one day as they sat in the rear doorway of the Harkless ranchhouse, watching the sun go down. In one way and another she had succeeded in getting the Colonel to tell all he knew of his neighbor, and this afternoon she had reverted to the subject again.

“A woman has treated him badly,” she said; “he has lost his faith in them. Men are all alike—with exceptions,” she smiled. “All men—with the exception of the exceptions—recover from the wounds to their vanity when a woman mistreats them. Either Gawne has been mistreated worse than usual, or his vanity is of the kind that recovers slowly. I rather think the former is the explanation.”

“You have studied him deeply, then, my dear?”

“Studied him? Bosh! I looked at him once or twice as he rode near me.”

“Well,” said the Colonel; “he is a riddle to me; I never could understand him. He’s a brooder; there’s a mystery slumbering in those cold eyes of his.”

Kathleen said nothing further, but she mentally decided to descend upon the “riddle” one day—merely to strengthen convictions that were already rather firmly erected.

She chose a morning that fell after she had explored all the country within several miles of the ranchhouse. The Colonel was going to Bozzam City, he told her, and he accompanied her down the river trail to a point where two trails diverged—one leading to Bozzam City, the other to the Diamond Bar.

She reached the ranchhouse shortly before noon, and found Gawne absent. She did not directly inquire for him, but told Aunt Emily that she had come to get acquainted with her neighbors; and Aunt Emily told her that Gawne had ridden to an outlying cow-camp.

Aunt Emily captivated Kathleen; she was little and old and wrinkled, and in her face was the gentle sweetness of the woman who has been good all her days. She looked long and steadily at her visitor, standing in the doorway, the light shining upon them, and at last she smiled genially, and Kathleen knew that she had been probed and approved.

“I’m glad to know you, my dear,” said Aunt Emily; “we get so lonesome here, that it is powerful good to see a new face—a face like yours.” She led the visitor in.

Half an hour later Kathleen was sitting on the front gallery beside Jane. Captivated by Aunt Emily, Kathleen had remained to do homage to the girl. It was because of Jane’s naturalness, Kathleen thought. She had come expecting to see a half-wild creature who would commit various uncouth crimes against the conventions—though that would not have condemned her, for Kathleen herself secured a malicious amusement in violating many of the canons of politeness. It was stupid to pursue the rut and not strike off across the virgin fields of originality in search of what might develop—even if the development were nothing more than the horrified censure of the mob—and in Kathleen’s heart grew a warm feeling toward this girl who was flourishing outside the precincts of the world of custom and precedent.

Jane’s hair, thought Kathleen, was a badge of rebellion against the ethics of adornment; it struck at the roots of vanity, for it fell in great, brown, crinkly waves over her shoulders and down her back, without a single retentive ornament, framing the firm, plump rosiness of her face with a beauteous halo that was a reproach to the arts of the hairdresser. The girl’s whole lithe, supple body shamed the constrictions and shams of the human harness conceived of the evil termed style. About the girl was none of that immature awkwardness which is the inevitable portion of the gangling aper of elders, but a splendid gracefulness and sureness that told of muscles exercised and controlled.

It was concerning the girl’s mentality that Kathleen had felt a doubt. A half hour’s conversation, however, had removed this, for the girl displayed a natural perception and a shrewd acuteness that astonished the visitor. Also, Kathleen discovered that Gawne had not neglected her education.

She had betrayed no inclination to conceal any details of her brief history—nor was she embarrassed over her guest’s natural curiosity. When the question came—more of a suggestion, gently offered—she answered quickly and frankly:

“Do you see those mountains over there?” She pointed to some heavy shoulders and peaks, timber-fringed, with huge rock crags looming outward, hinting of wildness and danger. They were several miles away, but seemed nearer; they were white and shining in the shimmering morning sun. Kathleen looked. She had seen mountains before, but none that seemed to be so mysterious as these, for she divined that they held a secret.

“It is called the Sunshine Range,” said Jane. “Daddy says the Sun Gods live in them, keeping the sun behind them until long after the dawn comes, being jealous of mortals. Daddy likes to be mysterious, and that is his legend; he used to add much to that—when I was little. But the sun does linger long behind them; we can see it coming hours before it appears above the peaks. And in the evening it strikes the tallest peak and glows there long after twilight settles. It is beautiful!

