CHAPTER XON GUARD
The man whose soul held no love of the poetic sat for two or three hours on the threshold of the bunkhouse door, his gaze on the ranchhouse. He was considering his “reputation,” and he had reached the conclusion that Barbara Morgan had reason to fear him—if rumor’s tongues had related to her all of the crimes that had been attributed to him. And he knew she must have heard a great many tales about him, for rumor is a tireless worker.
And for the first time in his life Harlan regretted that he had permitted rumor to weave her fabric of lies. For not one of the stories that luridly portrayed him in the rôle of a ruthless killer and outlaw was true.
It was easy enough for him to understand how he had gained that reputation. He grinned mirthlessly now, as he mentally reviewed a past whichhadbeen rather like the record of a professional man-killer. And yet, reviewing his past—from the day about five years ago, when he had shot a Taos bully who had drawn a gun on him with murderous intent, until today, when he had sent Laskar to his death—he could not remember one shooting affray for which he could be blamed. As a matter of fact, he had—by the courts in some instances, and by witnesses in others, where there were no courts—been held blameless.
There had been men who had seen Harlan draw hisweapons with deadly intent—men who insisted that the man’s purpose was plain, to goad an enemy to draw a weapon, permitting him partially to draw it, and then to depend upon his superior swiftness and unerring aim. And this theory of Harlan’s character had gone abroad.
And because the theory had been accepted, Harlan’s name became associated with certain crimes which are inseparable from the type of character which the popular imagination had given him. Strangers—criminals—in certain towns in the Territory and out of it must have heard with considerable satisfaction that their depredations had been charged to Harlan. Only once had Harlan been able to refute the charge of rumor. That was when, having passed a night in the company of Dave Hallowell, the marshal of Pardo, word was brought by a stage-driver that “Drag” Harlan had killed a man in Dry Bottom—a town two hundred miles north—and that Harlan had escaped, though a posse had been on his trail.
Even when the driver was confronted by Harlan in the flesh he was doubtful, surrendering grudgingly, as though half convinced that Harlan had been able to transport himself over the distance from Dry Bottom to Pardo by some magic not mentioned.
So it had gone. But the terrible record of evil deeds attributed to Harlan had not affected him greatly. In the beginning—when he had killed the Taos bully—he had been reluctant to take life; and he had avoided, as much as possible, company in which he would be forced to kill to protect himself.
And through it all he had been able to maintain his poise, his self-control. The reputation he had achieved would have ruined some men—would have filled them with an ambition to fulfil the specifications of the mythical terror men thought him. There was a danger there; Harlan had felt it. There was a certain satisfaction in being pointed out as a man with whom other men dared not trifle; respect of a fearsome equality was granted him—he had seen it in the eyes of men, as he had seen an awed adulation in the eyes of women.
He had felt them all—all the emotions that a real desperado could feel. He had experienced the impulse to swagger, to pose—really to live the part that his ill-fame had given him.
But he had resisted those impulses; and the glow in his eyes when in the presence of men who feared him was not the passion to kill, but a humorous contempt of all men who abased themselves before him.
On the night he had been with Dave Hallowell, the marshal of Pardo, he had listened with steady interest to a story told him by the latter. It concerned the Lamo region and the great basin at which he and Barbara Morgan had been looking when the girl had accused him of a lack of poetic feeling.
“I’ve heard reports about Sunset Valley,” Hallowell had said, squinting his eyes at Harlan. “I’ve met Sheriff Gage two or three times, an’ he’s had somethin’ to say about it. Accordin’ to Gage, everything ain’t on the surface over there; there’s somethin’ behind all that robbin’ an’ stealin’ that’s goin’ on. There’s somethin’big, but it’s hid—an’ no man ain’t ever been able to find out what it is. But it’s somethin’.
“In the first place, Deveny’s gang ain’t never been heard of as pullin’ off anything anywheres else but in Sunset Valley. As for that, there’s plenty of room in the valley for them without gettin’ out of it. But it seems they’d get out once in a while. They don’t—they stay right in the valley, or close around it. Seems to me they’ve got a grudge ag’in’ them Sunset Valley ranchers, an’ are workin’ it off.
“Why? That question has got Gage guessin’. It’s got everybody guessin’. Stock is bein’ run off in big bunches; men is bein’ murdered without no cause; no man is able to get any money in or out of the valley—an’ they’re doin’ other things that is makin’ the cattlemen feel nervous an’ flighty.
“They’ve scared one man out—a Pole named Launski—from the far end. He pulled stakes an’ hit the breeze runnin’ sellin’ out for a song to a guy named Haydon. I seen Launski when he clumb on the Lamo stage, headin’ this way, an’ he sure was a heap relieved to get out with a whole skin.”
