Seth was oiling a pair of boots on the veranda, while Claire talked to him about Hillyer, who had pleased her immeasurably by his devotion to Marion, and even more, of course, by his generous compliments to herself. She was delicately calling Seth’s attention to the pleasure, the profits, and the sanctity of politeness, when she caught sight of Hillyer’s automobile emerging slowly and silently from the trees that concealed the road at a little distance from the corrals.

“There he is now!” she exclaimed. And then, an instant later: “Why, he’s alone!”

She stood up excitedly, and Seth also, dropping a half-oiled boot on the floor.

“What the devil?” ejaculated Huntington.

So they stood, waiting and wondering, while Hillyer alighted from the automobile, and walked, with exasperating slowness––with reluctance, if they had but known it––up the graveled path among the flower beds. Something in the look of him caused Claire to clutch a post of the veranda for support.

“Where’s Marion?” she cried.

“She’s all right,” replied Hillyer, as he mounted the steps. “That is, nothing has happened to her. But there’s been an accident.” He hesitated. “Who is this Philip Haig?”

“Haig? What about Haig?” demanded Huntington.

“He’s been hurt. A horse threw him.”

“Sunnysides?” cried Huntington excitedly.

“I believe so.”

“He will, will he?” chuckled Huntington. “That serves––”

“But Marion?” interrupted Claire. “What about Marion?”

Hillyer looked doubtfully from one to the other, in much embarrassment. What did they know? Or were they as ignorant as he of the situation that had been revealed to him as if by the flash of a thunderbolt? And how much should he disclose to them, in loyalty to Marion? But in his pocket was Marion’s list.

“She’s there––with him,” he said at length.

“There? Where?” thundered Huntington.

“At his house.”

They stood stock-still, staring at him.

“She wishes Mrs. Huntington to make up a bundle of these things for me to take to her.”

He handed the list to Claire, who took it, and held it at arm’s length, regarding it curiously, as if she had not understood.

“You mean that––” she began, and stopped.

“She says she’s going to nurse him.”

“She’s going to––what?” Claire’s voice rose almost to a shriek.

“Nurse him.”

“And you’ve left her there with that––”

Huntington was going to say “ruffian,” but was checked by a sudden recollection, as well as by the look 157 that Hillyer flashed at him. For a moment the two men faced each other, the one with anger boiling up inside of him, the other struggling to put down the resentment aroused by Huntington’s belligerent tone. Claire crushed the slip of paper in her hand, and watched them fearfully.

“I judge from your manner,” said Hillyer at length, when he had controlled himself, “that you dislike her being there as much as I do. But as I am all in the dark, I’ll be greatly obliged to you if you will answer my question. Who is Philip Haig?”

“That’s what I’d like to know!” blurted out Huntington.

Hillyer made a gesture of impatience.

“But he’s your neighbor,” he said curtly.

“And that’s about all I know of him,” Huntington replied, “except that we ought to have run him out of the Park long ago, and will do it yet, so help me God!”

“Why?” asked Hillyer shortly.

Then, as clearly as he could in his rage, Seth gave Hillyer a brief account of the events of the four years that Haig had been in the Park,––an account that satisfied Hillyer as little as it had satisfied Marion. He had meant, in the beginning, to ask how Marion had come to know Haig, and if they had been much together; but he now surmised that Huntington and his wife were as ignorant as himself of that acquaintanceship, or friendship, or whatever it was that could have made possible the astounding emotions he had seen on Marion’s face. Hillyer’s situation was difficult. If Marion had a secret he must guard it for her, whatever it 158 might cost him. Yet now he needed help, and no one could help him but Huntington and his wife. And at the first words on the subject, Huntington had (more in the tone of his speech than the matter) shown him that little help could be expected in that quarter. Last of all, and not to be forgotten, he was the Huntingtons’ guest.

“How bad’s he hurt?” asked Huntington.

Hillyer shook his head dubiously.

“It’s impossible to say just yet. Doctor Norris fears that the pancreas is ruptured. In that case––” He shrugged his shoulders. “At any rate, the pancreas and the stomach are temporarily paralyzed by the blow of the saddle horn––the horse seems to have gone over backward on him. If he gets over the shock there’s still the danger of inflammation. There ought to be ice packs. Cold water will have to do. They must be changed every minute. Doctor Norris told me––” He paused to look intently at Claire––“Doctor Norris told me that nothing but the most careful nursing can save him.”

