If Larkin had been a little nettled by the levity of the Paradisians he now had his revenge, though much to his surprise, in the extraordinary effect produced by his simple announcement. The smiles faded from the faces assembled around him; significant glances were exchanged; and there followed a silence so deep that the murmur of the Brightwater could be heard quite clearly across the meadows. Then there was a rustling movement in the crowd, and every face, as if by a common impulse, or at a given signal, was turned toward Huntington. Marion was not sure of the feelings of the others, but there could be no mistake in what she read in Huntington's black countenance. She was not only frightened, but surprised and pained. For all his coarseness and crudity, she had until to-day believed him to be innately gentle, with only a rough and ungracious exterior. She had seen him always tender with Claire, whom undoubtedly he loved with all the best there was in him. But now she perceived the other side of his character, which she had indeed divined at first, but which she had firmly, on account of Claire, refused to acknowledge. An unworthy passion glowed in his eyes; his features were distorted by an expression of mingled cunning and hate; and his head somehow seemed to sink lower between his shoulders as he leaned slightly forward, studying the face of the cow-puncher. Then swiftly he took himself in hand, and masked his passions under an air of careless badinage that was, for the moment, suited to his purpose. "But I don't just understand," he drawled insinuatingly. "Haig hasn't been away from the Park lately--unless he's gone an' come by night." A snicker or two, and one loud guffaw rewarded him for this insult to his absent foe. But Marion felt the color rising to her cheeks. "It's a year ago he's seen him, 'way off, shinin' in the sun," explained Larkin. "He stops at the X bar O, an' says he'll give a thousand for him." "So that's all you've got to go on, is it?" sneered Huntington. "Yes," answered Larkin uneasily. "An' you think he'll make good, do you?" "If a man's word ain't good he don't stay in this country long, does he?" "That's right--he won't stay long!" replied Huntington, with a savage laugh. "You mean to say--" queried Larkin pointedly, leaning across the neck of his pony, and looking keenly into Huntington's eyes. "Nothing," answered Huntington, lifting his huge shoulders. "That's sayin' a lot an' sayin' nothing," retorted Larkin. "You'll know more when you try to collect that thousand." "All right," responded Larkin, gathering up the reins as if to terminate the interview. "Where's his place--if it ain't a secret?" "It's over beyond that ridge," said Huntington, pointing toward the west. "You go back about three miles the way you came, an' there's a branch road--" "Hell!" snorted the cowboy whose arm hung limp at his side.