ands working as though the fingers were at the throat of
the thief that had stolen into his home. His mind was going over certain
words that Hagar had answered to his questions, just before Ruth's
coming. He dwelt upon every slight circumstance that had occurred during
the past few months. There were the tracks of horse's hoofs about the
cabin, in the paths and trails leading to it. Hagar had refused to tell
him. But he figured it all out for himself, as he walked. When had this
thing started? At about the time that Randerson had taken Vickers' place
at the Flying W! Why had not there been trouble between him and the
Flying W, as under previous range bosses? What had Randerson given him
money for, many times? Ah, he knew now!

"The black-hearted hound!" he gritted.

He reeled, and held to a corner of the cabin to steady himself, for this
last access of rage came near to paralyzing him. When he recovered he
drew back out of sight, and leaning against the wall of the cabin, with a
pencil and a small piece of paper taken from a note book in a pocket, he
wrote. He laid the piece of paper on the edge of the porch, ran to the
corral and caught his pony, mounted, and rode drunkenly down the narrow
path toward the break in the canyon.

CHAPTER XXIII

BANISHING A SHADOW

Randerson could not adjust his principles to his purpose to do Masten to
death while working for Ruth, and so, in the morning following his
meeting with the Easterner on the trail leading to Chavis' shack, he
announced to the men of the outfit that he was going to quit. He told Red
Owen to take charge until Ruth could see him.

Glum looks followed his announcement. They tried to dissuade him, for
they did not know his thoughts, and perhaps would not have given him
credit for them if they had.

"Don't the outfit suit you?" asked one gently. "If it don't, we'll try to
do better!"

"Your conduct has been amazin' good--considerin'," grinned Randerson,
light-hearted for the time; for this mark of affection was not lost upon
him.

"If there's anybody in the outfit that's disagreeable to you, why, say
the word an' we'll make him look mighty scarce!" declared another,
glancing belligerently around him.

"Shucks, this outfit'll be a blamed funeral!" said Blair. "We'll be
gettin' to think that we don't grade up, nohow. First Vickers packs his
little war-bag an' goes hittin' the breeze out; an' no