He was a
tall man and well-knit, dressed incongruously in up-to-date
riding breeches and boots, in combination with the usual gray
shirt, knotted kerchief and wide-brimmed felt hat of the horseman
of the plains. The dust of the desert lay thick on him, without
in the least obscuring a certain ribald elegance, a distinction
of wickedness that rested upon him as his due. To this result his
debonair manner contributed, though it carried with it no
suggestion of weakness. To the girl who looked up and found him
there he looked indescribably sinister.
She half rose to her feet, dilated eyes fixed on him.
"Good evenin'. I came to make sure y'u got safe home, Miss
Messiter," he said.
The eyes of the two men clashed, the sheepman's stern and
unyielding, his cousin's lit with the devil of triumph. But out
of the faces of both men looked the inevitable conflict, the
declaration of war that never ends till death.
"I've been a heap anxious about y'u--couldn't sleep for worrying.
So I saddled up and rode in to find out if y'u were all right and
to inquire how Cousin Ned was getting along."
The sheepman, not deigning to move an inch from his position,
looked in silence his steady contempt.
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