sten's wife.

On the porch of the ranchhouse they had reached the agreement, and
triumphantly Masten rode away into the darkness, foreseeing the defeat of
the man whom he had feared as a possible rival, seeing, too--if he could
not remove him entirely--his dismissal from the Flying W and his own
ascent to power.

"On Monday, then," he said softly to Ruth, as ready to leave, he had
looked down at her from his horse. "I shall come early, remember, for I
have waited long."

"Yes, Monday," she had answered. And then, dully: "I have waited, too."

Masten was thinking of this exchange of words as he rode past the ford
where the Lazette trail crossed into the broken country beyond it. He had
not liked the tone of her voice when she had answered him; she had not
seemed enthusiastic enough to suit him. But he did not feel very greatly
disturbed over her manner, for Monday would end it, and then he would do
as he pleased.

He was passing a huge boulder, when from out of the shadow surrounding it
a somber figure stepped, the star-shot sky shedding sufficient light for
Masten to distinguish its face. He recognized Randerson, and he
voluntarily brought his pony to a halt and stiffened in the saddle, fear,
cold and paralyzing, gripping him. He did not speak; he made no sound
beyond a quick gasp as his surprised lungs sought air, and he was
incapable of action.

Randerson, though, did not make a hostile movement and did not present a
foreboding figure. His arms were folded over his chest, and if it had not
been for Masten's recollection of those grim words, "I'll go gunnin' for
you," Masten would have felt reasonably secure. But he remembered the
words, and his voice caught in his throat and would not come, when he
essayed to bluster and ask Randerson the cause for this strange and
dramatic appearance.

But there was no thought of the dramatic in Randerson's mind as he stood
there--nothing but cold hatred and determination--nothing except a bitter
wish that the man on the pony would reach for his gun and thus make his
task easier for him.

The hoped-for movement did not come, and Randerson spoke shortly:

"Get off your cayuse!"

Masten obeyed silently, his knees shaking under him. Was it to be another
fist fight? Randerson's voice broke in on this thought:

"I promised to kill you. You're a thing that sneaks around at night on
its belly, an' you ought to be killed. But I'm goin' to give you a
chance--like you give me whe