“Let the Chinaman do it!” Huntington blurted out.

Hillyer shook his head.

“No. Norris says he will not trust him. You see, Haig’s pleading for water must be denied. He can command the Chinaman, and that––Besides, all this is not to the point. Marion has made up her mind, and I assure you––Please get the things she asks for, Mrs. Huntington.”

“You don’t mean you’re going to take them!” shouted Huntington.

“Certainly. She’s asked for them.”

“And you’re going to let her stay there––with him?”

Hillyer smiled. Having abandoned all hope of assistance from Huntington, he was thinking of other measures, and was scarcely as attentive as he might have been to the increasing truculence of his host.

“What would you do?” he asked quietly.

“I’d bring her away!”

“Would you care to go and try it?”

This was a keener thrust than Hillyer had any intention of delivering, provoked though he was by Huntington’s behavior; for Seth had not included in his narrative any reference to the affair at the post-office, or to Haig’s visit to his house. Huntington’s face became purple; and if he had been apoplectic in disposition he would surely have suffered a seizure in that moment of choking rage.

“I’ll go there right enough!” he bellowed. “I’ll go, when I get ready. I’ll go when he’s able to stand up and take what’s coming to him. As for her––you can take her things, and her trunks too, while you’re about it.”

Hillyer gazed at him dumbfounded for just a breath of time. Then his own face flamed.

“Quite right, Mr. Huntington!” he said, taking a step toward him. “I haven’t seen much of Haig, but from what I’ve seen of you, I think his house can be no worse place for Miss Gaylord than yours. What’s more, you’re an––” He caught himself, whirled on his heel, and addressed Claire. “May I ask you, please, to pack Marion’s trunks. I’ll attend to mine.”

Claire had stood quite silent, with her blue eyes opening 160 wider and wider, for the moment helpless, but trusting more to Hillyer’s resources of diplomacy than to her husband’s self-control. Now her face crimsoned with mortification, and she stood up with all the inches of her five foot two.

“You’ll do no such thing!” she cried, and one little heel came down on the floor with a jolt. “The idea! The very idea! Oh!”

For a moment she stood poised, like a butterfly in a rage, if one can imagine it; then she tripped straight to Huntington, clasped the lapels of his coat, and drew herself up on tiptoes, trying to meet his eyes.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” she cried.

“No, I’m not!” he growled.

But he was, or at least was dimly conscious of his egregious misbehavior; for he looked neither at Hillyer nor his wife, and was red now where he had been purple.

“But you are, though!” She turned her face toward Hillyer, without loosing her hold on Seth’s coat. “Don’t you mind him, Mr. Hillyer! He’s just a big bear. And Haig has been a trial to us. Marion’s my guest, and––” She looked up into Seth’s beard again––“If you think you’re going to send her away like this––”

She stopped short, as on a sudden thought, and then, with a giggle, buried her face in his flannel shirt. And the next thing, as unexpected as her blue-eyed rage, she dropped her hands from his coat, stooped to catch up the hem of her skirt between thumb and forefinger of each hand, and began to pirouette around the room.

“Oh, ho!” she exclaimed, laughing triumphantly, 161 her little body swaying as she tripped, with low curtsies to Seth and Hillyer, who for the moment forget their animosity in wonder at this feminine diversion. “Beautiful! Gorgeous! Oh, splendid!”

She stopped, at length, in front of Seth, dropped to one knee, bowed till her golden head almost touched the floor, and rose again to stand with her hands on her hips, her arms akimbo, her face flushed with excitement.

“Seth Huntington!” she cried ecstatically. “Do you know what we’re going to do?”

He merely stared.

“We’re going to heap coals of fire on his head.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Huntington uneasily.

“Marion’s going to nurse Haig. There’s no way any of us can stop her. She’s our cousin and guest, and we’ve got to show it. If they want to talk, we’ll give them something to talk about. I’ll go and nurse Haig too!”

Dead silence.

“Ah!” cried Hillyer.

“You’ll not!” roared Huntington.

“Watch me!” retorted Claire, turning swiftly, and running toward her bedroom. But halfway there she stopped. “No, don’t watch me! You just go and look after the cattle. Leave this Mr. Haig to us, and he’ll be the best friend you ever had before Marion and I get through with him.”

