Only one day was required to perfect Carrington's organization, and on Thursday evening, with everything running smoothly, Carrington appeared in the palm-decorated foyer of the Castle, a smugly complacent smile on his face. For he had won the first battle in the war he was to wage. To be sure, he had been worsted in a physical encounter with Taylor, as the bruises still on his face indicated, but he intended to repay Taylor for that thrashing-and his lips went into an ugly pout when his thoughts dwelt upon the man.

He had almost forgotten Parsons; he did not think of the other until about eight o'clock in the evening, when, with Danforth in the barroom of the Castle, Danforth mentioned his name. Then Carrington remembered that he had not seen Parsons since he had throttled the man. He ordered another drink, not permitting Danforth to see his eyes, which were glowing with a flame that would have betrayed him.

"This is good-night," he said to Danforth as he raised his gla.s.s. "I've got to see Parsons tonight."

Yet it was not Parsons who was uppermost in his mind when he left the Castle, mounted on his horse; the face of Marion Harlan was in the mental picture he drew as he rode toward the Huggins house, and there ran in his brain a reckless thought-which had been uttered to Parsons at the instant before his fingers had closed around the latter's throat a few days before:

"I was born a thousand years too late, Parsons! I am a robber baron brought down to date-modernized. I believe that in me flows the blood of a pirate, a savage, or an ancient king. I have all the instincts of a tribal chief whose principles are to rule or ruin! I'll have no law out here but my own desires!"

And tonight Carrington's desires were for the girl who had accompanied him to Dawes; the girl who had stirred his pa.s.sions as no woman had ever stirred them, and who-now that he had seized the town's government-was to be as much his va.s.sal as Parsons, Danforth-or any of them. He grinned as he rode toward the Huggins house-a grin that grew to a laugh as he rode up the drive toward the house; low, vibrant, hideous with its threat of unrestrained pa.s.sion.

The night had been too beautiful for Marion Harlan to remain indoors, and so, after darkness had swathed the big valley back of the house, she had slipped out, noting that her uncle had gone again to the chair on the front porch. She had walked with Parsons along the b.u.t.te above the valley, but she wanted to be alone now, to view the beauties without danger of interruption. Above all, she wanted to think.

For the news that Parsons had communicated to her had affected her strangely; she felt that her uncle's revelations of Carrington's character amounted to a vindication of her own secret opinion of the man.

He had been a volcanic wooer, and she had distrusted him all along. She had never permitted that distrust to appear on the surface, however, out of respect for her uncle-for she had always thought he and Carrington were firm friends. She saw now, though, that she had always suspected Carrington of being just what her uncle's revelation had proved him to be-a ruthless, selfish, domineering brute of a man, who would have no mercy upon any person who got in his way.

Reflecting upon his actions during the days she had known him in Westwood-and upon his glances when sometimes she had caught him looking at her, and at other times when his gaze-bold, and flaming with naked pa.s.sion-had been fixed upon her, she shuddered, comparing him with Quinton Taylor, quiet, polite, and considerate.

Loyally, she hated Carrington now for the things he had done to Parsons.

She mentally vowed that the next time she saw Carrington she would tell him exactly what she thought of him, regardless of the effect her frank opinion might have on her uncle's fortunes.

But still she had not come to the edge of the b.u.t.te for the purpose of devoting her entire thoughts to Carrington; there was another face that obtruded insistently in the mental pictures she drew-Quinton Taylor's.

And she found a gra.s.s knoll at the edge of the b.u.t.te, twisted around so that she could look over the edge of the b.u.t.te and into the big basin that slumbered somberly in the mysterious darkness, staring intently until she discovered a pin-point of light gleaming out of it. That light, she knew, came from one of the windows of the Arrow ranchhouse, and she watched it long, wondering what Taylor would be doing about now.

For she was keeping no secrets from herself tonight. She knew that she liked Taylor better than she had ever liked any man of her acquaintance.

At first she had told herself that her liking for the man had been aroused merely because he had been good to her father. But she knew now that she liked Taylor for himself. There was no mistaking the nameless longing that had taken possession of her; the insistent and yearning desire to be near him; the regret that had affected her when she had left the Arrow at the end of her last visit. Taylor would never know how near she had come to accepting his invitation to share the Arrow with him. Had it not been for propriety-the same propriety which had inseparably linked itself with all her actions-which she must observe punctiliously despite the fact that girls of her acquaintance had violated it openly without hurt or damage to their reputations; had it not been that she must bend to its mandates, because of the shadow that had always lurked near her, she would have gone to live at the Arrow.

For she knew that she could have stayed at the Arrow without danger.

Taylor was a gentleman-she knew-and Taylor would never offend her in the manner the world affected to dread-and suspect. But she could not do the things other girls could do-that was why she had refused Taylor's invitation.

She had thought she had conquered her aversion for the big house-the aversion that had been aroused because of the story Martha had told her regarding its former inhabitants, but that aversion recurred to her with disquieting insistence as she sat there on the edge of the b.u.t.te.

It seemed to her that the serpent of immorality which had dragged its trail across hers so many times was never to leave her, and she found herself wondering about the house and about Carrington and her uncle.

