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the doorway of one of the buildingsā€”she discovered, later, that it was the bunkhouseā€”got up, lazily, and approached the buckboard. Ruth felt a pulse of trepidation as they sauntered close to the wagon. Vickers had told her nothing directly concerning the character of the men at the ranch, but during their conversation at Red Rock that morning he had mentioned that the ā€œboys are a good lot, taken together, but theyā€™s some that donā€™t measure up.ā€ And she wondered whether these two came under that final vague, though significant classification.

Their appearance was against them. The one in advance, a man of medium height, looked positively villainous with his long, drooping black mustache and heavy-thatched eyebrows. He eyed the occupants of the buckboard with an insolent half-smile, which the girl thought he triedā€”in vainā€”to make welcoming.

The other was a man of about thirty; tall, slender, lithe, swarthy, with thin, expressive lips that were twisted upward at one corner in an insincere smirk. This taller man came close to the wagon and paused in an attitude of quiet impudence.

ā€œI reckon youā€™re Ruth Harknessā€”the olā€™ manā€™s niece?ā€ he said.

ā€œYes,ā€ returned the girl, smiling. Perhaps she had misjudged these men.

ā€œWell,ā€ said the man, looking at her with a bold glance that made her pulse skip a beat, ā€œyouā€™re a stunner for looks, anyway.ā€ He reached out his hand. She took it, feeling that it was the proper thing to do, although with the action she heard a grumble from Masten.

ā€œYouā€™re welcome to the Flyinā€™ W,ā€ said the man, breaking an awkward silence. ā€œTom Chavis is special glad to see a pretty woman around these parts.ā€

She felt, in his eyes more than his words, a veiled significance. She reddened a little, but met his gaze fairly, her eyes unwavering.

ā€œWho is Tom Chavis?ā€ she asked.

ā€œIā€™m reckoninā€™ to be Tom Chavis,ā€ he said, studying her. He waved a hand toward the other man, not looking at him. ā€œThis is my friend Jim Pickett. We was foreman anā€™ straw boss, respective, under Bill Harkness.ā€

She could not help wishing that her uncle had discharged the two men before his death. She was wondering a little at Mastenā€™s silence; it seemed to her that he must see her embarrassment, and that he might relieve her of the burden of this conversation. She looked quickly at him; he appeared to be unconcernedly inspecting the ranchhouse. Perhaps, after all, there was nothing wrong with these men. Certainly, being a man himself, Masten should be able to tell.

And so she felt a little more at ease.

ā€œIā€™m glad to meet you, Mr. Chavis,ā€ she said. ā€œYour friend Mr. Pickett too.ā€ She indicated Masten with a nod of her head toward him. ā€œThis is Mr. Willard Masten, a very dear friend of mine.ā€ The color in her face deepened with the words.

Chavis had looked twice at Masten before Ruth spoke. He looked again now, meeting the Easternerā€™s eyes. Chavis had been ready to sneer at Masten because of his garmentsā€”they were duplicates of those he had worn before the ducking, and quite as immaculateā€”but something in the Easternerā€™s eyes kept the sneer back; his own eyes gleamed with a quick, comprehensive fire, and he smiled. In the buckboard, fresh from that civilization which Chavis was ready to scorn, he had recognized a kindred spirit. There was exultation in his voice when he spoke, and he reached over Ruth to grasp Mastenā€™s hand.

ā€œAnā€™ so this is Willard, a very dear friend of yourn, eh? Well, now, Iā€™m sure glad, anā€™ I reckon him anā€™ me will get on.ā€ He urged Pickett forward and introduced him, and Pickett gave Masten one quick, appraising glance. Then he, too, grinned.

Ruth was gratified. These men were rough, but they had been quick to recognize and appreciate Mastenā€™s good qualities. They had gone more than half way in welcoming him. Of course, there was Chavisā€™ bold allusion to a ā€œpretty woman,ā€ but the very uncouthness of the men must be the explanation for that breach of etiquette. She was much relieved.

Masten was suave and solicitous. He jumped out of the buckboard and helped her down, performing a like service for Aunt Martha. Uncle Jepson got out himself. Then, as Ruth hesitated an instant, Masten bent over her.

ā€œYou must be tired, dear. Go in and explore the house. Get some refreshment and take a rest. Iā€™ll attend to the baggage and the horses.ā€

He gave her a gentle pressure of the hand, and, followed by Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha, she went indoors.

CHAPTER IV A MEMORY OF THE RIDER

A quiet satisfaction shone from Ruthā€™s eyes when, accompanied by Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson, she completed her inspection of the ranchhouse.

ā€œIt isnā€™t all that could be desired,ā€ she told Aunt Martha, ā€œbut it is better than I expected.ā€

ā€œItā€™s comfortable, dearie,ā€ mildly smiled Aunt Martha.

ā€œAnā€™ big enough for a feller to stretch his legs in,ā€ added Uncle Jepson. He was sitting in a big chair at one of the front windows of the sitting-room, having already adjusted himself to his new surroundings, and was smoking a short briar pipe and looking out of the window at the bunkhouse, in front of which stood Pickett, Chavis, and Masten, talking and laughing.

While Ruth and her relatives had been inspecting one of the upstairs rooms, she had heard the men bringing the baggage in, had heard them clumping up the stairs and setting the trunks down. Then they went out, and a little later, peering from one of the windows upstairs, Ruth had seen Masten and the other two walking toward the stable. They were talking pleasantly; their liking for each other seemed to be mutual. Ruth was delighted, but Uncle Jepson had frowned several times when looking at them.

