"So that's Willard's measure!" he said. "He grades up like a side-winder slidin' under the sagebrush. There's nothin' clean about him but his clothes. But he's playin' a game--him an' Chavis. An' I'm the guy they're after!" He laughed, and Uncle Jepson shivered. "She's seen one killin', an' I reckon, if she stays here a while longer, she'll see another: Chavis'." He stopped and then went on: "Why, I reckon Chavis dyin' wouldn't make no more impression on her than Pickett dyin'. But I reckon she thinks a heap of Willard, don't she, Uncle Jep?" "If a girl promises--" began Uncle Jepson. "I reckon--" interrupted Randerson. And then he shut his lips and looked grimly out at the horses in the corral. "Do you reckon she'd--" Randerson began again, after a short silence. "No," he answered the question himself, "I reckon if you'd tell her she wouldn't believe you. No good woman will believe anything bad about the man she loves--or thinks she loves. But Willard--" He got up, walked out the door, mounted Patches and rode away. Going to the door, Uncle Jepson watched him until he faded into the shimmering sunshine of the plains. "I cal'late that Willard--" But he, too, left his speech unfinished, as though thought had suddenly ceased, or speculation had become futile and ridiculous. CHAPTER IX "SOMETHIN'S GONE OUT OF THEM" As Randerson rode Patches through the break in the canyon wall in the afternoon of a day about a week after his talk with Uncle Jepson in the bunkhouse, he was thinking of the visit he intended to make. He had delayed it long. He had not seen Abe Catherson since taking his new job. "I reckon he'll think I'm right unneighborly," he said to himself as he rode. When he reached the nester's cabin, the dog Nig greeted him with vociferous affection, bringing Hagar to the door. "Oh, it's Rex!" cried the girl delightedly. And then, reproachfully: "Me an' dad allowed you wasn't comin' any more!"