CHAPTER XVIIFORGING A LETTER
The impulse which had moved Harlan to send Red Linton to the T Down ranch to enlist the services of some of his old friends had resulted from a conviction that he could not depend upon those men of the Rancho Seco outfit who had seemed to him, to be unfriendly to Stroud, the straw-boss. He knew nothing about them, and their loyalty to Barbara Morgan might be of a quality that would not endure through the sort of trouble that seemed to be imminent.
The T Down men—those who would come—would stand with him no matter what happened—they would do his will without question.
There was no doubt in Harlan’s mind that John Haydon was the mysterious “Chief”—the man who had sent into Lane Morgan’s breast the bullet that had ultimately killed him; and there was no doubt that some powerful, secret force was at work in the country, and that the force was directing its attention to the Rancho Seco and the defenseless girl who was at the nominal head of it. For some reason the secret force had killed her father, had isolated the ranch, had encompassed it with enemies, and was working slowly and surely to enmesh the girl herself.
Harlan was convinced that one of the motives behind the subtle aggressions of the men was a yearningfor the gold that Morgan had left—in fact the presence of Dolver and Laskar at Sentinel Rock—and Morgan’s word to him about the gold—provided sufficient evidence on that score.
They had watched Morgan; they suspected he was taking gold to Pardo to have it assayed, and they had killed him in the hope of finding something on his person which would reveal to them where he had hidden the rest of it.
One other motive was that of the eternal, ages-old passion of a man for woman. Evidence of that passion had been revealed to Harlan at Lamo, by the attack on Barbara by Deveny’s hireling—Higgins; by the subtle advances of John Haydon. It seemed to Harlan that all of these men had been—and were—equally determined to possess the girl.
And yet back of it all—behind that which had been rendered visible by the actions of the man and by Harlan’s own deductions—was something else—something stealthy and hidden; a secret threat of dire things to come—a lingering promise of trickery.
Standing at one of the gates of the corral upon the third morning following Linton’s departure, Harlan considered this phase of the situation. He felt the hidden threat of something sinister that lurked in the atmosphere.
It was all around him. It seemed to lie secreted in the yawning space that engulfed the Rancho Seco—south, north, and east. From the haze that stretched into the unending distance westward it seemed to come, bearing its whispered promise. The solemn hills thatflanked the wide stretches of Sunset Valley seemed to hint of it—somberly.
Mystery was in the serene calm that seemed to encompass the big basin; from the far reaches westward, in the misty veil that seemed to hang from the far-flung shafts of sunlight that penetrated the fleecy clouds, came the sinister threat—the whole section seemed to pulse with it.
And yet Harlan knew there could be no mystery except the mysteries of men. Nature was the same here as in any other section of the world, and her secrets were not more profound than usual.
He grinned mirthlessly at the wonderful basin, noting that the Rancho Seco buildings seemed to lie on a direct line with its center; that the faint trail that ran through the basin—the trail men traveled—came on in its undulating way straight toward the Rancho Seco ranchhouse, seemed to bring the mystery of the big basin with it; seemed to be a link that connected the Rancho Seco with the promise of trouble.
That impression might have engaged the serious thoughts of some men. It widened the smile on Harlan’s face. For he knew there was no threat in the beauty of the valley; that it did not hide its secrets from the prying eyes of men. Whatever secret the valley held was in the minds of men—the minds of Deveny and the mysterious “Chief,” and their followers.
Harlan had not absented himself from the ranchhouse since the departure of Linton. He had lounged in the vicinity of the buildings during the day—andBarbara had seen him many times from the windows; and he had spent his nights watching the ranchhouse, half expecting another attack on Barbara.
The girl had seen him at night, too; and she had smiled at the picture he made with the moonlight shining upon him—or standing in some shadow—somber, motionless, undoubtedly guarding her.
She saw him this morning, too, as he stood beside the corral gate, and there was a glow in her eyes that, had he seen it, might have thrilled him with its gratitude.
She came out of a rear door after a while, and Harlan was still standing at the gate.
He watched her as she came toward him—it was the first time she had ventured in that direction since the return from Lamo with him—noting that she seemed to be in better spirits—that she was smiling.
“You looked lonesome,” she said, as she halted near him. “Did Linton join the outfit?”
“It’s likely; he went three days ago.”
“I knew he had gone; I saw you several times, and you were always alone. And,” she added, looking keenly at him; “I saw you several times, at night. Don’t you ever sleep?”
“I reckon I’m a sort of restless cuss.”
Her face took on serious lines.
“Look here, Harlan,” she said, reprovingly, “you are keeping something back. You have been watching the ranchhouse at night—and during the day. You are guarding me. Why is it? Do you think I am going to run away?”
