He was silent for some moments, and then he straightened up, squaring his shoulders as though making a conscious effort to free them of a burden. 'Yu aimin' to stay around here?' he asked bluntly.
'I ain't decided,' the other replied. 'I'm kind o' footloose about now. Got tired o' Texas an' New Mexico, an' figured I'd have a look at Arizona; heard there was gold here too.'
The elder man shot a quick look at him. 'There is if a fella knowed where to search,' he said.
They were entering the town when a young man came striding rapidly towards them; it was Luce Burdette. Sudden's eyes went to his companion, but the ranch-owner's features had the fixity of stone itself. Burdette did not hesitate; he stopped square in front of them.
'I've just struck town, Purdie, an' heard of yore loss,' he said. 'I want yu to know that I'm terrible sorry.'
The cattleman looked at him, his eyes like chilled steel, his lips clamped tightly. 'Murder is one o' the things that bein' sorry for don't excuse,' lie said harshly.
Burdette's eyes opened in bewilderment and then, as understanding came to him, his cheeks flushed redly under the tan.
'Yu tryin' to tell me I killed yore son?' he cried.
'Nothin' less,' was the stern reply. 'He was found in Echo Valley with a .38 slug through his back, fired by a fella who rode a grey; there's yore hoss an' gun, an' you was seen headin' that way a bit before. If yu wasn't a Bur-dette, or if we had a marshal worth a busted nickel, yu'd be stretchin' hemp right now.'
'It's a damnable lie,' the young man said hotly. 'I never had any grudge against Kit--in fact ...' He hesitated and then burst out, 'It's absurd. Why, if things had been different, him an' me might 'a' been good friends. I give yu my word, Purdie, I had nothin' to do with his death.'
Sudden, watching him closely, believed he was speaking the truth, but the cattleman's face expressed nothing hut incredulity.
'O' course yu'd say so,' he sneered. 'I wouldn't take the word of a Burdette at the Throne of Heaven.' His eyes, mad with misery, glared at this lad who had all his own son had lost--youth, vigour, the vista of life--and a savage spate of anger swept away his control. 'Pull yore gun, yu cur, an' we'll settle it here an' now,' he cried.
The boy's face flushed at the insult, but he made no move towards his weapon. His gaze did not waver as he replied :
'If yu want to kill me, Purdie, go ahead; there's a reason why I can't draw on yu.'
The elder man's lips twisted into a furious snarl. 'Yu bet there's a reason--yo're yellow, like the rest o' yore scaly, shoot-from-cover family,' he rasped. 'Well, yu get away with it for now, but paste this in yore hat : I'm goin' to find the fella who murdered my boy, an' when I do--he dies.'
'I'll help yu,' Luce replied, and walked slowly away. Purdie looked at the puncher. 'What d'yu make o' that?'
'I don't think he did it.'
'Yu don't know the breed--lyin's as natural as breathin' with them,' the rancher replied.
'I'm backin' my judgment, seh,' the puncher persisted.
'Weil, mebbe, but I'm bettin' it was a Burdette any-ways,' the old man said. 'What I was goin' to ask yu when that houn' showed up was to see me before yu make any plans. Will yu do that?'
'Pleased to,' Sudden said.
It was agreed that he should ride over to the C P on the following morning, and the cattleman departed. Sudden went in search of a meal, his mind full of the encounter he had just witnessed. He liked Purdie, recognized him for a white man, and admired the sturdy pluck with which he was facing a crushing misfortune. Regarding Burdette his mind was in a curious condition. As at their first meeting, he felt attracted to the boy, and found it difficult to conceive him guilty of a cowardly murder. Certainly it was not lack of courage that made him refuse the older man's challenge, at the risk of being shot down where he stood. If all the Burdettes were like this one .. .
Meanwhile, the subject of his speculations had gone straight to the marshal's office. Slype, lounging in a tilted-back chair, his heels on his desk, chuckled inwardly when he saw the visitor's pale, furious face.
''Lo, Luce, what's bitin' yu?' he inquired.
'I've just seen Purdie, an' he's accusin' me o' shootin' Kit,' the boy blurted out.
