Just why the impulse had come to him at that instant he could not have told.  He knew Kane Lawler’s name had been mentioned in connection with the girl’s; and it might have been that his hatred of Lawler, and the sudden jealousy that had developed in him over the incident of the fluttering handkerchief, had gripped him.  But he was aware that just at this time he was risking much—­risking his life and jeopardizing the business venture in which he was engaged.  Yet the impulse which was driving him had made him reckless; it had dulled his sense of responsibility; had swept away all considerations of caution.  When he saw there was no one on the street he walked eastward to the livery stable where he kept his horse, saddled and bridled it, mounted and rode away.

His ranch, the Two Diamond, was fifteen miles southwestward.  Warden rode directly east, bearing a little south after he had traveled some distance from town, striking a narrow trail that wound a sinuous course over the plains.

The passion that had seized Warden still held him.  He told himself that he really intended merely to call upon Ruth professionally, in his role of school commissioner; he assured himself that she must be made to understand that the forcible disciplining of her pupils would not be tolerated.  Yet as he rode he kept glancing backward apprehensively, though he knew that if he made his visit merely official he need have nothing to fear from anyone.

Twice, as Warden rode, he halted his horse and debated the wisdom of returning.  And twice he rode on again telling himself he had a right to visit the girl, and that he meant no harm.

At most he desired merely to see the girl again, to experience the thrills that he had felt upon the other occasions he had talked with her.  And when at dusk he came in sight of the Hamlin cabin he felt that he had really come on an official visit.

He saw Ruth’s pony saddled and bridled, standing at a corner of the corral, where she had left him when she had returned from the schoolhouse some hours before.

She had found the house unoccupied when she arrived; there was evidence that her father had left shortly after breakfast—­for the dishes were unwashed and the floor unswept—­two duties that he always had performed, knowing that in the morning she had a ten-mile ride before her.

Table and floor had been attended to by the girl.  But she had done little else.  For hours she had sat in a chair near the front door, thinking of what had happened in the schoolhouse—­of what she had heard—­the evidence that Kane Lawler knew what her father had been doing, and that he was trying to protect her.

She believed it was the latter knowledge that made her feel so small, so insignificant, so utterly miserable.  For while she was convinced that he would think no less of her, no matter what her father had done, the fact that Lawler was trying to keep the knowledge of her father’s guilt from her told her that he appreciated the keen disgrace that threatened her.