He turned toward the door and wheeled again to face her. “You’ll enjoy this,” he sneered; “you’ve been so thick with Taylor. Bah!” he added as he saw her face redden at the insult; “I’ve known where you stood with Taylor ever since I caught you flirting with him on the station platform the day we came to Dawes. That’s why you went to the Arrow from here—refusing my attentions to _give_ yourself to the man who killed your father!” He laughed, and saw her writhe under the sound of it. “It hurts, eh?” he said venomously; “well, this will hurt, too. Keats went out to get Taylor, but he will never bring Taylor in—alive. He has orders to kill him—understand? That’s why I’ve got more important business than you to attend to for the next few hours. I’m going to Dawes to find out if Keats has returned. And when Keats comes in with the news that Taylor is done for, I’m coming back here for you!” Calling the man who was waiting on the porch, Carrington directed him to watch the girl; and then, with a last grin at her, he went out, mounted his horse, and rode the trail toward Dawes. And as he rode, he laughed maliciously, for he had not told her that the charge against Taylor was a false one, and that, so far as he knew, Taylor was not guilty of murdering her father. CHAPTER XXXI—A RESCUE An early moon stuck a pallid rim over the crest of the big, hill-like plateau as Parsons sat on his horse in the basin, and Parsons watched it rise in its silvery splendor and bathe the world with an effulgent glow. It threw house and timber on the plateau crest in bold relief, a dark silhouette looming against a flood of shimmering light, and Parsons could see the porch he knew so well, and could even distinguish the break in the timber that led to the house, which merged into the trail that stretched to Dawes. Parsons was still laboring with the devils of indecision and doubt. He knew why Carrington had captured Marion, and he yearned to take the girl from the man—for her own sake, and for the purpose of satisfying his vengeance. But he knew that certain death awaited him up there should he venture to show himself to Carrington. And yet a certain desperate courage stole into Parsons as he watched from the basin, and when, about half an hour after he had seen the flicker of light filter out of one of the windows of the house, he saw a man emerge, mount a horse, and ride away, he drew a deep breath of resolution and urged his own horse up the slope. For the man who had mounted the horse up there was Carrington—there could be no doubt of that. Shivering, though still obeying the courageous impulse that had seized him, Parsons continued to ascend the slope. He went half way and then halted, listening. No sound disturbed the solemn stillness that had followed Carrington’s departure.