“From me?” he queried; “I was hopin’ you wouldn’t.”
She stiffened with exasperation, for she felt the insincerity in his manner—caught the humorous note in his voice.
“You are treating me as you would treat a child,” she declared; “and I won’t have it. Are you watching me because you fear there might be another—Lawson?”
“There might be.”
“Nonsense! There isn’t another man in the section would dare what Lawson dared!”
“Gentlemen—eh?” he said, tauntingly. “Well, I’ve nosed around quite considerable, an’ I don’t remember to have ever run into a place where there was fewermenthan in this neck of the woods.”
“There are plenty of gentlemen. Do you think John Haydon——”
Harlan grinned faintly. “He’s been fannin’ it right along for half an hour,” he said, with seeming irrelevance.
“Who?” she asked, with a swift, uncomprehending glance at him.
“Your gentleman,” he said slowly.
She followed the direction of his gaze, and saw, on the trail that led downward from a little table-land to the level that stretched toward the ranchhouse, a horseman, coming rapidly toward them.
“It’s Mr. Haydon!” she ejaculated, her voice leaping.
“So it is,” said Harlan, dryly. He looked keenlyat her, noting the flush on her face, the brightness of her eyes. “You ain’t forgettin’ to give him that piece of chain.”
“Why,” she said, drawing the glittering links from a pocket of her skirt; “I have it here. You may return it to him.”
“Me an’ Haydon ain’t on speakin’ terms,” he smiled. “He wouldn’t appreciate it none, if I give it to him.”
“Why—” she began, only to pause and look at him with a sudden comprehension in her eyes. For into Harlan’s face had come an expression that, she thought, she could analyze. It was jealousy. That was why he was reluctant to return the chain to Haydon.
The situation was so positively puerile, she thought, that she almost felt like laughing. She would have laughed had it not been that she knew of Harlan’s unfailing vigilance—and that she felt differently toward him now than she had felt during the first days of their acquaintance. His steadfast vigilance, she decided, must have been responsible for the change, together with the steady consideration he revealed for her.
At any rate, something about him had affected her. She felt more gentle toward him; more inclined to believe in him; and there had been times during the past few days when she had been astonished at the subtle, warm sensation that had stolen over her whenever she saw him or whenever she thought of him.
Something of that warmth toward him was in hereyes now as she watched him and she decided that she should humor his whim; that she should perform the action that he was reluctant to perform.
She smiled, with the wisdom of a woman to whom a secret had been unwittingly revealed.
“You don’t like Haydon?”
“Him an’ me ain’t goin’ to be bosom friends.”
“Why don’t you like him?” she asked banteringly.
She thought his grin was brazen. “Why don’t you like me?”
“I don’t know,” she said coldly. But her face reddened a little.
“Well,” he laughed; “that’s why I don’t like Haydon.”
Haydon had crossed the big level, and was close to the ranchhouse.
The girl had determined to remain where she was, to return the piece of chain to Haydon in the presence of Harlan—in order to learn what she could of the depth of Harlan’s dislike for Haydon when in the presence of the latter. And so a silence came between them as they watched Haydon ride toward them.
When Haydon rode close to them he halted his horse and sat in the saddle, an expression of cold inquiry on his face. His smile at Miss Barbara was a trifle forced; his glance at Harlan had a fair measure of frank dislike and suspicion in it.
Harlan deliberately turned his back toward Barbara and Haydon when the latter dismounted; walked a little distance, and pretended to be interested in a snubbing post in the corral.
Yet he cast furtive glances toward the two, and when he saw the girl reaching into a pocket for the section of chain he had given her, he slowly sauntered forward, and was within hearing distance when Barbara spoke to Haydon.
“I was to give you this,” she said—and she extended a hand toward Haydon, the chain dangling from her fingers.
Harlan saw Haydon’s muscles leap and become tense. He saw the man’s color go, saw his cheeks whiten; observed that his eyes widened and gleamed with mingled astonishment and alarm.
He regained control of himself instantly, however, but Harlan had seen enough to strengthen his convictions, and he grinned as Haydon flashed a sharp glance at him.
Barbara, too, had noted the strange light in Haydon’s eyes; she had seen that Haydon had seemed about to shrink from the chain when she held it out to him. She looked from Haydon to Harlan inquiringly and when her glance again returned to Haydon he was smiling.
However, he had not taken the chain from her hand.
“Is it yours?” she asked.
“Yes—mine,” he answered, hesitatingly. “Where did you find it?”
“Mr. Harlan found it.” Barbara noted Haydon’s quick start, the searching glance he gave Harlan—who was now leaning on a rail of the corral fence, seemingly uninterested.
