CHAPTER III--THE SERPENT TRAIL
Marion Harlan did not dream of Quinton Taylor, though her last wakingthought was of him, and when she opened her eyes in the morning it wasto see him as he had sat in the seat behind Carrington and her uncle,his eyes wide with interest, or astonishment--or some emotion that shecould not define--looking directly at her.
She had been certain then, and still was certain that he had beenfeigning sleep, that he had been listening to the talk carried onbetween her uncle and Carrington.
Why had he listened?
That interrogation absorbed her thoughts as she dressed.
She had not meant to be interested in him, for she had, in her firstglance at him, mentally decided that he was no more interesting thanmany another ill-dressed and uncouth westerner whom she had seen on thejourney toward Dawes.
To be sure, she had seen signs of strength in him, mental and physical,but that had been when she looked at him coming toward her down theaisle. But even then he had not interested her; her interest began whenshe noted his interest in the conversation of her traveling companions.And then she had noticed several things about him that had escaped herin other glances at him.
For one thing, despite the astonishment in his eyes, she had observedthe cold keenness of them, the odd squint at the corners, where littlewrinkles, splaying outward, indicated either deliberate impudence orconcealed mirth. She was rather inclined to believe it the latter,though she would not have been surprised to discover the wrinkles tomean the former.
And then she had noted his mouth; his lips had been straight and firm;she had been sure they were set resolutely when she had surprised himlooking at her. That had seemed to indicate that he had taken more thana passing interest in what he had overheard.
She speculated long over the incident, finally deciding that much woulddepend upon what he had overheard. There was only one way to determinethat, and at breakfast in the dining-car she interrogated Carrington.
"Of course, you and uncle are going to Dawes on business, and I ammerely tagging along to see if I can find any trace of my father. Buthave you any business secrets that might interest an eavesdropper? On atrain, for instance--a train going toward Dawes?"
"What do you mean?" Carrington's eyes flashed as he leaned toward her.
"Have you and uncle talked business within hearing distance of astranger?"
Carrington's face flushed; he exchanged a swift glance with the otherman.
"You mean that clodhopper with the tight-fitting hand-me-down in theseat behind us--yesterday? He was asleep!"
"Then you did talk business--business secrets," smiled the girl. "Ithought really big men commonly concealed their business secrets fromthe eager ears of outsiders."
She laughed aloud at Carrington's scowl, and then went on:
"I don't think the clodhopper was asleep. In fact, I rather think he wasvery wide awake. I wouldn't say for certain, but I _think_ he was awake.You see, when I came back to talk with you he was sitting very straight,and his eyes were wide open.
"And I shall tell you something else," she went on. "During all the timehe sat behind you, when you were talking, I watched him, he waspretending to sleep, for at times he opened his eyes and looked at you,and I am sure he was not thinking pleasant thoughts. And I don't believehe is a clodhopper. I think he amounts to something; and if you willlook well at him you will see, too. When he was listening to you therewas a look in his eyes that made me think of fighting." And then, aftera momentary pause, she added slowly, "there isn't anything wrong aboutthe business you are going to transact out here--is there?"
"Wrong?" he laughed. "Oh, no! Business is business." He leaned forwardand gazed deliberately into her eyes, his own glowing significantly."You don't think, with me holding your good opinion--and always hopingto better it--that I would do anything to destroy it, Marion?"
The girl's cheeks were suffused with faint color.
"You are assuming again, Mr. James J. Carrington. I don't care for yoursubtle speeches. I like you best when you talk frankly; but I am notsure that I shall ever like you enough to marry you."
She smiled at the scowl in his eyes, then looked speculatively at him.It should have been apparent to him that she had spoken the truthregarding her feeling for him.
The uncle knew she had spoken the truth, for she left them presently,and the car door had hardly closed behind her when Carrington said,smiling grimly:
"She's a thoroughbred, Parsons. That's why I like her. I'll have her,too!"
"Careful," grinned the other, smoothly. "If she ever discovers what abrute you are--" He made a gesture of finality.
"Brute! Bah! Parsons, you make me sick! I'll take her when I want her!Why do you suppose I told her that fairy tale about her father havingbeen seen in this locality? To get her out here with me, ofcourse--where there isn't a hell of a lot of law, and a man's will isthe only thing that governs him. She won't have me, eh? Well, we'llsee!"
Parsons smirked at the other. "Then you lied about Lawrence Harlanhaving been seen in this country?"
"Sure," admitted Carrington. "Why not?"
Parsons looked leeringly at Carrington. "Suppose I should tell her?"
Carrington glared at the older man. "You won't," he declared. "In thefirst place, you don't love her as an uncle should because she lookslike Larry Harlan--and you hated Larry. Suppose I should tell her thatyou were the cause of the trouble between her parents; that you framedup on her mother, to get her to leave Larry? Why, you damned, two-facedgopher, she'd wither you!"
He grinned at the other and got up, turning, when he reached his feet,to see Quinton Taylor, standing beside a chair at the next table, justready to sit down, but delaying to hear the remainder of theextraordinary conversation carried on between the two men.
Taylor had donned the garments he had discarded in Kansas City. A bluewoolen shirt, open at the throat; corduroy trousers, the bottoms stuffedinto the soft tops of high-heeled boots; a well-filled cartridge-belt,sagging at the right hip with the weight of a heavy pistol--and abroad-brimmed felt hat, which a smiling waiter held for him--completedhis attire.
Freshly shaved, his face glowed with the color that betokens perfecthealth; and just now his eyes were also glowing--but with frank disgustand dislike.
Carrington flushed darkly and stepped close to Taylor. Carrington's chinwas thrust out belligerently; his eyes fairly danced with a rage that hecould hardly restrain.
"Listening again, eh?" he said hoarsely. "You had your ears trained onus yesterday, in the Pullman, and now you are at it again. I've a notionto knock your damned head off!"
Taylor's eyelids flickered once, the little wrinkles at the corners ofhis eyes deepening a trifle. But his gaze was steady, and the blue ofhis eyes grew a trifle more steely.
"You've got a bigger notion not to, Mr. Man," he grinned. "You run awhole lot to talk."
He sat down, twisted around in the chair and faced the table, casting ahumorous eye at the black waiter, and ignoring Carrington.
"I'll want a passable breakfast this morning, George," he said; "I'mpowerful hungry."
He did not turn when Carrington went out, followed by Parsons.
The waiter hovered near him, grinning widely.
"I reckon you-all ain't none scary, boss!" he said, admiringly.
The Ranchman Page 3