The Ranchman. Charles Alden Seltzer

smooth cunning. Seething with interest, Taylor closed his eyes and leaned his head back upon the cushion behind him, simulating sleep.

      He felt Carrington turn; he could feel the man’s eyes on him, and he knew that Carrington was speculating over him.

      He heard the other man whisper, though he could not catch the words. However, he heard Carrington’s answer:

      “Don’t be uneasy—I’m not ‘spilling’ anything. He wouldn’t know the difference if I did. A homesteader hitting town for the first time in a year, probably. Did you notice him? Lord, what an outfit!”

      He laughed discordantly, resuming in a whisper which carried to Taylor:

      “As I was saying, we’ll make things hum. The good folks in Dawes don’t know it, but we’ve been framing them for quite a spell—been feeding them Danforth. You don’t know Danforth, eh? He’s quite a hit with these rubes. Knows how to smear the soft stuff over them. He’s what we call a ‘mixer’ back in Chicago. Been in Dawes for about a year, working in the dark. Been going strong during the past few months. Running for mayor now—election is today. It’ll be over by the time we get there. He’ll win, of course; he wired me it was a cinch. Cost a lot, though, but it’s worth it. We’ll own Dawes before we get through!”

      It was with an effort that Taylor kept his eyes closed. He heard nothing further, for the man’s voice had dropped lower and Taylor could not hear it above the roar of the train.

      Still, he had heard enough to convince him that Carrington had designs on the future welfare of Dawes, and his muscles swelled until the tight-fitting coat was in dire danger of bursting.

      Danforth he knew slightly. He had always disliked and distrusted the man. He remembered Danforth’s public début to the people of Dawes. It had been on the occasion of Dawes’s first anniversary and some public-spirited citizens had decided upon a celebration. They had selected Danforth as the speaker of the day because of his eloquence—for Danforth had seized every opportunity to publicly air his vigorous voice, and Taylor had been compelled to acknowledge that Danforth was a forceful and able speaker.

      Thereafter, Danforth’s voice often found the public ear. He was a lawyer, and the sign he had erected over the front of the frame building adjoining the courthouse was as magnificent as Danforth was eloquent.

      But though Taylor had distrusted Danforth, he had found no evidence—until now—that the lawyer intended to betray his fellow-citizens. Before leaving Dawes the week before he had heard some talk, linking Danforth’s name with politics, but he had discredited the talk. His own selection had been Neil Norton, and he had asked his friends to consider Norton.

      Taylor listened intently, with the hope of hearing more of the conversation being carried on between the two men in front of him. But he heard no more on the subject broached by Carrington. Later, however, his eyes still closed, still pretending to be asleep, he saw through veiled eyelids the girl rise from her seat and come toward the two men in front of him.

      For the first time he got a clear, full view of her face and a deep, disturbing emotion thrilled him. For now, looking fairly at her, he was more than ever convinced that he had seen her before, or that her resemblance to someone he had known was more startling than he had thought.

      Then he heard Carrington speak to her.

      “Getting tired, Miss Harlan?” said Carrington. “Well, it will soon be ended, now. One more night on the train—and then Dawes.”

      The older man laughed, and touched the girl’s arm playfully. “You don’t mind it, do you, Marion?”

      The older man said more, but Taylor did not hear him. For at his mention of the girl’s given name, so soon after Carrington’s pronouncement of “Harlan,” Taylor’s eyes popped open, and he sat erect, staring straight at the girl.

      Whether her gaze had been drawn by his, or whether her woman’s curiosity had moved her to look at him, Taylor never knew. But she met his wide gaze fairly, and returned his stare with one equally wide. Only, he was certain, there was a glint of mocking accusation in her eyes—to remind him, he supposed, that she had caught him eavesdropping.

      And then she smiled, looking at Carrington.

      “One is recompensed for the inconveniences of travel by the interesting characters one chances to meet.”

      And she found opportunity, with Carrington looking full at her, to throw a swift, significant glance at Taylor.

      Taylor flushed scarlet. Not, however, because of any embarrassment he felt over her words, but because at that instant was borne overwhelmingly upon him the knowledge that the girl, and the man, Carrington, who accompanied her—even the older man—were persons with whom Fate had insisted that he play—or fight. They were to choose. And that they had chosen to fight was apparent by the girl’s glance, and by Carrington’s words, “We’ll own Dawes before we get through.”

      Taylor got up and went to the smoking-room, where he sat for a long time, staring out of the window, his eyes on the vast sea of sagebrush that stretched before him, his mental vision fixed on an earlier day and upon a tragedy that was linked with the three persons in the coach—who seemed desirous of antagonizing him.

CHAPTER II—SLICK DUDS

       Table of Contents

      After a time Taylor’s lips wreathed into a smile. He searched in his pockets—he had transferred all his effects from the clothing in the suitcase to his present uncomfortable raiment—and produced a long, faded envelope in danger of imminent disintegration.

      The smile faded from his lips as he drew out the contents of the envelope, and a certain grim pity filled his eyes. He read:

      Squint:

      That rock falling on me has fixed me. There is no use in me trying to fool myself. I’m going out. There’s things a man can’t say, even to a friend like you. So I’m writing this. You won’t read it until after I’m gone, and then you can’t tell me what you think of me for shoving this responsibility on you. But you’ll accept, I know; you’ll do it for me, won’t you?

      I’ve had a lot of trouble—family trouble. It wouldn’t interest you. But it made me come West. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I don’t know; but it seemed best.

      You’ve been a mighty persevering friend, and I know you from the ground up. You never inquired about my past, but I know you’ve wondered. Once I mentioned my daughter, and I saw you look sharp at me. Yes, there is a daughter. Her name is Marion. There was a wife and her brother, Elam Parsons. But only Marion counts. The others were too selfish and sneaking.

      You won’t be interested in that. But I want Marion taken care of. She was fifteen when I saw her last. She looked just like me; thank God for that! She won’t have any of the characteristics of the others!

      Squint, I want you to take care of her. You’ll find her in Westwood, Illinois. You and me have talked of selling the mine. Sell it; take my share and for it give Marion a half-interest in your ranch, the Arrow. If there is any left, put it in land in Dawes—that town is going to boom. Guard it for her, and marry her, Squint; she’ll make you a good wife. Tell her I want her to marry you; she’ll do it, for she always liked her “dad.”

      There was more, but Taylor read no further. He stuffed the envelope into a pocket and sat looking out of the window, regarding morosely the featureless landscape. After a time he grinned saturninely:

      “Looks to me like a long chance, Larry,” he mused. “Considered as a marrying proposition she don’t seem to be enthusiastic over me. Now what in thunder is she doing out here, and why is that man Carrington with her—and where did she pick him up?”

      There came no answer to these questions.

      Reluctant,