Hallowell talked long, and the mystery that seemed to surround Sunset Valley appealed to Harlan’s imagination. Yet he did not reveal his interest to Hallowell until the latter mentioned Barbara Morgan. Then his eyes glowed, and he leaned closer to the marshal.
And when Hallowell remarked that Lane Morgan, of the Rancho Seco had declared he would give half his ranch to a trustworthy man who could be dependedupon to “work his guns” in the interest of the Morgan family, the slow tensing of Harlan’s muscles might have betrayed the man’s emotions—for Hallowell grinned faintly.
Hallowell had said more. But he did not say that word had come to him from Sheriff Gage—an appeal, rather—to the effect that Morgan had sent to him for such a man, and that Gage had transmitted the appeal to Hallowell. Hallowell thought he knew Harlan, and he was convinced that if he told Harlan flatly that Morgan wanted to employ him for that definite purpose, Harlan would refuse.
And so Hallowell had gone about his work obliquely. He knew Harlan more intimately than he knew any other man in the country; and he was aware that the chivalric impulse was stronger in Harlan than in any man he knew.
And he was aware, too, that Harlan was scrupulously honest and square, despite the evil structure which had been built around him by rumor. He had watched Harlan for years, and knew him for exactly what he was—an imaginative, reckless, impulsive spirit who faced danger with the steady, unwavering eye of complete unconcern.
As Hallowell had talked of the Rancho Seco he had seen Harlan’s eyes gleam; seen his lips curve with a faint smile in which there was a hint of waywardness. And so Hallowell knew he had scattered his words on fertile mental soil.
And yet Harlan would not have taken the trail that led to the Rancho Seco had not the killing of hisfriend, Davey Langan, followed closely upon the story related to him by the marshal.
Harlan had ridden eastward, to Lazette—a matter of two hundred miles—trailing a herd of cattle from the T Down—the ranch where he and Langan were employed.
When he returned he heard the story of the killing of his friend by Dolver and another man, not identified, but who rode a horse branded with the L Bar M—which was the Rancho Seco brand.
It was Hallowell who broke the news of the murder to Harlan, together with the story of his pursuit of Dolver and the other man, and of his failure to capture them.
There was no thought of romance in Harlan’s mind when he mounted Purgatory to take up Dolver’s trail; and when he came upon Dolver at Sentinel Rock—and later, until he had talked with Lane Morgan—he had no thought of offering himself to Morgan, to become that trustworthy man who would “work his guns” for the Rancho Seco owner.
But after he had questioned Laskar—and had felt that Laskar was not the accomplice of Dolver in the murder of Langan—he had determined to go to the ranch, and had told Morgan of his determination.
Now, sitting on the threshold of the Rancho Seco bunkhouse, he realized that his talk with Morgan had brought him here in a different rôle than he had anticipated.
From where he sat he had a good view of all the buildings—low, flat-roofed adobe structures, scatteredon the big level with no regard for system, apparently—erected as the needs of a growing ranch required. Yet all were well kept and substantial, indicating that Lane Morgan had been a man who believed in neatness and permanency.
The ranchhouse was the largest of the buildings. It was two stories high on the side fronting the slope that led to the river, and another section—in what appeared to be the rear, facing the bunkhouse, also had a second story—a narrow, boxlike, frowning section which had the appearance of a blockhouse on the parapet wall of a fort.
And that, Harlan divined, was just what it had been built for—for defensive purposes. For the entire structure bore the appearance of age, and the style of its architecture was an imitation of the Spanish type. It was evident that Lane Morgan had considered the warlike instincts of wandering bands of Apache Indians when he had built his house.
The walls connecting the fortlike section in the rear with the two-story front were about ten feet in height, with few windows; and the entire structure was built in a huge square, with an inner court, orpatio, reached by an entrance that penetrated the lower center of the two-story section in front.
Harlan’s interest centered heavily upon the ranchhouse, for it was there that Barbara Morgan had hidden herself, fearing him.
She had entered a door that opened in the wall directly beneath the fortlike second story, and it was upon this door that Harlan’s gaze was fixed. Hesmiled wryly, for sight of the door brought Barbara into his thoughts—though he was not sure she had been out of them since the first instant of his meeting with her in Lamo.
“They’ve been tellin’ her them damn stories about me bein’ a hell-raiser—an’ she believes ’em,” he mused. And then his smile faded. “An she ain’t none reassured by my mug.”
But it was upon the incident of his meeting with Barbara, and the odd coincidence of his coming upon her father at Sentinel Rock, that his thoughts dwelt longest.
It was odd—that meeting at Sentinel Rock. And yet not so odd, either, considering everything.
For he had been coming to the Rancho Seco. Before he had reached Sentinel Rock he had been determined to begin his campaign against the outlaws at the Rancho Seco. It was his plan to ask Morgan for a job, and to spend as much of his time as possible in getting information about Deveny and his men, in the hope of learning the identity of the man who had assisted in the murder of Langan.