Haydon laughed, a little hoarsely, it seemed to Barbara, and more loudly than the occasion seemed to demand. She thought, though, that the laugh might have been a jeer for Harlan’s action in turning the chain over to her instead of returning it directly to the owner.
She did not catch the searching inquiry of Haydon’s glance at Harlan, nor did she see Harlan’s odd smile at Haydon, and the slow wink that accompanied it.
But the wink and the smile conveyed to Haydon the intelligence that Harlan knew the story connected with the loss of the chain, and that he had not communicated it to the girl. They also expressed to Haydon the message that Harlan and Haydon were kindred souls—the smile and the wink told Haydon that this man who knew his secret was secretly applauding him, even while inwardly laughing at him for his fear that the secret would be betrayed.
Harlan’s voice broke a short silence.
“Found it right about here—the other day. It must have laid there a long time, for it took a heap of polishin’ to brighten it up.” Again he closed an eye at Haydon, and the latter grinned broadly.
Barbara silently endured a pang of disappointment. She had caught Harlan’s wink. The man had betrayed jealousy only a few minutes ago, and he had refused personally to return the chain to Haydon. And yet he stood there now, smiling and winking at the other, evidently with the desire to ingratiate himself. Sycophant, weakling, or fool—which was he? She shuddered with disgust, deliberately turned herback to Harlan, and began to walk toward the ranchhouse, Haydon following.
And Harlan, standing at the fence, leaned an elbow on one of the rails and watched the two, an enigmatic smile on his face.
For he had succeeded in opening a gate which disclosed a trail that would lead him straight to the mystery, a breath of which had been borne to him that morning upon the slight breeze that had swept down to him from the mighty valley out of which Haydon had ridden.
Between him and Haydon a bond had been established, fashioned from the links of the section of chain.
CHAPTER XVIIIHARLAN RIDES ALONE
Upon the morning of the fourth day following Haydon’s visit to the Rancho Seco, a dust cloud developed on the northwestern horizon. Harlan observed the cloud; he had been watching for it since dawn, when he had emerged from the stable door, where he had been looking after Purgatory.
From the ranchhouse Barbara also saw the cloud, and she ran upstairs to one of the north windows. There, with her face pressed against the glass, she watched the cloud grow in size, observed that it was dotted with the forms of horsemen; saw at last that the horsemen were headed straight for the Rancho Seco. Then, wondering, anxious, eager, she descended the stairs and ran out to where Harlan was standing, speaking breathlessly:
“What does it mean? Who are they?”
“It’ll be Red Linton an’ some T Down boys.”
“‘T Down’?”
“Pardo men. From where I used to work. I sent Linton for them. If I’m going to run a ranch I aim to run it with men I can depend on.”
She had hardly spoken to him in the four days that had elapsed since Haydon’s last visit, for the disgust she had felt that day had endured. But there was something new in his manner now—a briskness, a business-like air that made her look sharply at him.
He smiled at her, and in the smile was a snapping humor that puzzled her.
She stood, watching for a while—until the group of horsemen became clearly defined—and then, with a sudden fear that the men might be outlaws of the same type as Harlan—possibly he had sent for them because they were—she returned to the ranchhouse and watched from one of the windows.
When the T Down men rode up to the corral gate they dismounted and surrounded Harlan. There were ten of them—rugged-looking fellows of various ages, bepistoled, begrimed with dust, and articulate with profane expressions of delight.
“Hell’s a-poppin’, Red says!” yelled one. “He says there’s geezers here which is pinin’ for yore gore. Turn me loose on ’em—oh, turn me loose!”
The men, tired, dusty, and hungry, swarmed into one of the bunkhouses immediately after they had turned their horses into the corral and cared for their saddles.
The men were in good spirits, despite their long ride; and for half an hour after they descended upon the bunkhouse the air pulsed with their talk and their laughter, as they washed their dust-stained faces from the tin washbasin on the bench outside the door, and combed their hair with a comb attached to a rawhide thong that swung from the wall above the basin.
They had been informed by Red Linton regarding the situation that had developed at the Rancho Seco—fully informed before they had begun their trip westward—Linton scrupulously and faithfully presentingto them the dangers that confronted them. And though some of them were still curious, and sought a word with Harlan in confirmation, they seemed to be satisfied to trust to Harlan’s judgment. Their faith was of the kind that needs but little verbal reassurance.
That they admired the man who had sent for them there was little doubt; for they watched him with glowing eyes as he talked with them, revealing their pride that they had been selected. Hardy, clear-eyed, serenely unafraid, they instantly adapted themselves to the new “job,” and before their first meal was finished they were thoroughly at home.
Shortly afterward—while the men were lounging about inside—Harlan drew Linton outside.
“That’s the bunch I would have picked if I had gone myself,” complimented Harlan. “I’m thankin’ you a heap.”
