experiencing flashes of the passions that moved
them. She wondered what she would do were Hagar _her_ daughter, and for
an instant she was drunken with the intensity of the passion that gripped
her.

Before her trip around the interior of the cabin was completed, she came
upon a six-shooter--heavy, cumbersome, like the weapon she had used the
day Randerson had taught her to shoot. It reposed on a shelf near the
door that led to the porch, and was almost concealed behind a box in
which were a number of miscellaneous articles, broken pipes, pieces of
hardware, buckles, a file, a wrench. She examined the weapon. It was
loaded, in excellent condition. She supposed it was left there for
Hagar's protection. She restored it to its place and continued her
inspection.

She had grown more composed now, for she had had time to reflect.
Catherson had not had much of a start; he would not ride so fast as
Hagar; he did not know where, on the range, he might find Randerson.
Hagar was sure to catch him; she _would_ catch him, because of her deep
affection for Randerson. And so, after all, there was nothing to worry
about.

She was surprised to discover that she could think of Masten without the
slightest regret; to find that her contempt for him did not cause her the
slightest wonder. Had she always known, subconsciously, that he was a
scoundrel? Had that knowledge exerted its influence in making her
reluctant to marry him?

Standing at a rear window she looked out at the corral, and beyond it at
a dense wood. She had been there for about five minutes, her thoughts
placid, considering the excitement of the day, when at a stroke a change
came over her. At first a vague disquiet, which rapidly grew into a dread
fear, a conviction, that some danger lurked behind her.

She was afraid to turn. She did not turn, at once, listening instead for
any sound that might confirm her premonition. No sound came. The silence
that reigned in the cabin was every bit as intense as that which
surrounded it. But the dread grew upon her; a cold chill raced up her
spine, spreading to her arms and to her hands, making them cold and
clammy; to her head, whitening her face, making her temples throb. And
then, when it seemed that she must shriek in terror, she turned. In the
doorway, leaning against one of the jambs, regarding her with narrowed,
gleaming eyes, a pleased, appraising smile on his face, was Tom Chavis.

Her first sensation was one of relief.