What was odd about the incident was that Morgan should attempt to cross to Pardo to have his gold assayed at just about the time Harlan had decided to begin his trip to the Rancho Seco.
Harlan smiled as his gaze rested on the ranchhouse. He was glad he had met Lane Morgan; he was glad he had headed straight for Lamo after leaving Morgan. For by going straight to Lamo he had been able to balk Deveny’s evil intentions toward the girlwho, in the house now, was so terribly afraid of him.
He had told Morgan why he was headed toward the Rancho Seco section, but he had communicated to Morgan that information only because he had wanted to cheer the man in his last moments. That was what had made Morgan’s face light up as his life had ebbed away. And Harlan’s eyes glowed now with the recollection.
“The damned cuss—how he did brighten up!” he mused. “He sure was a heap tickled to know that the deck wasn’t all filled with dirty deuces.”
And then Harlan’s thoughts went again to Lamo, and to the picture Barbara had made running toward him. It seemed to him that he could still feel her in his arms, and a great regret that she distrusted him assailed him.
He had sat for a long time on the threshold of the bunkhouse door, and after a time he noted that the moon was swimming high, almost overhead. He got up, unhurriedly, and again walked to the stable door, looking in at Purgatory. For Harlan did not intend to sleep tonight; he had resolved, since the Rancho Seco seemed to be deserted except for his and Barbara’s presence, to guard the ranchhouse.
For he knew that the passions of Deveny for the girl were thoroughly aroused. He had seen in Deveny’s eyes there in Lamo a flame—when Deveny looked at Barbara—that told him more about the man’s passions than Deveny himself suspected. He grinned coldly as he leaned easily against the stable door; for men of the Deveny type always arousedhim—their personality had always seemed to strike discord into his soul; had always fanned into flame the smoldering hatred he had of such men; had always brought into his heart those savage impulses which he had sometimes felt when he was on the verge of yielding to the urge to become what men had thought him—and what they still thought him—a conscienceless killer.
His smile now was bitter with the hatred that was in his heart for Deveny—for Deveny had cast longing, lustful eyes upon Barbara Morgan—and the smile grew into a sneer as he drew out paper and tobacco and began to roll a cigarette.
But as he rolled the cigarette his fingers stiffened; the paper and the tobacco in it dropped into the dust at his feet; and he stiffened, his lips straightening, his eyes flaming with rage, his muscles tensing.
For a horseman had appeared from out of the moonlit haze beyond the river. Rigid in the doorway—standing back a little so that he might not be seen—Harlan watched the man.
The latter brought his horse to a halt when he reached the far corner of the ranchhouse, dismounted, and stole stealthily along the wall of the building.
Harlan was not more than a hundred feet distant, and the glare of the moonlight shining full on the man as he paused before the door into which Barbara Morgan had gone, revealed him plainly to Harlan.
The man was Meeder Lawson. Harlan’s lips wreathed into a grin of cold contempt. He stepped quickly to Purgatory, drew his rifle from its saddlesheath and returned to the doorway. And there, standing in the shadows, he watched Lawson as the latter tried the door and, failing to open it, left it and crept along the wall of the building, going toward a window.
The window also was fastened, it seemed, for Lawson stole away from it after a time and continued along the wall of the house until he reached the southeast corner. Around that, after a fleeting glance about him, Lawson vanished.
Still grinning—though there was now a quality in the grin that might have warned Lawson, had he seen it—Harlan stepped down from the doorway, slipped into the shadow of the corral fence, and made his way toward the corner where Lawson had disappeared.
CHAPTER XITHE INTRUDER
After closing the door through which she had entered, Barbara Morgan slipped the fastenings into place and stood, an ear pressed against the door, listening for sounds that would tell her Harlan had followed her. But beyond the door all was silence.
Breathing fast, yielding to the panic of fear that had seized her, over the odd light she had seen in Harlan’s eyes—a gleam, that to her, seemed to have been a reflection of some evil passion in the man’s heart—she ran through the dark room she had entered, opened a door that led to thepatio, and peered fearfully outward, as though she half expected to see Harlan there.
But the court was deserted, apparently, though there were somber shadows ranging the enclosing walls that would afford concealment for Harlan, had he succeeded in gaining entrance. As she stepped out of the doorway she peered intently around.
Then, further frightened by the brooding silence that seemed to envelop the place, and tortured by tragic thoughts in which her father occupied a prominent position—almost crazed by the memory of what had happened during the preceding twenty-four hours—she fled across thepatioswiftly, her terror growing with each step.
She knew the house thoroughly; she could havefound her way in complete darkness; and when she reached the opposite side of the court she almost threw herself at a door which, she knew, opened into the big room in which she and her father had usually passed their leisure.