He whispered to Linton the story of Haydon’s last visit and for the first time Linton heard about the section of chain which convicted Haydon of the murder of Lane Morgan. Linton’s eyes gleamed.
“I’ve always sort of suspected the son-of-a-gun!” he declared. “An’ him makin’ love to Barbara! The sneakin’ coyote! An’ so you’re goin’ to see him? I’d be a whole lot careful.”
Harlan’s smile was grave. “I’m reckonin’ to be. I’d have gone before this, but I was waitin’ for you boys. Nobody is sayin’ anything to anybody. You’re stickin’ close to the Rancho Seco, not lettin’ Barbara out of your sight. That’s what I wanted you an’ the other guys for. I’m playin’ the rest of it a lone hand.”
Leaving Linton standing near the bunkhouse, he went to the stable, where he threw saddle and bridle on Purgatory. Then he mounted, waved a hand at Linton, who was watching him, and rode to the ranchhouse. At the northwest corner—around which Haydon had ridden on the occasion of his last visit—he brought Purgatory to a halt, for he saw Barbara just emerging from thepatiogate.
She halted in the opening when she observed him; making a picture that was vivid in his memory for many days afterward—for her eyes were alight with wonder, her cheeks were flushed, and she was breathing fast.
For she had watched from a window the coming of the T Down men; she had noted the conference between Harlan and Linton; and she had seen Harlan waving a hand at the red-haired man, seemingly in farewell. She stood now, afflicted with a strange regret, suddenly aware that she would feel the absence of the man who sat on his horse before her—for she divined that he was going.
“I’m sayin’ so-long to you, ma’am,” smiled Harlan.
“Oh!” she said, aware of the flatness of her tone. “Are you going away?”
“I’m figurin’ to go. I ain’t used to hangin’ around one place very long. But I’m comin’ back some day. Red Linton an’ the boys will be seein’ that things go smooth with you. You can depend on Red, and all the boys. They’re Simon-pure, dyed-in-the-wool, eighteen-carat men.” And now he grinned, gravely. “Remember this, Barbara: A man will do things whenhe’s handlin’ a gold chain—things that he wouldn’t do if there didn’t happen to be any chain.”
He doffed his hat and slapped Purgatory sharply, heading the animal westward, toward the yawning mouth of the big basin that stretched its mighty length into the mystery of distance.
But his words left her with a conviction that she had again misjudged him, and that when he had appeared to fawn on Haydon he had been merely acting, merely pretending. She watched him, regretfully, longingly, assailed by emotions that she could not understand—until he and Purgatory grew small in the gulf of distance; until horse and rider were swallowed in the glowing haze.
CHAPTER XIXHARLAN JOINS THE GANG
At the edge of the big level, where it merged into the floor of the basin, Harlan drew Purgatory to a halt. For an instant he sat in the saddle scrutinizing a section of buffalo grass that fringed a clump of willows near the almost dry bed of the river that doubled slightly as it came from the basin. Something in the appearance of the grass had attracted his attention—it was matted, as though something had lain or rolled in it.
He rode closer, cautiously, for the little trees formed a covert behind which any one of several dangers might lie concealed—and looked down at the grass. As he examined the place his lips twisted into a grim smile, and his eyes grew bright with comprehension.
He rode around the clump of trees, making sure it was not occupied; then he dismounted.
Someone had been concealed in the covert for many days—a man. For he saw the imprints of heels, and indentations where spurs had gashed the earth. The marks were all fresh—recently made. While he watched he saw some blades of the long grass slowly rise—as though, relieved from some pressure that had been upon them, they were eager to regain an upright position. He also saw scraps of food—jerked beef and biscuit—scattered here and there.
He frowned, convinced that for days a man hadoccupied the covert, watching the Rancho Seco; convinced also, that the mystery he had sensed some days ago had been man-made, as he had felt. The man who had been there had been a sentinel, a spy, sent by Deveny or Haydon to observe his movements, and to report them, of course, to one or the other of the two outlaws.
Harlan remounted Purgatory. His caution had not been wasted, and his vigilance in guarding the ranchhouse must have been irritating to the man who had been watching.
He urged Purgatory on again—heading him westward, as before. And when he reached the crest of a slight rise in the valley—from where he could see the trail as it twisted and undulated around hills and into depressions—he saw, far up the valley—and yet not so far, either—not more than two miles—a horseman, riding slowly—away from him.
The horseman was the spy, of course. Harlan had no doubt that if he lingered in the vicinity of the covert long enough he would discover the place where the horse had been concealed. But that was not important, now that he had discovered enough to satisfy himself that there had been a spy—and so he rode on, smiling faintly, knowing that the rider was headed into the valley—possibly to the outlaw rendezvous to appraise Deveny and the others of his coming.