ā€œI calā€™late them two crittersā€™ll bear a heap of watchinā€™,ā€ he said now. ā€œThey donā€™t look honest.ā€

ā€œJep,ā€ said Aunt Martha before Ruth could speak, ā€œyouā€™re always criticising folks.ā€

ā€œItā€™s in their faces drat ā€™em,ā€ insisted Uncle Jepson. He turned a vindictive eye on his niece. ā€œIf Iā€™d have been fifty year younger Iā€™d have give that Chavis a durn good thrashinā€™ for sayinā€™ what he did to you about pretty gals. Durn his hide, anyhow! That there Wilā€”ā€

ā€œI felt that way myself, at first,ā€ smiled Ruth. ā€œAfterwards, though, I felt differently. I suppose they were glad to see the new owner. Perhaps they havenā€™t seen a lady in a long time.ā€

ā€œThereā€™s ways of showinā€™ gladness,ā€ contended Uncle Jepson. ā€œI calā€™late if I wanted to compliment a girl, I wouldnā€™t look at her like I wanted to carry her off to the mountains.ā€

ā€œJep, theyā€™re only cowboysā€”they donā€™t know any different,ā€ remonstrated Aunt Martha.

ā€œThey donā€™t, eh?ā€ sniffed Uncle Jepson. ā€œI calā€™late that feller, Rex Randerson, is some different, ainā€™t he? Thereā€™s a gentleman, Ruth. You didnā€™t see him makinā€™ no ox-eyes. Anā€™ Iā€™ll bet you wouldnā€™t ketch him gettinā€™ thick with them two plug-uglies out there!ā€

Ruth turned away, smiling tolerantly, after having caught a glimpse of Aunt Marthaā€™s brows, uplifted in resignation. She was as fully aware of Uncle Jepsonā€™s dislike of Willard Masten as she was of Uncle Jepsonā€™s testiness and of his habit of speaking his thoughts without reservation.

Also, she had always avoided opposing him. It did not seem to be worth while. He had been left destitute, except for the little farm back near Poughkeepsie which he had sold at her request to accompany her here, and she felt that habits of thought and speech are firmly fixed at sixty-nine, and argument cannot shake them.

That first day at the ranchhouse was the beginning of a new existence for Ruth. Bound for years by the narrow restrictions and conventionality of the Poughkeepsie countryside, she found the spaciousness and newness of this life inviting and satisfying. Here there seemed to be no limit, either to the space or to the flights that oneā€™s soul might take, and in the solemn grandeur of the open she felt the omnipotence of God and the spell of nature.

She had plenty of time after the first day to hold communion with the Creator. Masten was rarely near her. His acquaintance with Pickett and Chavis seemed destined to develop into friendship. He rode much with themā€”ā€œlooking over the range,ā€ he told herā€”and only in the evening did he find time to devote to her.

Wes Vickers returned from Red Rock on the morning following Ruthā€™s arrival. Apparently, in spite of Randersonā€™s prediction, Vickers did not get drunk in town. Through him Ruth learned much about the Flying W. He gave her the fruit of his experience, and he had been with the Flying W as range boss for nearly five years.

Vickers was forty. His hair was gray at the temples; he was slightly stoop-shouldered from years in the saddle, and his legs were bowed from the same cause. He was the driving force of the Flying W. Ruthā€™s uncle had written her to that effect the year before during his illness, stating that without Vickersā€™ help he would be compelled to sell the ranch. The truth of this statement dawned upon Ruth very soon after her acquaintance with Vickers. He was argus-eyed, omnipresent. It seemed that he never slept. Mornings when she would arise with the dawn she would find Vickers gone to visit some distant part of the range. She was seldom awake at night when he returned.

He had said little to her regarding the men. ā€œThey ā€™tend to business,ā€ was his invariable response when she sought to question him. ā€œItā€™s a pretty wild life,ā€ he told her when one day about two weeks after her coming she had pressed him; ā€œanā€™ the boys just canā€™t help kickinā€™ over the traces once in a while.ā€

ā€œChavis and Pickett good men?ā€ she asked.

ā€œYou saw anything to show you they ainā€™t?ā€ he said, with a queer look at her.

ā€œWhy, no,ā€ she returned. But her cheeks reddened.

He looked at her with a peculiar squint. ā€œSeems like Masten runninā€™ with them shows that they ainā€™t nothinā€™ wrong with them,ā€ he said.

She had no reply to make to this, but she was vaguely disturbed over the expression in Vickersā€™ eyes; that look seemed to indicate that her own first impression of the two men, and Uncle Jepsonā€™s later condemnation of them, might be correct. However, they did not bother her, and she felt certain that Masten could care for himself.

With Masten absent with Chavis and Pickett nearly every day, Ruth had much time to herself. The river attracted her, and she rode to it many times, on a slant-eyed pony that Vickers had selected for her, and which had been gentled by a young cowpuncher brought in from an outlying camp solely for that purpose by the range boss. The young puncher had been reluctant to come, and he was equally reluctant to go.

ā€œThis here cayuse,ā€ he said to Vickers, when the latter instructed him to return to his outfit, saying that Miss Ruth thought she could now ride the pony without trouble, ā€œis got a heap of devilment in him, yetā€”which ought to come out.ā€

ā€œMiss Ruthā€™s got a fellow,ā€ said the range boss, in seeming irrelevance. But the young puncher sneered a malignant denial and rode away to his camp.

There were fourteen other men employed by the Flying W. Ruth met them at various times. Invariably they were looking for strays. They seemedā€”some of themā€”content to look at her; others, bolder, manufactured ingenuous pretexts to talk; butā€”all were gentlemen.

She arose one morning during the third week of her stay at the ranch, to be greeted by one of those perfect days that late spring brings. It had been dry for a week, with a hint of receding chill in the air, and the comfort of a wrap was still felt. But on this

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