Entering, she closed the door, and barred it. Then, feeling more secure, she stood for an instant in the center of the room, gazing about, afflicted with an appalling sense of loss, of loneliness, and of helplessness.
For this was the first time she had entered the house since the news of her father’s death had reached her; and she missed him, feeling more keenly than ever the grief she had endured thus far with a certain stoic calm; yielding to the tears that had been very close for hours.
She did not light the kerosene lamp that stood on a big center table in the room. For there was light enough for her to see objects around her; and she went at last to an arm-chair which had been her father’s favorite, knelt beside it, and sobbed convulsively.
Later, yielding to a dull apathy which had stolen over her, she made her way upstairs, to her room—which was directly over the front entrance to thepatio—and sank into a chair beside one of the windows.
She had locked her door after entering; and for the first time since arriving at the Rancho Seco she felt comparatively safe.
Her thoughts were incoherent—a queer jumble of mental impulses which seemed to lead her always backto the harrowing realization that she had lost her father. That was the gigantic axis around which her whole mental structure revolved. It was staggering, stupefying, and her brain reeled under it.
Other thoughts came, flickered like feeble lights, and went out—thoughts of what had happened to her at Lamo; a dull wonder over Meeder Lawson’s presence in town when he should have been with the men on the range; speculation as to the whereabouts of the men—why none of them had remained at the ranchhouse; and a sort of dumb, vague wonder over what her future would be.
She thought, too, of John Haydon of the Star ranch—the big, smiling, serene-eyed man who seemed to bring a breath of romance with him each time he visited the Rancho Seco. Haydon would help her, she knew, and she would go to him in the morning.
Her father had trusted Haydon, and she would trust him. Haydon was the one man in the section who seemed to have no fear of Deveny and his men—many times he had told her that most of the stories told of Deveny’s crimes were untrue—that he had not committed all those that were attributed to him.
Not that Haydon condoned those offenses upon which Deveny stood convicted by circumstantial evidence. Nor had Haydon ever sought to defend Deveny. On the other hand, Haydon’s condemnation of the outlaw and his men had been vigorous—almost too vigorous for Haydon’s safety, she had heard her father say.
It was when her thoughts dwelt upon Harlan thatshe was most puzzled—and impressed. For though she was acquainted with the man’s reputation—knowing him to be an outlaw of the reckless, dare-devil type—she felt the force of him, the compelling originality of him—as he differed from the outlaw of popular conception—his odd personality, which seemed to be a mingling of the elements of character embracing both good and evil.
For though an outlaw himself, he had protected her from outlaws. And she had seen in his eyes certain expressions that told her that he felt impulses of sympathy and of tenderness. And his words to Deveny and others had seemed to hint of a fairly high honorableness.
And though she had seen in his eyes a cold gleam that was convincing evidence of the presence of those ruthless passions which had made him an enemy of the law, she had also detected expressions in his eyes that told plainly of genial humor, of gentleness, and of consideration for other humans.
But whatever she had seen in him, she felt his force—the terrible power of him when aroused. It was in the atmosphere that surrounded him; it was in the steady gleam of his eyes, in the poise of his head, and in the thrust of his jaw, all around him. She feared him, yet he fascinated her—compelled her—seemed to insist that she consider him in her scheme of life.
In fact, he had made it plain to her that he intended to be considered. “I’m stayin’ here,” he had told her in his slow, deliberate way.
And that seemed to end it—she knew hewouldstay; that he was determined, and that nothing short of force would dissuade him. And what force could she bring against him? A man whose name, mentioned in the presence of other men, made their faces blanch.
Deep in her heart, though, lurked a conviction that Harlan had not told her everything that had happened at Sentinel Rock. She was afflicted with a suspicion that he was holding something back. She had seen that in his eyes, too, she thought. It seemed to her that her fathermighthave told him to come to the Rancho Seco, and to stay there. And for that reason—because she suspected that Harlan had not told all he knew—she felt that she ought not order him away. If only he had not looked at her with that queer, insinuating smile!
She had sat at the window for, it seemed to her, many hours before she became aware that the moon had risen and was directly overhead, flooding the ground in the vicinity of the ranchhouse with a soft, silver radiance.
She got up with a start, remembering that she had left Harlan standing outside the door in the rear. She had almost forgotten that!
She went to a window that opened into thepatio, and looked downward. Every nook and corner of thepatiowas visible now; the dark, somber shadows had been driven away, and in the silvery flood that poured down from above the enclosure was brilliant, clearly defined—and deserted.
And yet as the girl looked, a presentiment of evil assailed her, whitening her cheeks and widening hereyes. The quiet peace and tranquillity of thepatioseemed to mock her; she felt that it held a sinister promise, a threat of dire things to come.
The feeling was so strong that it drove her back from the window to the center of the room, where she stood, holding her breath, her hands clasped in front of her, the fingers twining stiffly. It seemed to her that she was waiting—waiting for something to happen—something that threatened.
