tomed to. She had given up the hope of getting at Findlay's secret by the strategy of jealousy; she was sorry for Cattle Kate, regretful of the pain she had given her already by appearing before her in Findlay's company, but she had another plan.
More than that, she had seen at one glance on that occasion, when the riving pang of jealousy tore poor, simple Kate's breast, that Kate's rage was not likely to be vented on Findlay if it should be goaded to the breaking point. Kate would take her gun and shoot whoever stood in her way, perhaps; but she would die, if necessity ever called for that sacrifice, before she would betray that evil, dark-hearted man by a word.
Alma had meant to ride to the hay-ranch to tell Barrett that they could not hope to do anything through Kate's jealousy, but had deferred it from day to day. Not so much out of consideration of convention, as a timid shrinking from seeking one whom her heart had begun to hunger after with a disturbing unrest. It is but a foolish, shallow woman, let her be never so good, who discovers to the author of her heart's disquietude the sickness that he alone can cure.
Alma was not of that shallow kind in whom a passion flares and falls like the caprice of a day. Her regard for Barrett had grown slowly, against her own conviction, from a rather indifferent liking, a wholly indifferent attitude of caring not at all whether he remained on the range or went his way. She had not taken the trouble at the beginning to sound him, and find whether he was molded around a hollow core, or contained the substance of a true man.