“Daddy says I was born over there, in a log cabin in Sunshine Gap. The sun is always there. My real parents were Mary and Asa Carter. They abandoned the cabin in Sunshine Gap and came over here after Bozzam City was founded, because they wanted to raise cattle, and they couldn’t do it in the mountains. They were not long here when the Indians—Apaches, Daddy Gawne says—killed them. They were going to carry me away with them, but Daddy Gawne shot them. Daddy Gawne says he was a wanderer, then, but when he saw that I was alone he decided to settle down here. I suppose he still wants to wander, for he broods a great deal. But he stays on here on my account, I think. I suppose I would die if he were to go away, now.”

“You poor child,” sympathized Kathleen, and placed a consoling arm about the girl’s shoulders. “Gawne isn’t cross to you?” she asked.

“Cross!” The girl’s eyes glistened through the moisture in them. “Daddy Gawne never, never scolds me. Nor the men, either. They love him.” The girl reflected. “Of course his moods might be mistaken for sullenness. But I understand, and so do the men, and Aunt Emily; he brought Aunt Emily from Las Vegas ‘to help me grow up’. Somebody has hurt daddy—terribly. Aunt Emily says it must have been a woman. But I don’t know. If it was a woman, and I knew her, I would scratch her eyes out!”

The girl’s hands were clenched with feeling, and Kathleen patted her soothingly. “Yes,” she agreed, meditatively, “I think it must have been a woman.” She laughed. “There are signs. He’s as gruff as a bear—to women. Perhaps some of them deserve that sort of treatment—from him. But I don’t think he ought to treat every woman like that, do you?”

Jane did not answer. Looking at her, Kathleen saw the roses in her cheeks blooming to a deep crimson. And her own did likewise, for when she followed the girl’s gaze and saw Gawne standing near the edge of the porch looking at them, embarrassment, deep and confusing, seized her.

She got up, her face aflame, but braved his eyes, her own flashing defiantly. But she could not tell from the expression of his face whether he had heard.

“I came over to get acquainted—with Aunt Emily and Jane,” she said.

“That was good of you.” He smiled dryly and held out his arms to Jane, who ran into them. Holding her, he inquired after the health of the Colonel.

“He is very well, thank you. Jane,” she added, stepping down from the gallery; “I thank you for a very pleasant visit. Say good-bye to Aunt Emily for me, won’t you, for I must be going.”

Gawne disengaged Jane’s hands and stepped near her, “I met your father, going toward Bozzam City. I did not get near enough to him to hail him, but I know he cannot get back much before dusk. It will be lonesome for you; you must stay for dinner.”

Kathleen met Jane’s eyes; they implored, and conquered. Kathleen stayed, but during the meal she avoided Gawne’s eyes, though she felt them searching her face occasionally. Shortly after dinner he suggested a short ride over the plains in the vicinity of the ranchhouse, and when they were well on their way, riding side by side, he said, soberly:

“So you think I am a maltreater of women? What gave you that impression?”

“So you overheard me, then?” she returned. “That, of course, was not meant for your ears. The impression? I can hardly say. Don’t you think it might have been because of the way you acted the day I came? I know this is a matter that shouldn’t be discussed, but—well, we are discussing it. Why not? Why shouldn’t people discuss one another face to face rather than in the absence of one another? There would be fewer misunderstandings, and possibly less talk; among the timid, that is. We are far from being timid—are we not? And therefore we cheerfully risk the consequences.”

His smile threatened to become broad; she liked the expression of his face when it was thus illumined, but it became serious again before she could study it.

“I shall have to retract a certain remark—about you being the same as the rest of them—women. You are not like the rest.” he said; “you are startlingly original and different.”

“That is exactly the impression I have of you,” she said, looking straight at him. “Usually when a woman hurts a man he goes right on to another woman to be consoled. You haven’t been able to find the sort of a woman that could console you.”

He flushed, started, turned his head and met her gaze. “Who told you a woman had hurt me?”