And when she heard a slight sound, seeming to arise from the room below her, she caught her breath with a gasp of horror.
But she did not move. She stood there, with no breath issuing from between her lips, for many minutes, it seemed—waiting, dreading, a cold paralysis stealing over her.
And then again it came—an odd sound—slow, creaking, seeming to come always nearer. It was not until she heard the sound directly outside her door that she realized that what she heard was a step on the stairs. And then, convinced that Harlan had gained entrance, she slipped noiselessly across the room to the front wall, where she took down a heavy pistol that hung from a wooden peg.
With the huge weapon in hand she returned to a point near the center of the room, and with bated breath and glowing, determined eyes, faced the door.
And when, after a time, she heard the door creak with a weight that seemed to be against it—after she saw it give; heard the lock break, and saw a man’s form darken the opening as the door was flung wide—shepressed the trigger of the weapon once—twice—three times—in rapid succession.
She heard the man curse, saw him catch at his chest, and tumble headlong toward her. And she fired again, thinking he was trying to grasp her.
She laughed hysterically when she saw him sink to the floor and stretch out with a queer inertness. Then, swaying, her brain reeling with the horror of the thing, she managed to get to the bed at the other side of the room. When she reached it she collapsed gently, a long, convulsive shudder running over her.
CHAPTER XIIBARBARA SEES A LIGHT
When Barbara regained consciousness it was with a gasp of horror over the realization of what had happened. She stiffened immediately, however, and lay, straining at the dread paralysis that had gripped her; for she saw Harlan standing at her side, looking down into her face, his own set in a grim smile.
She must have fainted again, for it seemed to her that a long period of time elapsed until she again became conscious of her surroundings. Harlan had moved off a little, though he was still watching her with the grimly humorous expression.
She sat up, staring wildly at him; then shrank back, getting as far away from him as she could.
“You!” she gasped, “You! Didn’t I——”
He interrupted her, drawling his words a little:
“The guy you shot was Lawson. You bored him a heap. I’ve toted him downstairs. He’s plenty dead. It was plumb good shootin’—for a woman.”
His words shocked her to action, and she got up and walked around the foot of the bed, from where she could see the spot where the intruder must have fallen after she had shot him. A dark stain showed on the floor where the man had lain, and the sight of it sent her a step backward, so that she struck the foot of the bed. She caught at the bed and grasped oneof the posts, holding tightly to it while she looked Harlan over with dreading, incredulous eyes.
“It—it wasn’tyou!” she demanded. “Are you sure?”
He smiled and said, slowly and consolingly: “I reckon if you’d shotmeI’d be knowin’ it. Don’t take it so hard, ma’am. Why, if a man goes to breakin’ into a woman’s room that way he sure ain’t fit to go on livin’ in a world where thereisa woman.”
“It was Lawson—you say? Meeder Lawson—the Rancho Seco foreman? I thought—why, I thought it was you!”
“I’m thankin’ you, ma’am,” he said, ironically. “But if you’ll just stick your head out of that window, you’ll see it was Lawson, right enough. He’s layin’ right below the window.”
She did as bidden, and she saw Lawson lying on the ground beneath the window, flat on his back, his face turned upward with the radiant moonlight shining full upon his wide-open, staring eyes.
Barbara glanced swiftly, and then drew back into the room, shuddering.
Harlan stood, silently regarding her, while she walked again to the bed and sat upon it, staring out into the flood of moonlight, her face ghastly, her hands hanging limply at her sides.
She had killed a man. And though there was justification for the deed, she could not fight down the shivering horror that had seized her, the overpowering and terrible knowledge that she had taken human life.
She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, andHarlan said no word to her, standing motionless, his arms folded, one hand slowly caressing his chin, as he watched her.
After a time, drawing a long, shuddering breath, she looked up at him.
“How did you know—what made you come—here?” she asked.
“I wasn’t reckonin’ to sleep tonight—havin’ thoughts—about things,” he said. “I was puttin’ in a heap of my time settin’ in the doorway of the bunkhouse, wonderin’ what had made you so scared of me. While I was tryin’ to figure it out I saw Lawson comin’. There was somethin’ in his actions which didn’t jibe with my ideas of square dealin’, an’ so I kept lookin’ at him. An’ when I saw him prowlin’ around, tryin’ to open doors an’ windows, why, I just naturally trailed him. An’ I found the window he opened. I reckon that’s all.”
She got up, swaying a little, a wan smile on her face that reflected her astonishment and wonder over the way she had jumbled things. For this man—the man she had feared when she had left him standing outside the door some hours before—had been eager to protect her from the other, who had attacked her. He had been waiting, watching.
Moreover, there was in Harlan’s eyes as he stood in the room a considerate, deferential gleam that told her more than words could have conveyed to her—a something that convinced her that he was not the type of man she had thought him.