The trail was clearly defined, and there were places where it ran over broad levels of grass where he presented a good target to men who might be eager to send a shot at him. There were other spots where thetrail led into timber clumps and through tangles of brush where an ambuscade might be planned in perfect safety by an enemy; and there were the bastioned cliffs that towered above the trail at intervals, offering admirable hinding-places for any man with hostile intentions.
Harlan, however, rode steadily, outwardly unconcerned; inwardly convinced that no attempt would be made to ambush him. For Haydon has passed that way on his return to the Star, and Harlan had no doubt that since the incident of the smile and the wink, Haydon had passed word that he was not to be molested.
Haydon would be curious—as he had been curious at the Rancho Seco—to learn the significance of the smile and the wink. Haydon would want to discover just how much Harlan knew about the murder of Lane Morgan; and he would want to know what Harlan knew of the gold that Morgan had secreted. And so Harlan rode on, watching the country through which he passed, but feeling assured there would be no shot to greet him from one of the many natural vantage-points he encountered.
He rode for an hour, not making very good time, for it was a new trail, and he was examining the country intently as he passed, fixing it in his memory for future convenience, perhaps—no one ever knew just when it might be necessary to use one’s knowledge—when he reached a low ridge which crossed the valley.
Here he halted Purgatory and gazed about him.
Before him stretched a green grass level, about twomiles long, running the entire width of the valley. It was dotted with mesquite, sage, and here and there the thorny blade of a cactus rose. Some cattle were grazing on the level; they were several miles south, and he could see some horsemen near them.
He decided he must be close to the Star; and he urged Purgatory on again, down upon the level, toward some timber that grew at the farther edge of the level. Just as he slipped down the slope of the ridge, he saw, far ahead of him, the horseman he had seen when he had entered the valley. The horseman was on the crest of a bald hill—low, and small—but Harlan caught a glimpse of him as he crossed it, riding fast.
Harlan smiled again, and rode on his way, resuming his scrutiny of the country.
The valley was mighty, magnificent; it deserved all the praise Barbara Morgan had heaped upon it. From the low mountain range on the north to the taller mountains southward, it was a virgin paradise in which reigned a peace so profound that it brought a reverent awe into the soul of the beholder.
It thrilled Harlan despite the certain blasé, matter-of-fact attitude he had for all of nature’s phenomena; he found himself admiring the majestic buttes that fringed it; there was a glint of appreciation in his eyes for the colossal bigness of it—for the gigantic, sweeping curves which seemed to make of it an oblong bowl, a cosmic hollow, boundless, hinting of the infinite power of its builder.
The trail that ran through it, drawled to threadlikeproportions by the mightiness of the space through which it ran, was, for the greater part of the distance traveled by Harlan, a mere scratch upon a low rock ridge. And as he rode he could look down upon the floor of the valley, green and inviting.
When he entered the timber at the edge of the grass level, he was conscious of a stealthy sound behind him. He turned quickly in the saddle, to see a man standing at the edge of some brush that fringed the trail.
The man was big, a heavy black beard covered his chin and portions of his cheeks; his hat was drawn well down over his forehead, partially shielding his eyes.
A rifle in his hands was held loosely, and though it appeared that the man did not intend to use the weapon immediately, Harlan could see that his right forefinger was touching the trigger, and that the muzzle of the weapon was suggestively toward him.
For the past few miles of his ride Harlan had been expecting an apparition of this sort to appear, and so he now gave no sign of surprise. Instead, he slowly raised both hands until they were on a level with his shoulders—and, still twisted about in the saddle, he grinned faintly at the man.
“From now on I’m to have company, eh?” he said.
The man smirked grimly at him.
“You’ve hit it,” he answered. “You’re Harlan, ain’t you? ‘Drag’ Harlan, the Pardo two-gun man?”
The man’s eyes were glowing with interest—critical, almost cynical, and they roved over Harlan with a probing intensity that left no doubt in Harlan’s mindthat the man had heard of him and was examining him with intent to discover what sort of a character he was.
Apparently satisfied—and also plainly impressed with what he saw, the man grinned—this time almost genially—and answered Harlan’s affirmative nod with:
“Well, Haydon is expectin’ you. You c’n let your paws down—takin’ a heap of care not to go to foolin’ with your guns. I ain’t takin’ them; Haydon didn’t say anything about it. You’re ridin’ that trail that forks off to the left.”
Harlan lowered his hands, resting them on the pommel of his saddle, and rode on, taking, as advised, a narrow trail that diverged from the other a short distance from where he had met the man. As he struck the other trail he heard the man coming behind him—on a horse.
There were no further words. Harlan kept to the trail, riding slowly; the man behind him following at a short distance.
