The girl’s soft voice irritated Parsons. “Go away!” he ordered crossly; “I want to think!” It was not the first time the girl had endured his moods. She smiled tolerantly, and softly withdrew, busying herself inside the house. Parsons did not eat supper; he slunk off to bed and lay for hours in his room brooding over the thing that had happened to him. He got up early the next morning, mounted his horse and left the house before Marion could get a glimpse of him. It was still rather early when he reached Dawes. There, in a saloon, he overheard the story of the fight in the street in front of the courthouse, and with tingling eagerness and venomous satisfaction he listened to a man telling another of the terrible punishment inflicted upon Carrington by Quinton Taylor. Parsons did not go to see Carrington, for he feared a repetition of Carrington’s savage rage, should he permit the latter to observe his satisfaction over the incident of yesterday. He knew he could not face Carrington and conceal the gloating triumph that gripped him. So he returned to the big house. And for the greater part of the day he sat in the rocker on the porch, his soul filled with a vindictive joy. He ate heartily, too; and his manner indicated that he had quite recovered from the indisposition that had affected him the previous day. He even smiled at Marion when she told him he was “looking better.” But his bitter yearning for vengeance had not been satisfied by the knowledge that Taylor had thrashed Carrington. He knew, now that Carrington had ruthlessly cast him aside, that he was no longer to figure importantly in the scheme to loot the town; he knew that it was Carrington’s intention to rob him of every dollar he had entrusted to the man. He knew, too, that Carrington would not hesitate to murder him should he offer the slightest objection, or should he make any visible resistance to Carrington’s plans. But Parsons was determined to be revenged upon Carrington, and he was convinced that he could secure his revenge without boldly announcing his plans. As for that, he had no plans. But while sitting in the rocker on the porch during the long afternoon, the vindictive light in his eyes suddenly deepened, and he grinned evilly. That night after supper he exerted himself to be agreeable to Marion. During the interval between sunset and darkness he walked with the girl along the edge of the butte above the big valley which held the irrigation dam. And while standing in a timber grove at the edge of the butte, he questioned her deftly about the news she had received of her father, and she told him of her visits to the Arrow. He had watched her narrowly, and he saw the flush that came into her cheeks each time Taylor was mentioned. “He is a remarkably forceful man,” he observed once, when he mentioned Taylor. “And if I am not mistaken, Carrington is going to have his hands full with him.”