The knowledge filled her with a strange delight.There was relief in her eyes, and her voice was almost steady when she again spoke to him:
“Harlan,” she said, “did father really send you here? Did he make you promise to come?”
“I reckon he did, ma’am,” he said.
For an instant she looked fairly at him, intently searching his eyes for indications of untruthfulness. Then she drew a long breath of conviction.
“I believe you,” she said.
Harlan swept his hat from his head. He bowed, and there was an odd leap in his voice:
“That tickles me a heap, ma’am. I don’t know when I’ve heard anything that pleased me more.”
He backed away from her until he reached the doorway. And she saw his eyes—wide and eloquent—even in the subdued light of the doorway.
“I’d go to sleep now, ma’am, if I was you. You need it a heap. It’s been a long day for you—an’ things ain’t gone just right. I don’t reckon there’ll be anybody botherin’ you any more tonight.”
“And you?” she asked, “won’t you try to get some sleep, too?”
He laughed, telling her that he would “ketch a wink or two.” Then he turned and went down the stairs—she could hear him as he opened a lower door and went out.
Looking out of the window an instant later, she saw him taking Lawson’s body away. And still later, hearing a sound outside, she stole to the window again.
Below, seated on the threshold of the door that led into the room she had entered when she had crossedthepatio, she saw Harlan. He was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the door jamb in an attitude of complete relaxation.
There was something in his manner that comforted her—a calm confidence, a slow ease of movement as he fingered his cigarette that indicated perfect tranquility—an atmosphere of peace that could not have surrounded him had he meditated any evil whatever.
She knew, now, that she had misjudged him. For he had made no attempt to take advantage of her loneliness and helplessness. And whatever his reputation—whatever the crimes he had committed against the laws—he had been a gentleman in his attitude toward her. That feature of his conduct dominated her thoughts as she stretched out on the bed; it was her last coherent thought as she went to sleep.
CHAPTER XIIIHARLAN TAKES CHARGE
Barbara could not have told why she had not acted upon her determination to ride westward to the Star ranch to acquaint John Haydon with the predicament into which the events of the past few hours had plunged her. She could not have explained why she permitted the first day—after Harlan’s coming—to pass without going to see Haydon, any more than she could have explained why she permitted many other days to pass in the same manner.
She was almost convinced, though, that it was because of the manner in which Harlan took charge of the ranch—the capable and business-like way he had of treating the men.
For the outfit came in late in the afternoon following the night which had marked the death of Lawson—the straw-boss explaining that he had received explicit orders from Lawson to “work” a grass level several miles down the river.
One other reason for Barbara’s failure to ride to the Star—a reason that she did not permit to dwell prominently in her thoughts—was resentment.
She had permitted the first day to pass without going to see Haydon. But when it had gone and another day dawned without Haydon coming to seeher, she felt that he was deliberately absenting himself. For certainly he must have heard what had happened,and if he thought as much of her as he had led her to believe he would have come to her instantly.
Had Haydon seen the defiant gleam of her eyes when she gazed westward—in the direction of the Star—he might have realized that each day he stayed away from the Rancho Seco would make it that much more difficult for him to explain.
Barbara stayed indoors much of the time during the first days of Harlan’s control of the ranch, but from the windows she saw him—noted that the men obeyed him promptly and without question.
A sense of loss, of emptiness, still afflicted the girl, and yet through it all there ran a thrill of satisfaction, of assurance that the steady-eyed man who had saved her from Deveny, and who had treated her like a courtier of old on the night she had killed Lawson, seemed to have her welfare in mind, seemed—despite the reputation the people of the country had given him—to have constituted himself her guardian, without expectation of reward of the kind she had feared he sought.
Harlan’s method of assuming control of the Rancho Seco had been direct and simple. When the twenty-seven men of the outfit had straggled into the yard surrounding the big corral—the chuck-wagon, bearing the cook and his assistant, trailing a little behind, and followed by the horses of theremudawith the wrangler hurling vitriolic language in the rear—Harlan was standing beside Purgatory near the corral fence in front of one of the bunkhouses.
He had paid—apparently—no attention to themen as they dismounted, unsaddled, and turned their horses into the corral, and he did not even look at the belligerent-eyed cook whose sardonic glance roved over him.
But the men of the outfit watched him out of the corners of their eyes; as they passed him to go to the bunkhouses, they shot inquiring, speculating glances at one another, full of curiosity, not unmixed with astonishment over his continued silence.
It was when, drawn by the wonder that consumed them, they gathered in a group near the door of one of the bunkhouses, that Harlan moved toward them.
For he had noted that they had become grouped, and that into the atmosphere had come a tension.
Harlan’s actions had been governed by design. His continued silence had been strategy of a subtle order. It had attracted the attention of the men, it had intrigued their interest.