Carrington had bought the horse for her-Billy; and she had accepted it after some consideration. But what if Carrington had bought the house?

That would mean-why, the people of Dawes, if they discovered it-if Carrington had bought it-might place their own interpretation upon the fact that she was living in it. And the interpretation of the people of Dawes would be no more charitable than that of the people of Westwood!

They would think--

She got up quickly, her face pale, and started toward the house, determined to ask her uncle.

Walking swiftly toward the front porch, where she had seen Parsons go, she remembered that Parsons had told her he had arranged for the house, but that might not mean that he had personally bought it.

She meant to find out, and if Carrington owned the house, she would not stay in it another night-not even tonight.

She was walking fast when she reached the edge of the porch-almost running; and when she got to the nearest corner, she saw that the porch was quite vacant; Parsons must have gone in.

She stood for an instant at the porch-edge, a beam of silvery moonlight streaming upon her through a break in the trees overhead, convinced that Parsons had gone to bed; and convinced, likewise, that, were she to disturb him now to ask the question that was in her mind, he would laugh at her.

She decided she would wait until the morning, and she was about to return to the edge of the b.u.t.te, when she realized that it had grown rather late. She had not noticed how quickly the time had fled.

She turned, intending to enter the house from one of the rear doors through which she had emerged, when a sound reached her ears-the rapid drumming of a horse's hoofs. She wheeled, facing the direction from which the sound came-and saw Carrington riding toward her, not more than fifty feet distant.

He saw her at the instant her gaze rested on him-an instant before, she surmised, for there was a huge grin on his face as she turned to him.

He was at her side before she could obey a sudden impulse to run-for she did not wish to talk to him tonight-and in another instant he had dismounted and was standing close to her.

"All alone, eh?" he laughed. "And enjoying the moon? Do you know that you made a ravishing picture, standing there with the light shining on you? I saw you as you started to turn, and I shall remember the picture all my life! You are more beautiful than ever, girl!"

Carrington was breathing fast. The girl thought he had been riding hard.

But, despite that explanation for the repressed excitement under which he seemed to be laboring, the girl thought she detected the presence of restrained pa.s.sion in his eyes, and she shrank back a little.

She had often seen pa.s.sion in his eyes, identical with what glowed in them now, but she had always felt a certain immunity, a masterfulness over him that had permitted her to feel that she could repulse him at will. Now, however, she felt a sudden, cringing dread of him. The dread, no doubt, was provoked by her uncle's revelation of the man's character; and, for the first time during her acquaintance with Carrington, she felt a fear of him, and became aware of the overpowering force and virility of the man.

Her voice was a little tremulous when she answered:

"I was looking for Uncle Elam. He must have gone in."

His face was not very distinct to her, for he was standing in a shadow cast by a near-by tree, and she could not see the bruises that marred the flesh, but it seemed to her that his face had never seemed so repulsive. And the significance of his grin made her gasp.

"That's good. I'm glad he did go in; I did not come to see Parsons."

She had meant to take him to task for what he had done to her uncle, but there was something in his voice that made thoughts of defending Parsons seem futile-a need gone in the necessity to conserve her voice and strength for an imminent crisis.

For Carrington's voice, thick and vibrant, smote her with a presentiment of danger to herself. She looked sharply at him, saw that his face was red and bloated with pa.s.sion and, taking a backward step, she said shortly:

"I must go in. I-I promised Martha--"

His voice interrupted her; she felt one of his hands on her arm, the fingers gripping it tightly.

"No, you don't," he said, hoa.r.s.ely; "I came here to have a talk with you, and I mean to have it!"

"What do you mean?" she asked. She was rigid and erect, but she could not keep the quaver out of her voice.

"Playing the innocent, eh?" he mocked, his voice dry and light. "You've played innocent ever since I saw you the first time. It doesn't go anymore. You're going to face the music." He thrust his face close to hers and the expression of his eyes thrilled her with horror.

"What do you suppose I brought you here for?" he demanded. "I'll tell you. I bought the house for you. Parsons knows why-Dawes knows why-everybody knows. You ought to know-you shall know." He laughed, sneeringly. "Westwood could tell you, or the woman who lived in the Huggins house before you came. Martha could tell you-she lived here--"

He heard her draw her breath sharply and he mocked her, gloating:

"Ah, Martha has told you! Well, you've got to face the music, I tell you! I've got things going my way here-the way I've wanted things to go since I've been old enough to realize what life is. I've got the governor, the mayor, the judges-everything-with me, and I'm going to rule. I'm going to rule, my way! If you are sensible, you'll have things pretty easy; but if you're going to try to balk me you're going to pay-plenty!"

She did not answer, standing rigid in his grasp, her face chalk-white.

He did not notice her pallor, nor how she stood, paralyzed with dread; and he thought because of her silence that she was going to pa.s.sively submit. He thought victory was near, and he was going to be magnanimous in his moment of triumph.

His grip on her arm relaxed and he leaned forward to whisper:

"That's the girl. No fuss, no heroics. We'll get along; we'll--"