But it seemed he would be too late. The girl had sensed her danger. She had caught the stealthy movement of the steer; she had glimpsed the unmistakable malignance of his blood-shot eyes, and had stood for an instant in the grip of a dumb, paralyzing terror. She had dismounted to gather some yellow blossoms of soap-weed that had looked particularly inviting from the saddle, and too late she had become aware of the belligerent actions of the steer.

She realized now that she was too far from her pony to reach it in case the steer attacked her, but in the hope of gaining a few steps before the charge came she backed slowly, edging sidelong toward the pony.

She gained a considerable distance in this manner, for during the first few seconds of the movement the steer seemed uncertain and stood, swinging its head from side to side, pawing the sand vigorously.

The girl was thankful for the short respite, and she made the most of it.

She had retreated perhaps twenty-five or thirty feet when the steer charged, bolting toward her with lowered head.

She had gone perhaps thirty or forty feet when Patches reached the scene.

The girl saw the blur he made as he flashed past her--he had cut between her and the steer--so close to her that the thunder of his hoofs roared deafening in her ears, and the wind from his pa.s.sing almost drew her off her balance as amazed, stunned, nerveless, she halted. She caught a glimpse of Randerson's profile as he swept into a circle and threw his rope. There must be no missing--there was none. The sinuous loop went out, fell over the steer's head. Thereafter there was a smother of dust in which the girl could see some wildly waving limbs. Outside of the smother she saw the pony swing off for a short distance and stiffen its legs. The rope attached to the pommel of the saddle grew taut as a bow string; there was an instant of strained suspense during which the pony's back arched until the girl thought it must surely break. It was over in an instant, though every detail was vividly impressed upon the girl's mind. For the cold terror that had seized her had fled with the appearance of Patches--she knew there could be no danger to her after that.

She watched the steer fall. He went down heavily, the impetus of his charge proving his undoing; he struck heavily on head and shoulder, grunting dismally, his hind quarters rising in the air, balancing there for an infinitesimal s.p.a.ce and then following his head.

The rope stretched tighter; the girl saw Patches putting a steady pull on it. The loop had fallen around the steer's neck; she heard the animal cough for breath once, then its breath was cut off.

In this minute the girl's chief emotion was one of admiration for the pony. How accurate its movements in this crisis! How unerring its judgment! For though no word had been spoken--at least the girl heard none--the pony kept the rope taut, bracing against its burden as Randerson slid out of the saddle.

The girl's interest left the pony and centered on its rider. Randerson was running toward the fallen steer, and though Ruth had witnessed this operation a number of times since her coming to the Flying W, she had never watched it with quite the interest with which she watched it now.

It was all intensely personal.

Randerson had drawn a short piece of rope from a loop on the saddle when he had dismounted. It dangled from his hand as he ran toward the steer.

In an instant he was bending over the beast, working at its hoofs, drawing the forehoofs and one hind hoof together, lashing them fast, twining the rope in a curious knot that, the girl knew from experience, would hold indefinitely.

Randerson straightened when his work was finished, and looked at Ruth.

The girl saw that his face was chalk white. But his voice was sharp, and it rang like the beat of a hammer upon metal:

"Get on your horse!"

There was no refusing that voice, and Ruth turned and ran toward her pony, with something of the confusion and guilt that overtakes a recreant child scolded by its parent. She was scarcely in the saddle when she turned to watch Randerson.

He was pulling the loop from the steer's head. He coiled it, with much deliberation, returned to Patches and hung the rope from its hook. Then he walked slowly back to the steer.

The latter had been choked to unconsciousness, but was now reviving. With a quick jerk Randerson removed the rope from its hoofs, retreating to Patches and swinging into the saddle, watching the movements of the steer.

The steer had got to its feet and stood with legs braced in sharp outward angles, trembling, its great head rolling from side to side, lowered almost to the dust, snorting breath into its lungs.

The girl was fascinated, but she heard Randerson's voice again, flung at her this time:

"Get away from here--quick!"

She jerked on the reins, and the pony, wise with the wisdom of experience, knowing the danger that portended, bolted quickly, carrying her some distance before she succeeded in halting him.

When she turned to look back, there was a dust cloud near the spot where the steer had lain. In the cloud she saw the steer, Patches, and Randerson. Patches and the steer were running--Patches slightly in advance. The pony was racing, dodging to the right and left, pursuing a zig-zag course that kept the steer bothered.

As the girl watched she found a vicious rage stealing over her, directed against the steer. Why didn't Randerson kill the beast, instead of running from it in that fashion? Somehow, she did not like to see Randerson in that role; it was far from heroic--it flavored of panic; it made her think of the panic that had gripped her a few minutes before, when she had retreated from the steer.

She watched the queer race go on for a few minutes, and then she saw an exhibition of roping that made her gasp. From a point fifteen or twenty feet in advance of the steer, Randerson threw his rope. He had twisted in the saddle, and he gave the lariat a quick flirt, the loop running out perpendicularly, like a rolling hoop, and not more than a foot from the ground, writhing, undulating, the circle constricting quickly, sinuously.

The girl saw the loop topple as it neared the steer--it was much like the motion of a hoop falling. It met one of the steer's hoofs as it was flung outward; it grew taut; the rope straightened and Patches swung off to the right at an acute angle. He did not brace his legs, this time. This was a different game. He merely halted, turning his head and watching, with a well-I've-done-it-now expression of the eyes that would have brought a smile to the girl's face at any other time.

