Elam Parsons awoke early in the morning following that on which Marion Harlan’s visit to the Arrow occurred. He lay for a long time smiling at the ceiling, with a feeling that something pleasurable was in store for him, but not able to determine what that something was.

It was not long, however, before Parsons remembered.

When he had got out of bed the previous morning he had discovered the absence of Marion and Martha. Also, he found that two of the horses were missing—Marion’s, and one of the others he had personally bought.

Parsons spent the day in Dawes. Shortly before dusk he got on his horse and rode homeward. Dismounting at the stable, he noted that the two absent horses had not come in. He grinned disagreeably and went into the house. He emerged almost instantly, for Marion and Martha had not returned.

Later he saw them, Marion leading, coming up the slope that led to the level upon which the house stood.

Marion had retired early, and after she had gone to her room Parsons had questioned Martha.

Twice while getting into his clothes this morning Parsons chuckled audibly. There was malicious amusement in the sound.

Once he caught himself saying aloud:

“I knew it would come, sooner or later. And she’s picked out the clodhopper! This will tickle Carrington!”

Again he laughed—such a laugh as the good people of Westwood might have used had they known what Parsons knew—that Marion Harlan had visited a stranger at his ranchhouse—a lonely place, far from prying eyes.

Parsons hated the girl as heartily as he had hated her father. He hated her because of her close resemblance to her parent; and he had hated Larry Harlan ever since their first meeting.

Parsons likewise had no affection for Carrington. They had been business associates for many years, and their association had been profitable for both; but there was none of that respect and admiration which marks many partnerships.

On several occasions Carrington had betrayed greediness in the division of the spoils of their ventures. But Carrington was the strong man, ruthless and determined, and Parsons was forced to nurse his resentment in silence. He meant some day, however, to repay Carrington, and he lost no opportunity to harass him. And yet it had been Parsons who had brought Carrington to Westwood two years before. He knew Carrington; he knew something of the big man’s way with women, of his merciless treatment of them. And he had invited Carrington to Westwood, hoping that the big man would add Marion Harlan to his list of victims.

So far, Carrington had made little progress. This fact, contrary to Parsons’ principles, had afforded the man secret enjoyment. He liked to see Carrington squirm under disappointment. He anticipated much pleasure in watching Carrington’s face when he should tell him where Marion had been the day before.

He breakfasted alone—early—chuckling his joy. And shortly after he left the table he was on a horse, riding toward Dawes.

He reached town about eight and went directly to Carrington’s rooms in the Castle.

Carrington had shaved and washed, and was sitting at a front window, coatless, his hair uncombed, when Parsons knocked on the door.

“You’re back, eh?” said Parsons as he took a chair near the window. “Danforth was telling me you went to see the governor. Did you fix it?”

Carrington grinned. “Taylor was to take the oath today. He won’t take it—at least, not the sort of oath he expected.”

“It’s lucky you knew the governor.”

“H-m.” The grim grunt indicated that, governor or no governor, Carrington would not be denied.

Parsons smirked. But Carrington detected an unusual quality in the smirk—something more than satisfaction over the success of the visit to the governor. There was malicious amusement in the smirk, and anticipation. Parsons’ expressed satisfaction was not over what had happened, but over what was going to happen.

Carrington knew Parsons, and therefore Carrington gave no sign of what he had seen in Parsons’ face. He talked of Dawes and of their own prospects. But once, when Carrington mentioned Marion Harlan, quite casually, he noted that Parsons’ eyes widened.

But Parsons said nothing on the subject which had brought him until he had talked for half an hour. Then, noting that his manner had aroused Carrington’s interest, he said softly:

“This man, Taylor, seems destined to get in your way, doesn’t he?”

“What do you mean?” demanded Carrington shortly.

“Do you remember telling me—on the train, with this man, Taylor, listening—that your story to Marion, of her father having been seen in this locality, was a fairy tale—without foundation?”

At Carrington’s nod Parsons continued:

“Well, it seems it was not a fairy tale, after all. For Larry Harlan was in his section for two or three years!”

“Who told you that?” Carrington slid forward in his chair and was looking hard at Parsons.

Parsons was enjoying the other’s astonishment, and Parsons was not to be hurried—he wanted to taste the flavor of his news; it was as good to his palate as a choice morsel of food to the palate of a disciple of Epicurus.

“It came in a sort of roundabout way, I understand,” said Parsons. “It seems that during your absence Marion made a number of inquiries about her father. Then a man named Ben Mullarky rode over to the house and told her that Larry had been in this country—that he had worked for the Arrow.”

“That’s Taylor’s ranch,” said Carrington. A deep scowl furrowed his forehead; his lips extended in a sullen pout.

Parsons was enjoying him. “Taylor again, eh?” he said softly. “First, he appears on the train, where he gets an earful of something we don’t want him to hear; then he is elected mayor, which is detrimental to our interests; then we discover that Larry Harlan worked for him. You’ll be interested to know that Marion went right over to the Arrow—in fact, she spent part of Monday there, and practically all of yesterday. More, Taylor has invited her to come whenever she wants to.”

“She went alone?” demanded Carrington.

“With Martha, my negro housekeeper. But that—” Parsons made a gesture of derision and went on: “Martha says Taylor was there with her, and that the two of them—with Martha asleep in the house—spent the entire afternoon on the porch, talking rather intimately.”

To Parsons’ surprise Carrington did not betray the perturbation Parsons expected. The scowl was still furrowing his forehead, his lips were still in the sullen pout; but he said nothing, looking steadily at Parsons.

At last his lips moved slightly; Parsons could see the clenched teeth between them.

“Where’s Larry Harlan now?”

Parsons related the story told him by Martha—which had been imparted to the negro woman by Marion in confidence—that Larry Harlan had been accidentally killed, searching for a mine.

When Parsons finished Carrington got up. There was a grin on his face as he stepped to where Parsons sat and placed his two hands heavily on the other’s shoulders.

There was a grin on his face, but his eyes were agleam with a slumbering passion that made Parsons catch his breath with a gasp. And his voice, low, and freighted with menace, caused Parsons to quake with terror.

“Parsons,” he said, “I want you to understand this: I am going to be the law out here. I’ll run things to suit myself. I’ll have no half-hearted loyalty, and I’ll destroy any man who opposes me! Those who are not with me to the last gasp are against me!” He laughed, and Parsons felt the man’s hot breath on his face—so close was it to his own.

“I was born a thousand years too late, Parsons!” he went on. “I am a robber baron brought down to date—modernized. I believe that in me flows the blood of a pirate, a savage, or an ancient king; I have all the instincts of a tribal chief whose principles are to rule or ruin! I’ll have no law out here but my own desires; and hypocrisy—in others—doesn’t appeal to me!

“You’ve told me a tale that interested me, but in the telling of it you made one mistake—you enjoyed the discomfiture you thought it would give me. You tingled with malice. Just to show you that I’ll not tolerate disloyalty from you—even in thought—I’m going to punish you.”

He dropped his big hands to Parsons’ throat, shutting off the incipient scream that issued from between the man’s lips. Parsons fought with all his strength to escape the grip of the iron fingers at his throat, twisting and squirming frenziedly in the chair. But the fingers tightened their grip, and when the man’s face began to turn blue-black, Carrington released him and looked down at his victim, laughing vibrantly.