The marshal grinned. 'Well, didn't yu?' he asked.
'Yu know damn well I didn't,' Luce retorted hotly. 'An' yu gotta get busy an' find out who did; I ain't goin' to have a thing like that pinned on me.' *
'Orders, huh?' the officer sneered. 'Well, I ain't takin' 'em. Ol' Man Purdie has served notice that him an' his outfit is goin' to handle the job, an' that lets me out. Sabe?'
His little eyes squinted at the youth in malignant enjoyment; he would not have dared to take that tone with any other of the Burdettes.
'Playin' safe, huh?' Luce said scornfully. 'They shore don't call yu `Slippery' for nothin',' and stamped out of the office before any adequate reply occurred to its owner.
Getting his horse, he mounted and rode slowly out of town, taking the westerly trail which was the direct line to Old Stormy. Sitting listlessly in the saddle, head down, he had an air of dejection utterly foreign to his nature. In truth, Luce Burdette was in the depths of despair, for the events of the last two days had wrecked the secret cherished hopes of months. How would Nan Purdie regard him now --the reputed slayer of her brother? Despite the dormant enmity between the two families, he had dared to dream, and even after the mysterious taking-off of Old Burdette had nearly provoked an open rupture, had gone on doing so. But this latest killing, so obviously a reprisal, must be the end of everything--for him. And the dream had been so sweet! Unknown to all others, they had met at intervals--accidentally, as they both pretended--and though no word of love had been uttered, eyes spoke to eyes and told what the lips dared not say. And now, in the faint hope that he would see her, and be able to deny this damnable thing that was being said of him, he was going to a spot where he had already seen her several times, a sheltered little glade on the lower slopes of Old Stormy.
It was an ideal place for a lovers' tryst--a tiny circle of grass, mosaiced with flowers, almost entirely walled in by scrub-oak and other trees, with an undergrowth of catclaw, prickly pear, and smaller shrubs. Burdette's face fell when he found that the glade was empty, though he had expected to find it so. Dismounting, he trailed the reins and dropped on a prostrate tree-trunk which had served them as a seat on happier occasions. With bowed head he sat there, wondering. Would she come, and if she did, would she believe him? he asked himself over and over again. It did not seem possible; she would take her father's view, and he had to admit that Purdie was justified--the evidence was damning.
A whinny from his horse apprised him that someone was approaching, and he looked up to see the girl he was waiting for. At the sight of him she checked her pony for a moment and then came slowly on. Despite the very evident signs of grief, she made a picture to fill the eye of a man. She rode astride, with the long stirrup of the Arizona cowboy, and her mount--a mettlesome mustang--knew better than to try any tricks. A dark shirt-waist, and divided skirt which reached to the tops of her trim riding-boots, showed the curves of her slim figure, and her honey-coloured hair, cut short almost like a boy's, curled crisply beneath the black wide-brimmed hat. Burdette saw the shadows under the deep blue eyes which had always smiled at him, and choked down a curse. Hat in hand, he rose to his feet.
'I was hopin' to see yu,' he said.
'I didn't expect ' the girl began, and then, 'I couldn't stay in the house; I had to come out--just to convince myself that the world isn't all ugly and wicked.'
The poignant note of misery made him writhe. 'Nan ! ' he cried, and his heart was in his voice, 'Yu don't believe I did it, do yu?'
The tear-laden eyes met his bravely. 'If I thought that I wouldn't even look at you,' their owner said.
The boy's face lighted for a moment. 'Then I don't care who does think it,' he said impulsively.
'It makes no difference,' she told him. 'you are a Bur-dette, I am a Purdie; no good can come of our-- meeting.'
'But if yu don't believe the Burdettes did this thing,' he protested.
'I didn't say that, Luce,' she reminded him, and though she spoke softly there was an underlying bitterness which told him only too plainly what she did believe. Hopelessness again claimed him.
'I'll find the skunk,' he gritted. 'If my people had any-thin' to do with it, I'll disown the lot of 'em.'
He meant it--the savage intensity of his voice showed that--but the girl shook her head.