If he had spoken to them while they had been moving about on their different errands, telling them that henceforth he was to manage the Rancho Seco, they would have given him scant attention. Also, he would not have been able to study their faces as he had studied them while they had been watching him, and he would not have gained the knowledge of their characters that he now possessed.
Besides, a humorous malice possessed Harlan—he wanted to view them collectively when he gave them his news, to note the various ways in which they would receive it.
Absolute silence greeted Harlan’s forward movement.He could hear the labored breathing of some of the men—men of violent temper who sensed trouble—and his grin grew broad as he halted within a dozen feet of the group.
“Boys,” he said, slowly, “you’ve got a new boss. It’s me. A day or so ago, crossin’ from Pardo, I run into a ruckus at Sentinel Rock. Lane Morgan was the center of the ruckus—an’ he got perforated—plenty. But before he cashed in he got a gleam of downright sense an’ told me he’d been lookin’ for me, to make me manager of the Rancho Seco.
“I’m reckonin’ to be manager—beginnin’ now. If there’s any of you men that ain’t admirin’ to do the jumpin’ when I yap orders to you, you’re doin’ your gassin’ right now. Them that’s pinin’ to work under me is sure of a square deal, beginnin’ now, and continuin’ henceforth. I reckon that’s all.”
Into Harlan’s eyes as he talked had come that vacuous light that had been in them when he had faced Deveny’s men in Lamo—the light that was always in his eyes whenever he faced more than one man, with trouble imminent.
He saw the face of every man in the group—while seeming not to be looking at any of them. He noted the various shades of expression that came into their faces as they digested his words, he saw how some of them watched him with sober interest and how others permitted themselves a sneer of incredulity or dislike.
He noted that a tall, slender, swarthy man on the extreme left of the group watched him with a malevolent gaze, his eyes flaming hate; he saw a black-haired,hook-nosed fellow near the center of the group watching him with a grin of cold contempt.
It seemed to Harlan that a fair proportion of the men were willing to acknowledge his authority—for they were frankly studying him, ready to greet him as their employer. Many others, however, were as frankly hostile.
After Harlan ceased speaking there came a short silence, during which many of the men looked at one another inquiringly.
It was a moment during which, had a leader appeared to take the initiative for those who intended to dissent from Harlan’s rule, the outfit might have been divided.
Evidently the tall, swarthy man divined that the time to dissent had come, for he cleared his throat, and grinned felinely.
Before he could speak, however, a short man with keen eyes that, since the instant they had rested upon Harlan, had been glowing with something that might have been defined as mingled astonishment and delight thinly concealed by a veneer of humor—said distinctly:
“You crossed over from Pardo—you say?”
Harlan nodded, and a pin-point of recognition glowed in his eyes as he looked at the man.
The other laughed, lowly. “Seems I know you,” he said. “You’re ‘Drag’ Harlan!”
A tremor ran through the group. There was a concerted stiffening of bodies, a general sigh from lungs in process of deflation. And then the group stoodsilent, every man watching Harlan with that intent curiosity that comes with one’s first glimpse of a noted character, introduced without expectation.
Harlan noted that a change had come over the men. Those whose faces had betrayed their inclination to accept his authority had taken—without exception—a glum, disappointed expression. On the other hand, those who had formerly betrayed hostility, were now grinning with satisfaction.
A tremor of malicious amusement, expressed visibly by a flicker of his eyelids, was Harlan’s only emotion over the change that had come in the men of the group. He could now have selected those of the men who—as Lane Morgan had said—could not be trusted, and he could have pointed out those who had been loyal to Morgan, and who would be loyal to Barbara and himself.
Among the former were the tall, swarthy man on the extreme left, and the hook-nosed fellow near the center. There were perhaps ten of the latter, and it was plain to Harlan that the short man who had spoken was their leader.
“‘Drag’ Harlan—eh?”
This was the tall, swarthy man. The malevolence had gone from his eyes, he was grinning broadly, though there was respect of a fawning character in his manner as he stepped out from the group and halted within a few feet of Harlan.
“Me an’ my friends wasn’t none tickled to find that we was goin’ to have a new manager. We was sort of expectin’ Miss Barbara to do the runnin’ herself. Butifyousay you’re runnin’ things, that makes it a whole lot different. We ain’t buckin’ ‘Drag’ Harlan’s game.”
“Thank you,” grinned Harlan. “I saw you reportin’ to Miss Morgan. You’re straw-boss, I reckon.”
“You’ve hit it. I’m Stroud—Lafe Stroud.”
“You’ll keep on bein’ straw-boss,” said Harlan, shortly. “I’m appointin’ a foreman.”
“Where’s Lawson?”
It was Stroud who spoke. There was a shadow of disappointment in his eyes.