Hillyer, recovering from his amazement, stepped smiling to where she stood, and reached both his hands to her.

“Mrs. Huntington,” he said warmly. “You’re a peach!”

She laughed gaily, and put both her tiny hands in his, for just an instant.

This was the last straw. Seth snorted like a baited animal, whirled around, bolted from the house, and ran blindly to the barn.

“Saddle Nigger!” he yelled to Williams, who obeyed with stumbling alacrity, while Huntington strode up and down before the door.

From the window of the ranch house Claire and Hillyer, silent, watched him until he had flung himself into the saddle, dug the spurs into the flanks of his favorite and now astonished black horse, and disappeared up the hill.

“Where’s he going?” asked Hillyer, suspicious that Huntington meant mischief.

Claire drew back from the window with a sigh of relief.

“He’s going to––” She laughed softly, but with just a little tremor in her voice––“He’s going to––look after the cattle.”

Hillyer saw that her blue eyes were moist.

“He’s the best man in the world, and––I love him,” she said, looking at Hillyer with a soft appeal. “You believe that, don’t you?”

“Indeed I do, Mrs. Huntington,” Hillyer answered heartily.

“Then you must forgive him; he has such a temper!”

“I’m sorry we had any misunderstanding,” Hillyer was able to say sincerely. “I’ll talk it over with him––later.”

“Please!” urged Claire.

“But I must go now. Those things for Marion, please.”

“I’ll have them ready in a minute. And I’ve only to slip on another dress, and––”

“But you don’t mean––You’re not going?”

“Of course I am!” she answered, with a look of surprise.

“I think you’d better not,” he said quietly.

“But why?”

“Now think a minute, Mrs. Huntington. Your husband objects to your going. It will not only anger him more, but it will hurt him. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly.

Her coals of fire had kindled her imagination. Such a romantic idea! There would be such talk, such a sensation!

“It would be another matter if there were anything you could do,” Hillyer went on. “But there isn’t. And I know very well that Marion would send you back if you did go.”

That was true enough, on reflection; but it was a disappointment!

“But Marion! There alone!” she said, making her last stand.

“I shall be there,” replied Hillyer. “The Chinaman’s going to fix a bed for me. I’ll look after Marion.”

So she yielded, and was glad of it when she had time to think it over. She gave Hillyer the bundle for Marion, and watched him go, waving a good-by from the veranda. Then she hastened to the kitchen to make apple dumplings for supper. If there was one thing 164 that could always be counted on to soothe Seth it was apple dumplings.

Meanwhile it was indeed a black day for Huntington. Fate was against him. Tearing himself, mangled in spirit, out of one trap, he rode blindly into another. Far up in the hills, riding savagely, he knew not where, nor cared, vowing dark vengeance on Haig, his attention was drawn at last by the weird and ominous bellowing of cattle. Following the sound, he came to a little hollow where a hundred or more cattle were gathered, like the rapt spectators in an amphitheater, around two bulls engaged in mortal combat. One, as Seth quickly saw, was a red Hereford, his best thoroughbred; the other, a black Angus, and even more valuable, was Haig’s. The red bull, bleeding from many wounds, was plainly being worsted in the encounter. With a roar of rage, Huntington drew his revolver, urged his unwilling horse down into the arena where the turf was torn up for many yards around the combatants, circled about until he could take sure aim, and emptied every chamber of the gun into the head and neck of the Angus. The bull sank to the ground, head first, in a lumbering mass that kicked once or twice, shivered, and lay still.

But the Hereford, red-eyed with blood and fury, turned on Huntington, and drove him, barely escaping being gored, into the thick timber. In a place of safety Huntington jerked his horse around, and sat limp in the saddle, staring down at the scene of his final humiliation.

“That’s it! That’s it!” he bellowed. “Even my own bull turns on me. Haw! Haw!” His hollow, 165 hoarse, and unmirthful laughter echoed among the pines. “Great joke! Haig will like that. And the rest of them. Hell!”

But Haig! And the Angus! Well, there’d got to be a show-down anyhow pretty soon. He dismounted, and seated himself on a fallen tree trunk, and gave himself up to reflections upon which it is only the most obvious kindness and discretion to draw the curtain.