Again it was over in an instant; for the second time the steer turned a somersault. Again there followed a s.p.a.ce during which there was no movement.

Then Randerson slacked the rope. It seemed to Ruth that Patches did this of his own accord. The steer scrambled to its feet, hesitated an instant, and then lunged furiously toward the tormenting horse and rider.

Patches snorted; Ruth was certain it was with disgust. He leaped--again the girl thought Randerson had no hand in the movement--directly toward the enraged steer, veering sharply as he neared it, and pa.s.sing to its rear. For the third time the rope grew taut, and this time the pony braced itself and the steer went down with a thud that carried clearly and distinctly to the girl.

She thought the beast must be fatally injured, and felt that it richly deserved its fate. But after a period, during which Patches wheeled to face the beast, Randerson grinning coldly at it, the steer again scrambled to its feet.

This time it stood motionless, merely trembling a little. The fear of the rope had seized it; this man-made instrument was a thing that could not be successfully fought. That, it seemed to the girl, was the lesson the steer had been taught from its experience. That it was the lesson Randerson had set out to teach the animal, the girl was certain. It explained Randerson's seeming panic; it made the girl accuse herself sharply for doubting him.

She watched the scene to its conclusion. The steer started off, shaking its head from side to side. Plainly, it wanted no more of this sort of work; the fight had all been taken out of it. Again the pony stiffened, and again the steer went down with a thud. This time, while it struggled on the ground, Randerson gave the rope a quick flirt, making undulation that ran from his hand to the loop around the steer's leg, loosening it.

And when the beast again scrambled to its feet it trotted off, free, head and tail in the air, grunting with relief.

A few minutes later Randerson loped Patches toward her, coiling his rope, a grin on his face. He stopped before her, and his grin broadened.

"Range steers are sort of peculiar, ma'am," he said gently. "They're raised like that. They don't ever see no man around them unless he's forkin' his pony. No cowpuncher with any sense goes to hoofin' it around a range steer--it ain't accordin' to the rules. Your range steer ain't used to seein' a man walkin'. On his pony he's safe--nine times out of ten. The other time a range steer will tackle a rider that goes to monkeyin' around him promiscuous. But they have to be taught manners, ma'am--the same as human bein's. That scalawag will recognize the rope now, ma'am, the same as a human outlaw will recognize the rope--or the law. Of course both will be outlaws when there's no rope or no law around, but--Why, ma'am," he laughed--"I'm gettin' right clever at workin' my jaw, ain't I? Are you headin' back to the Flyin' W? Because if you are, I'd be sort of glad to go along with you--if you'll promise you won't go to galivantin' around the country on foot no more. Not that _that_ steer will tackle you again, ma'am--he's been taught _his_ lesson.

But there's others."

She laughed and thanked him. As they rode she considered his subtle reference to the law and the rope, and wondered if it carried any personal significance to anyone. Twice she looked at him for evidence of that, but could gain nothing from his face--suffused with quiet satisfaction.

CHAPTER XVII

THE TARGET

Earlier in the morning, Ruth had watched Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha ride away in the buckboard toward Lazette. She had stood on the porch, following them with her eyes until the buckboard had grown dim in her vision--a mere speck crawling over a sun-scorched earth, under a clear white sky in which swam a sun that for days had been blighting growing things. But on the porch of the ranchhouse it was cool.

Ruth was not cool. When the buckboard had finally vanished into the distance, with nothing left of it but a thin dust cloud that spread and disintegrated and at last settled down, Ruth walked to a rocker on the porch and sank into it, her face flushed, her eyes glowing with eager expectancy.

A few days before, while rummaging in a wooden box which had been the property of her uncle, William Harkness, she had come upon another box, considerably smaller, filled with cartridges. She had examined them thoughtfully, and at last, with much care and trepidation, had taken one of them, found Uncle Harkness' big pistol, removed the cylinder and slipped the cartridge into one of the chambers. It had fitted perfectly.

Thereafter she had yielded to another period of thoughtfulness--longer this time.

A decision had resulted from those periods, for the day before, when a puncher had come in from the outfit, on an errand, she had told him to send Randerson in to the ranchhouse to her, on the following day. And she was expecting him now.

She had tried to dissuade Uncle Jep and Aunt Martha from making the trip to Lazette today, but, for reasons which she would not have admitted--and did not admit, even to herself--she had not argued very strongly. And she had watched them go with mingled regret and satisfaction; two emotions that persisted in battling within her until they brought the disquiet that had flushed her cheeks.

It was an hour before Randerson rode up to the edge of the porch, and when Patches came to a halt, and her range boss sat loosely in the saddle, looking down at her, she was composed, even though her cheeks were still a little red.

"You sent for me, ma'am."

It was the employee speaking to his "boss." He was not using the incident of a few nights before to establish familiarity between them; his voice was low, deferential. But Willard Masten's voice had never made her feel quite as she felt at this moment.

"Yes, I sent for you," she said, smiling calmly--trying to seem the employer but getting something into her voice which would not properly belong there under those circ.u.mstances. She told herself it was not pleasure--but she saw his eyes flash. "I have found some cartridges, and I want you to teach me how to shoot."

He looked at her with eyes that narrowed with amus.e.m.e.nt, after a quick glint of surprise.

"I reckon I c'n teach you. Are you figurin' that there's some one in this country that you don't want here any more?"