In this manner they rode for perhaps a mile. Then the timber grew sparse, and Purgatory and his rider at last emerged upon a level that extended about a hundred feet and then sloped down abruptly to another level, through which flowed a narrow stream of water, shallow and clear.
Close to the bank of the stream was an adobe ranchhouse, and surrounding it were several other buildings. At a slight distance from the house was a corral in which were several horses. In front of a bunkhouse were several men who, when they saw Harlan and theother man coming, faced toward them and stood, motionless, watching.
The men maintained silence as Harlan rode to the ranchhouse and sat in the saddle, awaiting the pleasure of his escort. He saw the latter grin at the other men as he passed them; and he grinned at Harlan as he brought his horse to a halt near Purgatory and dismounted.
“I reckon you’re to git off an’ visit,” he said; “Haydon is inside.” As he dismounted and trailed the reins over the head of his beast he cast a sharp, critical eye over Purgatory.
“There’s a heap of hoss in that black, eh?”
“Plenty.” Harlan got down and ran a hand over Purgatory’s neck, while trailing the reins over his head. “Man-killer,” he warned. “Don’t touch him. He ain’t been rode by nobody but me, an’ he won’t stand for nobody foolin’ around him.”
Harlan had raised his voice until he was sure the men in front of the bunkhouse heard him; then he grinned genially at them all and followed the black-bearded man into the ranchhouse.
An instant later, in a big room which had the appearance of an office, Harlan was confronting Haydon.
The latter was sitting in a chair at a desk, and when Harlan entered Haydon got up and grinned at him, shallowly, without mirth.
“So you got here,” he said; “I’ve been expecting you.”
“I’ve been notin’ that. That guy you left at theedge of the level to keep an eye on the Rancho Seco didn’t cover his tracks. I run onto them—an’ I saw him hittin’ the breeze—comin’ here. I reckon nobody is surprised.” Harlan grinned widely.
“So you noticed that,” said Haydon, answering Harlan’s grin. “Well, I don’t mind admitting that we’ve kept an eye on you. You’ve had me guessing.”
Haydon’s manner was that of the man who is careful not to say too much, his constraint was of the quality that hints of a desire to become confidential—a smooth, bland courtesy; a flattering voice—encouraging, suggesting frankness.
Harlan’s manner was that of a certain reckless carelessness. He seemed to be perfectly at ease, confident, deliberate, and unwatchful. He knew Haydon was an outlaw; that the men who had been grouped in front of the bunkhouse were members of Haydon’s band; he knew the man who had escorted him to the Star had been deliberately stationed in the timber to watch for him. And he had no doubt that other outlaws had lain concealed along the trail to observe his movements.
He knew, too, that he had placed himself in a precarious predicament—that his life was in danger, and that he must be exceedingly careful.
Yet outwardly he was cool, composed. With Haydon’s eyes upon him he drew a chair to a point near the desk, seated himself in it, drew out paper and tobacco, and rolled a cigarette. Lighting it, he puffed slowly, watching while Haydon dropped into the chair he had vacated at Harlan’s appearance.
When Haydon dropped into his chair he grinned admiringly at Harlan.
“You’re a cool one, Harlan,” he said; “I’ve got to say that for you. But there’s no use in four-flushing. You’ve come here to tell me something about the chain. Where did you find it?”
“At Sentinel Rock—not far from where you plugged Lane Morgan.”
“You’re assuming that I shot Morgan?” charged Haydon.
“Morgan was assumin’, too, I reckon,” grinned Harlan. “He told me it was you who shot him—he saw your face by the flash of your gun. An’ he told me where to look for the chain—him not knowin’ it was a chain—but somethin’.”
Haydon’s eyes gleamed with a cold rage—which he concealed by passing a hand over his forehead, veiling his eyes from Harlan. His lips were wreathed in a smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me that the other day—the first time I met you?”
Harlan laughed. “I was havin’ notions then—notions that I’d be playin’ her a lone hand.”
“And now?” Haydon’s eyes were steady with cold inquiry.
“I’ve got other notions. I’m acceptin’ Deveny’s invitation to throw in with you.”
Haydon was silent for an instant, and during the silence his gaze met Harlan’s fairly. By the humorous gleam in Harlan’s eyes Haydon divined that the man could not be misled—that he knew something of thesituation in the valley, and that he had come here with the deliberate intention of joining the outlaw band.
There was, as Haydon had intimated, little use for an attempt at equivocation or pretense. It was a situation that must be faced squarely by both himself and Harlan. Harlan’s reputation, and his action in keeping secret from Barbara Morgan the identity of her father’s murderer, indicated sincerity on the man’s part. And since Harlan knew him to be the murderer of Morgan it would be absurd for Haydon to pretend that he had no connection with Deveny’s band. He could not fool this man.
