The Sheriff's Son
stretched across his forehead. It was as plain to be seen as the scowl which drew his heavy eyebrows together.
"’Lo, Charlton. Come to boss this round-up for us?" asked Dingwell cheerily.
The young man nodded sulkily. "Hal sent me. The boys were n't with him." He looked across the fire at Beaudry, and there was smouldering rage in his narrowed eyes.
Roy murmured "Good-morning" in a rather stifled voice. This was the first time he had met Charlton since they had clashed in the arcade of the Silver Dollar. That long deep scar fascinated him. He felt an impulse to apologize humbly for having hit him so hard. To put such a mark on a man for life was a liberty that might well be taken as a personal affront. No wonder Charlton hated him—and as their eyes met now, Roy had no doubt about that. The man was his enemy. Some day he would even the score. Again Beaudry's heart felt the familiar drench of an icy wave.
Charlton did not answer his greeting. He flushed to his throat, turned abruptly on his heel, and began to talk with Ryan. The hillman wanted it clearly understood that the feud he cherished was only temporarily abandoned.
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