“Lawson won’t be needin’ a title any more,” said Harlan, narrowing his eyes at the other. “He needs plantin’. Soon as we get set some of you boys can go over an’ take care of him. You’ll find him in the harness shop. He busted down the door of Miss Barbara’s room last night, an’ she made a colander out of him.”
Harlan ignored the effect of his news on the men, fixing his gaze on the short man who had spoken first, and who was now standing silent, in an attitude that hinted of dejection.
“You’ll be foreman, Linton,” he stated shortly.
Linton, who had been glumly listening, was so startled by the sudden descent upon his shoulders of the mantle of authority that he straightened with a snap and grabbed wildly at his hat—which dropped from his head despite his effort to clutch it, revealing a mop of fiery red hair. When he straightened, after recovering the hat, his freckled face was crimson with embarrassment and astonishment.
“I’m obliged to you,” he mumbled.
That had ended it. The following morning Linton came to Harlan for orders, and a little later the entire outfit, headed by Stroud, and trailed by the chuck-wagon and the horses of theremuda, started southward to a distant section of the big level, leaving Linton and Harlan at the ranchhouse.
And as the outfit faded into the southern distance, Harlan, walking near the larger of the two bunkhouses, came upon Linton.
Harlan grinned when he saw the other.
“You didn’t go with the outfit, Red?” he said. “Seems a foreman ought to be mighty eager to be with his men on their first trip after he’s appointed.”
Linton’s face was pale, his gaze was direct.
“Look here, Harlan,” he said, steadily. “I’ve knowed you a long time, an’ I know that you’re a damn’ sight straighter than a lot of men which has got reputations better than yourn. But there’s some things want explainin’. I’ve sort of took a shine to that little girl in there. There’s things brewin’ which is goin’ to make it mighty bad for her. It wasn’t so bad while old Morgan was here, but now he’s gone, an’ she’s got to play it a lone hand.
“You git riled an’ sling your gun on me if you want to. I know I wouldn’t have a chance. But just the same, I’m tellin’ you. You know that more’n half that outfit you’ve put me at the head of is Deveny’s men—sneakin’, thievin’, murderin’ outlaws?”
“You wantin’ to quit, Red?” said Harlan, smoothly.
“Quit! Hell’s fire! I’m hangin’ on to the finish.But I’m findin’ out where you stand. What you meanin’ to do with Barbara Morgan?”
Harlan grinned. “I answered that question when I appointed you foreman, Red. But I reckon I made a mistake—I ought to have appointed a man who knows what his think-box is for.”
Linton flushed, and peered intently at the other.
“Meanin’ that you’re backin’ Barbara in this here deal?” he demanded.
“A real thoughtful man would have tumbled to it quicker,” was Harlan’s soft, ironical reply.
For an instant Linton’s gaze was intense with searching, probing inquiry. And Harlan’s steady eyes were agleam with a light that was so quietly honest that it made Linton gasp:
“Damn me! You mean it! You’re playin’ ’em straight, face up. That talk of yourn about Lane Morgan makin’ you manager was straight goods. I know Dolver an’ Laskar an’ the guy they call ‘Chief’ plugged Morgan—for I heard Stroud an’ some more of them talkin’ about it. An’ I heard that you got Dolver an’ Laskar, an’ kept Deveny from grabbin’ off Barbara Morgan, over in Lamo. But I thought you was playin’ for Barbara, too—an’ I wasn’t figurin’ on lettin’ you.”
Harlan laughed lowly.
“Things don’t always shape up the way a man thinks they will, Red. I started for Lamo, figurin’ to salivate Dolver an’ the other guy who killed Davey Langan. I got Dolver at Sentinel Rock, an’ I figured I’d be likely to run into the other guy somewheres—mebbefindin’ him in Deveny’s gang. But runnin’ into Lane Morgan sort of changed the deal. An’ now I’m postponin’ a lot of things until Barbara Morgan is runnin’ free, with no coyotes from the Deveny crowd tryin’ to rope her.”
Linton’s eyes were glowing, he crowded close to Harlan, so close that his body touched Harlan’s, and he stood thus for an instant, breathing fast. Then, noting the unwavering, genial gleam in Harlan’s eyes—a visible sign of Harlan’s knowledge of his deep emotion—Linton seized one of the other’s hands and gripped it tightly.
“Damn your hide,” he said, lowly, “you had me goin’. I’m dead set on seein’ that girl git a square deal, an’ when I saw you makin’ a play for them damned outlaws that are in the outfit, I sure figured there’d be hell a-poppin’ around the Rancho Seco. You sure had me flabbergasted when you named me foreman, for I couldn’t anticipate your trail none.
“But I reckon I’m wised up, now. You’re goin’ to run a whizzer in on ’em—playin’ ’em for suckers. An’ I’m your right-hand man—stickin’ with you until hell runs long on icebergs!”