the party away from her.
Two days later she’d ridden up to the sorry shack he’d bought as his excuse for being here. Tate had seen her coming and sent his men to the barn, and when she rode into the yard he greeted her coolly.
“I came about that,” Carol said and explained. “The way you spoke, I mean—so unfriendly. The other night too. Why?”
“I never bother with a beautiful woman,” Tate had said bluntly.
The flattery drew the sting from the offense, as he knew it would. Carol had laughed and asked him why.
“You can buy them in honky-tonks,” Tate drawled. “I like a woman who doesn’t want the world, doesn’t expect it, wouldn’t take it.”
“And you think I want the world?”
“I think you’ve got it,” Tate said bluntly. “Why bother with me?”
Carol had ridden off in anger. Two days later in Sun Dust, Carol had met him on the street, and she smiled almost shyly. Tate stopped and was pleasant to her. At parting he said, “That’s the last time you’llhave a smile for me, Miss Lufton. I think I’m going to fight your father.”
That had done it. Carol had ridden over next day. Tate, curious, wanted to see if he could kiss her, and he tried and succeeded. The easy way she came to him puzzled him. She wasn’t trash, and he knew it, and he knew also that he was probably the first man who hadn’t groveled before her. It explained much about Carol, and he saw that as long as she couldn’t get him she would be his.
The choice was put up to him then, as it was put up to him today. He could marry Carol and talk softly and walk into a share of the Blockhouse. Or he could play out his hand as he’d framed it.
Tate Riling was a shrewd man, and he knew himself, and he made his choice with a faint regret. Carol was nice, but the nicest things palled—except one, money. That was his choice.
Billings’ place, the Broken Arrow, lay between a couple of bald hills above the alkali flats, and when Riling cut past the hill he saw Carol’s horse in the weed-grown yard. Carol was sitting on the ruin of a porch, and when she saw Tate she rose.
Tate rode into the weed-grown yard and stepped down, and Carol was in his arms. He kissed her indifferently and walked with her to the shade of the stone house and squatted there. She sat beside him, her eyes anxious and a little afraid.
“Did I do wrong, Tate?”
Tate shoved his hat back off his forehead. His short blond hair burred straight up and, together with the look of worried bafflement in his eyes, gave the impression of a small boy hugely puzzled.
“Wrong? Wrong how, Carol?”
“I didn’t know it was a trick, Tate! I swear I didn’t, until I heard Amy say it.”
“How could you?” He put a big hand on hers. “Forget it. It’s done, dammit, and now we’ve got to fix it.”
“But I’m glad, Tate, in a way,” Carol said in a low voice. “I couldn’t bear it this morning when I thought that maybe you and Dad were fighting!”
“It’s not pretty,” Tate conceded slowly. “It’s not easy for you. But I do what I have to do, Carol. You can see that?”
“Not—quite,” Carol said hesitantly.
Tate held her hand and fixed his clear, bland blue eyes on her, his face utterly sober. “I’m a poor man, Carol. Money has come hard to me, and what little I’ve got is sunk in a handful of cull cows, a jag of grass and a shack that I bought from a homesteader. Your dad wants that grass, and he’s got the men to take it. Do I tuck my tail between my legs and run, or do I join up with men like myself and fight for what little I’ve got?”
“Is it that simple?” Carol asked.
Tate made a rough, flat-palmed gesture with his hand, a gesture of dismissal. “To me it is. Your father has got his truth, and I’ve got mine. I’ve got to stand or fall by it.”
Carol hung her head a moment, so he couldn’t see the tears that were making her eyes glisten. “I’ve got to accept this,” she thought; a woman has always got to
Two days later she’d ridden up to the sorry shack he’d bought as his excuse for being here. Tate had seen her coming and sent his men to the barn, and when she rode into the yard he greeted her coolly.
“I came about that,” Carol said and explained. “The way you spoke, I mean—so unfriendly. The other night too. Why?”
“I never bother with a beautiful woman,” Tate had said bluntly.
The flattery drew the sting from the offense, as he knew it would. Carol had laughed and asked him why.
“You can buy them in honky-tonks,” Tate drawled. “I like a woman who doesn’t want the world, doesn’t expect it, wouldn’t take it.”
“And you think I want the world?”
“I think you’ve got it,” Tate said bluntly. “Why bother with me?”
Carol had ridden off in anger. Two days later in Sun Dust, Carol had met him on the street, and she smiled almost shyly. Tate stopped and was pleasant to her. At parting he said, “That’s the last time you’llhave a smile for me, Miss Lufton. I think I’m going to fight your father.”
That had done it. Carol had ridden over next day. Tate, curious, wanted to see if he could kiss her, and he tried and succeeded. The easy way she came to him puzzled him. She wasn’t trash, and he knew it, and he knew also that he was probably the first man who hadn’t groveled before her. It explained much about Carol, and he saw that as long as she couldn’t get him she would be his.
The choice was put up to him then, as it was put up to him today. He could marry Carol and talk softly and walk into a share of the Blockhouse. Or he could play out his hand as he’d framed it.
Tate Riling was a shrewd man, and he knew himself, and he made his choice with a faint regret. Carol was nice, but the nicest things palled—except one, money. That was his choice.
Billings’ place, the Broken Arrow, lay between a couple of bald hills above the alkali flats, and when Riling cut past the hill he saw Carol’s horse in the weed-grown yard. Carol was sitting on the ruin of a porch, and when she saw Tate she rose.
Tate rode into the weed-grown yard and stepped down, and Carol was in his arms. He kissed her indifferently and walked with her to the shade of the stone house and squatted there. She sat beside him, her eyes anxious and a little afraid.
“Did I do wrong, Tate?”
Tate shoved his hat back off his forehead. His short blond hair burred straight up and, together with the look of worried bafflement in his eyes, gave the impression of a small boy hugely puzzled.
“Wrong? Wrong how, Carol?”
“I didn’t know it was a trick, Tate! I swear I didn’t, until I heard Amy say it.”
“How could you?” He put a big hand on hers. “Forget it. It’s done, dammit, and now we’ve got to fix it.”
“But I’m glad, Tate, in a way,” Carol said in a low voice. “I couldn’t bear it this morning when I thought that maybe you and Dad were fighting!”
“It’s not pretty,” Tate conceded slowly. “It’s not easy for you. But I do what I have to do, Carol. You can see that?”
“Not—quite,” Carol said hesitantly.
Tate held her hand and fixed his clear, bland blue eyes on her, his face utterly sober. “I’m a poor man, Carol. Money has come hard to me, and what little I’ve got is sunk in a handful of cull cows, a jag of grass and a shack that I bought from a homesteader. Your dad wants that grass, and he’s got the men to take it. Do I tuck my tail between my legs and run, or do I join up with men like myself and fight for what little I’ve got?”
“Is it that simple?” Carol asked.
Tate made a rough, flat-palmed gesture with his hand, a gesture of dismissal. “To me it is. Your father has got his truth, and I’ve got mine. I’ve got to stand or fall by it.”
Carol hung her head a moment, so he couldn’t see the tears that were making her eyes glisten. “I’ve got to accept this,” she thought; a woman has always got to
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