“As for that,” she said, reddening a little, but looking steadily at him, “you wear the wound in your eyes. Let us not be tragic,” she added, noting his scowl; “tragedy is for the morbid and weak. Great souls build character from the shadows of tragedy. You must have thought a great deal of the woman who hurt you.”

For thirteen years he had kept his secret, grimly nurturing it—his secret, and his brother’s. How similar they were! The only difference was that he had escaped, legally, while his brother had paid for his discovery with his life. He had never thought that the memory of these tragedies was written on his face, yet this woman with the direct, unwavering eyes had seen it.

“Look here!” he said, with a fierce, savage impulse to punish her for her prying; “you’ve never loved a man, have you?”

“No,” she said, and he saw the truth shining in her eyes.

“Nor professed to love one?”

She marked the derisive mockery of his voice, but answered with a defiant negative.

“Well,” he said roughly, “suppose you married a man you did not love—would you be true to him?”

She wished, now, that she had not permitted this conversation to go this far, but she was determined not to pull down her colors, though her cheeks were hot and she was fiercely resentful toward him for making a serious talk out of what she had intended to be mere banter.

“I can’t conceive of a woman marrying a man she does not love,” she said; “but if it were to happen to me I should be true to him!”

He stared at her in cynical disbelief for an instant, then shut his lips and drove the spurs into the sides of Meteor. What had he expected her to say in reply to such a question? The worst women made a pretense of virtue. Yet for all his doubting cynicism he knew earnestness when he saw it.

He watched the girl. She rode beside him, straight and rigid in the saddle, her lips firm, her face pale, her eyes hard and cold. No doubt she resented his attack, but she had brought it upon herself. He had not sought her; she had come unbidden with her flippant questions. She was his guest, and world-custom demanded that he treat her courteously. But arrayed against custom was the bitter passion of sex antagonism which had ruled his spirit for thirteen years.

He fought it with the weapons of his early youth—breeding; though it was a hard fight and brought many sneers to his face, but in the end he masked his feelings and gravely directed his talk to less dangerous subjects.

They had ridden an hour, swinging in a wide circle that was bringing them again to the Diamond Bar ranchhouse, before he noted that the girl was replying to him in monosyllables. Thereafter, for several minutes, he watched her covertly. The sternness of her features had not relaxed; she was still riding straight and rigid; her face had grown whiter, except for a crimson spot that glowed in each of her cheeks; and her eyes were flashing.

He ceased talking and rode on, wondering. The silence between them grew ominous. Then at last he stole a glance at her, and started when he saw her watching him, her eyes big, and snapping with cold hostility.

Instantly, she reined her pony. He pulled Meteor down and faced her, vaguely disturbed by her manner.

Her face was flaming now; she spoke vehemently, her voice trembling:

“I want you to understand that all women are not what you think they are, what you have discovered one to be. There are good women—women of honor, purity and steadfastness—who do not ensnare men. And I think that no man, unless he has lost all sense of moral values, would charge, even by implication, the things you have charged against my sex today. Most men, if they must discuss such things, take some thought of the woman who bore them, and say less than they think.

“You have said fully as much as you think—more, I am inclined to say. For you no longer have control over the devils of doubt and suspicion that rage within you. You are morbid, morose—silly! And you will never be the man you can be until you regain your faith!” She paused, and looked at him as though expecting him to answer, and he saw that her eyes were moist. Then, while he sat, staring at her, no words seeming to take form in his brain, she wheeled her horse and sent it scampering away, leaving him to look after her, startled, puzzled, and scowling.

CHAPTER VIII

“AN’ SHE BLUSHIN’ AT HIM!”

Gawne did not attempt to justify himself. He knew he was all that the girl had said—and more. Nor had he, until now, thought of trying to win back his lost faith. He had felt a certain satisfaction in his belief that all women are wicked; it pleased him to think that other poor, deluded fools of men were being taken in by the wiles of female vampires, and he yielded to a sort of unholy pity for those who had not yet discovered the duplicity of their mates. Lucky were they if they never discovered it, for then they would go on living in their fool’s paradise, with their faith unshattered and a vision of white truth in their blind eyes.