Yet a jealous hatred of Harlan was thinly concealed by the steady smile with which he regarded his visitor. He had felt the antagonism of Harlan that day when he had talked with him at the bunkhouse door; Harlan’s manner that day had convinced him that Harlan was jealous of his attentions to Barbara Morgan. Also, there was in his heart a professional jealousy—jealousy of Harlan’s reputation.
For this man who sat in his chair so calmly, with danger encompassing him, was greater than he. Haydon knew it. Had there been any doubt in his mind on that score it must have been removed by a memory of the manner in which his men had received the news that Harlan had left the Rancho Seco and was on his way up the valley.
The rider Harlan had seen had come in with that news—and Haydon had been standing with the group at the bunkhouse when the man arrived. And he had not failed to note the nervous glances of some of themen, and the restless eagerness, not unmixed with anxiety, with which they watched the trail.
And now, facing Harlan, he felt the man’s greatness—his especial fitness for the career he had adopted. Harlan was the ideal outlaw. He was cool, deep, subtle. He was indomitable; he felt no fear; his will was inflexible, adamant. Haydon felt it. The fear he had experienced at his first meeting with Harlan had endured until this minute—it was strong as ever.
Yet he admired the man; and knew that since he had come to the valley he must be considered an important factor. Haydon could not flatly tell him to get out of the valley; he could not order him away from the Rancho Seco. Harlan was in control there—for the rider who had come in with the news that Harlan had set out for the valley had also apprised Haydon of the coming, to the Rancho Seco, of the men of the T Down outfit.
The rider had not been able to tell Haydon who the men were, of course; but it made little difference. They were friends of Harlan’s, for they had come from the direction of the desert—from Pardo.
It was plain to Haydon that Harlan had come to the valley to stay. It was equally plain that he must be either propitiated or antagonized. He felt that Harlan was giving him his choice.
“What do you want—if you throw in with us?” Haydon asked, following the trend of his own thoughts.
“That’s straight talk,” said Harlan. “I’m givin’ you a straight answer. If I join your bunch I join onthe same footing with you an’ Deveny—nothin’ less. We split everything three ways—the other boys takin’ their regular share after we take ours. I bring my boys in under the rules you’ve got that govern the others. I run the Rancho Seco—no one interferin’. When I rustle up that gold old Morgan hid, we split it three ways. Barbara Morgan goes with the ranch—no one interferin’.”
Color surged into Haydon’s face.
“You don’t want much, do you?” he sneered.
“I want what’s comin’ to me—what I’m goin’ to take, if I come in. That’s my proposition. You can take it or leave it.”
Haydon was silent for an instant, studying Harlan’s face. What he saw there brought a frown to his own.
“Harlan,” he said softly, “some of the boys feel a little resentful over the way you sent Dolver and Laskar out. There are several friends of those two men outside now. Suppose I should call them in and tell them that the bars are down on you—eh?”
If Haydon expected his threat to intimidate Harlan, he was mistaken. Harlan sat, motionless, watching the outlaw chief steadily. And into his eyes came a glitter of that cold contempt which Haydon had seen in them on the day he had faced Harlan near the bunkhouse at the Rancho Seco.
“You’re doin’ the honors, Haydon,” he said. “If you’re that kind of a coyote I don’t want to deal with you. If you think you want to pass up a share of that hundred thousand, start yappin’ to them boys. It’s likely there’s some of them hangin’ around, close.Mebbe you’ve got some of them peekin’ around corners at me now. I ain’t runnin’ from no trouble that comes my way. Get goin’ if you’re yearnin’ to requisition the mourners.”
Rage over the threat was now plain in his eyes, for they were aflame with a cold fire as he got up from his chair and stood, crouching a little, his hands lingering near the butts of his guns.
Haydon did not move, but his face grew pallid and he smiled nervously, with shallow mirth.
“You are not in a joking mood today, Harlan?” he said.
“There’s jokes,an’jokes, Haydon. I’ve come here in good faith. I’ve been in camps like this before—in Kelso’s, Dave Rance’s, Blondy Larkin’s, an’ some others. Them men are outlaws—like you an’ me; an’ they’ve done things that make them greater than you an’ me—in our line. But I’ve visited them, free an’ easy—goin’ an’ comin’ whenever I pleased. An’ no man threatenin’ me.
“Your manners is irritatin’ to me—I’m tellin’ you so. I’m through! You’re takin’ me out, now—back to the Rancho Seco. You’re ridin’ behind me—minus your guns, your mouth shut tighter than you ever shut it before. An’ if there’s any shootin’ you’ll know it—plenty!”
