CHAPTER III—THE SERPENT TRAIL

Marion Harlan did not dream of Quinton Taylor, though her last waking

thought was of him, and when she opened her eyes in the morning it was

to 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 she

could not define—looking directly at her.

She had been certain then, and still was certain that he had been

feigning sleep, that he had been listening to the talk carried on

between 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 first

glance at him, mentally decided that he was no more interesting than

many another ill-dressed and uncouth westerner whom she had seen on

the journey 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 the aisle. But even then he had not interested her; her interest

began when she noted his interest in the conversation of her traveling

companions. And then she had noticed several things about him that had

escaped her in other glances at him.

For one thing, despite the astonishment in his eyes, she had observed

the cold keenness of them, the odd squint at the corners, where little

wrinkles, splaying outward, indicated either deliberate impudence or

concealed mirth. She was rather inclined to believe it the latter,

though she would not have been surprised to discover the wrinkles to

mean 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 him

looking at her. That had seemed to indicate that he had taken more

than a passing interest in what he had overheard.

She speculated long over the incident, finally deciding that much

would depend upon what he had overheard. There was only one way to

determine that, and at breakfast in the dining-car she interrogated

Carrington.

“Of course, you and uncle are going to Dawes on business, and I am

merely tagging along to see if I can find any trace of my father. But

have you any business secrets that might interest an eavesdropper? On

a train, 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 a

stranger?”

Carrington’s face flushed; he exchanged a swift glance with the other

man.

“You mean that clodhopper with the tight-fitting hand-me-down in the

seat behind us—yesterday? He was asleep!”

“Then you did talk business—business secrets,” smiled the girl. “I

thought really big men commonly concealed their business secrets from

the 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

was very 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

time he sat behind you, when you were talking, I watched him, he was

pretending 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

believe he is a clodhopper. I think he amounts to something; and if

you will look well at him you will see, too. When he was listening to

you there was a look in his eyes that made me think of fighting.” And

then, after a momentary pause, she added slowly, “there isn’t anything

wrong about the business you are going to transact out here—is there?”

“Wrong?” he laughed. “Oh, no! Business is business.” He leaned forward

and gazed deliberately into her eyes, his own glowing significantly.

“You don’t think, with me holding your good opinion—and always hoping

to 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

your subtle speeches. I like you best when you talk frankly; but I am

not sure 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 truth

regarding 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 a

brute 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 having

been seen in this locality? To get her out here with me, of

course—where there isn’t a hell of a lot of law, and a man’s will is

the only thing that governs him. She won’t have me, eh? Well, we’ll

see!”

Parsons smirked at the other. “Then you lied about Lawrence Harlan

having 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 the

first place, you don’t love her as an uncle should because she looks

like Larry Harlan—and you hated Larry. Suppose I should tell her that

you were the cause of the trouble between her parents; that you framed

up on her mother, to get her to leave Larry? Why, you damned,

two-faced gopher, 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, just

ready to sit down, but delaying to hear the remainder of the

extraordinary conversation carried on between the two men.

Taylor had donned the garments he had discarded in Kansas City. A blue

woolen shirt, open at the throat; corduroy trousers, the bottoms

stuffed into 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 a broad-brimmed felt hat, which a smiling waiter held for

him—completed his attire.

Freshly shaved, his face glowed with the color that betokens perfect

health; and just now his eyes were also glowing—but with frank disgust

and dislike.

Carrington flushed darkly and stepped close to Taylor. Carrington’s

chin was thrust out belligerently; his eyes fairly danced with a rage

that he could hardly restrain.

“Listening again, eh?” he said hoarsely. “You had your ears trained on

us yesterday, in the Pullman, and now you are at it again. I’ve a

notion to knock your damned head off!”

Taylor’s eyelids flickered once, the little wrinkles at the corners of

his eyes deepening a trifle. But his gaze was steady, and the blue of

his eyes grew a trifle more steely.

“You’ve got a bigger notion not to, Mr. Man,” he grinned. “You run a

whole lot to talk.”

He sat down, twisted around in the chair and faced the table, casting

a humorous eye at the black waiter, and ignoring Carrington.

“I’ll want a passable breakfast this morning, George,” he said; “I’m

powerful 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.