Harlan had brought matters to a crisis—suddenly, in a flash. The time for pretense had gone. Haydon could accept Harlan upon the terms he had mentioned, or he could take up the man’s challenge with all it implied—bitter warfare between the two factions, whichwould be unprofitable to both, and especially to Haydon.
It was for Haydon to decide; and he sat for some seconds motionless in the chair, before he spoke.
Then he got up—taking care to keep his right hand at a respectable distance from the butt of his pistol, and smilingly held out his hand.
“It goes your way, Harlan—we take you in on your terms. I beg your pardon for saying what I did. That was just to try you out. I’ve heard a lot about you, and I wanted to see if you were in earnest—if you really wanted to come in. I’m satisfied.”
They shook hands; their gaze meeting as they stood close together. The gaze endured for an instant; and then Haydon’s fell. The handshake lasted for several seconds, and it was curious to see how Haydon’s eyes, after they had become veiled from Harlan’s by the drooping lids, glowed with a malignant triumph and cunning.
It was also curious to note that something of the same passion was revealed in Harlan’s eyes as they rested on the partially closed lids of the other—for there was triumph there, too—and comprehension, and craft of a kind that might have disturbed Haydon, had he seen it.
Then their hands parted, mutually, and Haydon grinned smoothly and with apparent cordiality at Harlan. He grasped Harlan by an elbow and urged him toward the door through which the latter had entered.
“I’ll give you a knockdown to the boys, now—those that are here,” he said.
An hour later—after Haydon and the dozen men to whom he had introduced Harlan had watched Harlan ride eastward through the valley toward the Rancho Seco—Haydon rode westward, accompanied by several of the men.
They rode for many miles into the heart of the big basin, coming at last to a gorge that wound a serpentine way southward, through some concealing hills, into a smaller basin. A heavy timber clump grew at the mouth of the gorge, hiding it from view from the trail that ran through the valley. Some rank underbrush that fringed the timber gave the mouth of the gorge the appearance of a shallow cave, and a wall of rock, forming a ragged arch over the entrance, heightened the impression. At first glance the place seemed to be impenetrable.
But the horsemen filed through easily enough, and the underbrush closed behind them, so that, had they been seen, the watcher might have been startled by their sudden disappearance.
Near the center of the little basin stood a huge cabin, built of adobe, with a flat roof. In a small corral were a number of cattle. Grazing upon the grass, with which the place was carpeted, were many horses; and lounging in the grass near the cabin, and upon some benches that ranged its walls, were perhaps a dozen men, heavily armed.
Several of the men grinned as the newcomers rode in and dismounted, and one or two spoke a short greeting to Haydon, calling him “Chief.”
Haydon did not linger to talk with the men, though;he dismounted and entered the cabin, where, an instant later, he was talking with Deveny.
Haydon’s eyes were still triumphant—glowing with a malignant satisfaction.
“He’s wise—and dead tickled to join,” he told Deveny, referring to Harlan. “And I took him in on his own terms. We’ll play him along, making him believe he’s regular and right, until we get what we want. Then we’ll down him!”
At about the time Haydon was talking with Deveny, Harlan was dismounting at the Rancho Seco corral.
The T Down men were variously engaged—some of them in the corral; others in the stable, and still others in the blacksmith-shop—all attending to their new duties—and only Red Linton was at the corral gate to greet Harlan.
Triumph was in Harlan’s eyes as he grinned at Linton.
“I’m a Simon-pure outlaw now, Red,” he stated. “Haydon didn’t hesitate none. He’s a sneakin’, schemin’ devil, an’ he hates me like poison. But he took me in, reckonin’ to play me for a sucker. Looks like things might be interestin’.” He grinned. “I’m yearnin’ for grub, Red.”
Later, while Harlan was seated at a table in the cook shanty, he became aware of a shadow at the door; and he wheeled, to see Barbara Morgan looking in at him, her face flushed, a glow in her eyes that was entirely comprehensible to Harlan.
She was glad he had returned—any man with halfHarlan’s wisdom could have told that! And color of a kind not caused by the wind and sun suffused Harlan’s face.
She had seen him from one of the kitchen windows, and curiosity—and an impatience that would not permit of delay—had brought her to search for him.
“Why,” she said, “I—I thought—didn’t you say that you were going away?”
“Didn’t I go?” he grinned.
“For a day,” she taunted, her voice leaping.
“A day,” he said gravely; “why, it was longer than that, wasn’t it? Seems that I ain’t seen you for years an’ years!”
He got up, his hunger forgotten. But when he reached the door he saw her running toward the ranchhouse, not even looking back. He stood watching her until she opened a door and vanished. Then he grinned and returned to his neglected food, saying aloud, after the manner of men who spend much time in open places: “I’ll sure take care of her, Morgan.”