CHAPTER XXLEFT-HANDED
Harlan’s statement to Haydon, to the effect that he had visited the camps of Kelso, Rance, Larkin, and other outlaws had been strictly accurate. At one time or another each of those outlaw leaders had sent for Harlan, to endeavor to prevail upon him to cast his lot with them—so common was the report that Harlan was of their type.
And he had been able—as he had told Haydon—to go among them with impunity—unmolested, respected. And even after he had refused to join they had extended him the courtesy of faith—not even swearing him to secrecy. And he had vindicated their faith by keeping silent regarding them.
Knowing, however, that the ethics of men of the type of Kelso, Rance, Larkin, and others provided a safe conduct for any man of their kind that came among them, Harlan had felt contempt for Haydon for his threat. And yet Harlan’s rage on that occasion had been largely surface; it had been displayed for effect—to force an instant decision from Haydon.
Harlan was aware that his only hope of protecting Barbara Morgan from Haydon and Deveny was in an offensive war. He could not expect to wage such a war by remaining idly at the Rancho Seco, to await the inevitable aggressions of the outlaws, for he did not know when they would strike, nor how. It was certainthey would strike, and it was as certain they would strike when he least expected them to.
Therefore he had determined to join them, depending upon his reputation to allay any suspicion they might have regarding his motives. Haydon had taken him into the band, but Harlan had been convinced that Haydon distrusted him. He had seen distrust in Haydon’s eyes; and he had known, when Haydon dropped his gaze at the instant they had shaken hands, that the man meditated duplicity.
Yet Harlan was determined to appear ignorant that Haydon meditated trickery. He intended to go among the men and deliberately to ignore the threatened dangers—more, to conduct himself in such a manner that Haydon would not suspect that he knew of any danger.
It had been a slight incident that had suggested the plan to him—merely a glance at Strom Rogers, while the latter, in Lamo, had been watching Deveny.
Harlan had seen hatred in Rogers’ face, and contempt and jealousy; and he knew that where such passion existed it could be made to grow and flourish by suggestion and by example.
And he was determined to furnish the example.
He knew something of the passions of men of the type which constituted the band headed by Deveny and Haydon; he knew how their passions might be played upon; he was aware of their respect and admiration for men of notorious reputation, with records for evil deeds and rapid “gunslinging.”
He had seen how Strom Rogers had watched him—with awed respect; he had seen approval in Rogers’eyes when they had exchanged glances in Lamo; and he had heard men in the group in front of the sheriff’s office speaking of him in awed whispers.
He had never been affected by that sort of adulation—in Lamo or in the days that preceded his visit to the town. But he was not unmindful of the advantage such adulation would give him in his campaign for control of the outlaw camp. And that was what he had determined to achieve.
Three times in as many days he rode up the valley to the Star, each time talking with Haydon—then leaving the latter to go out and lounge around among the men, listening to their talk, but taking little part in it. He did not speak until he was spoken to, and thus he challenged their interest, and they began to make advances to him.
Their social structure was flimsy and thin, their fellowship as spontaneous as it was insincere; and within a few days the edge had worn off the strangeness that had surrounded Harlan, and he had been accepted with hardly a ripple of excitement.
And yet no man among them had achieved intimacy with Harlan. There was a cold constraint in his manner that held them off, figuratively, barring them from becoming familiar with him. Several of them tried familiarity, and were astonished to discover that they had somehow failed—though they had been repelled so cleverly that they could not resent it.
Harlan had established a barrier without them being aware of how he had done it—the barrier of authority and respect, behind which he stood, an engaging,saturnine, interesting, awe-compelling figure.
At the end of a week the men of the Star outfit were addressing him as “boss;” listening to him with respect when he spoke, striving for his attention, and trying to win from him one of those rare smiles with which he honored those among them whose personalities interested him.
At the end of two weeks half of the Star outfit was eager to obey any order he issued, while the remainder betrayed some slight hesitation—which, however, vanished when Harlan turned his steady gaze upon them.
Behind their acceptance of him, though—back of their seeming willingness to admit him to their peculiar fellowship—was a reservation. Harlan felt it, saw it in their eyes, and noted it in their manner toward him. They had heard about him; they knew something of his record; reports of his cleverness with a weapon had come to them. And they were curious.
There was speculation in the glances they threw at him; there was some suspicion, cynicism, skepticism, and not a little doubt. It seemed to Harlan that though they had accepted him they were impatiently awaiting a practical demonstration of those qualities that had made him famous in the country. They wanted to be “shown.”
Their wild, unruly passions and lurid imaginations were the urges that drove them—that shaped their conduct toward their fellows. Some of them were rapid gunslingers—in the picturesque idioms of their speech—and there was not a man among them whodid not take pride in his ability to “work” his gun. They had accepted Harlan, but it was obvious that among them were some that doubted the veracity of rumor—some who felt that Harlan had been overrated.
It did not take Harlan long to discover who those doubting spirits were. He saw them watching him—always with curling lip and truculent eye; he heard references to his ability from them—scraps of conversation in which such terms and phrases as “a false alarm, mebbe,” “he don’t look it,” “wears ’em for show, I reckon,” were used. He had learned the names of the men; there were three of them, known merely as “Lanky,” “Poggs,” and “Latimer.”
Their raids upon the cattle in the basin took place at night; and their other depredations occurred at that time also. Harlan did not fail to hear of them, for their successes figured prominently in their daytime conversations; and he had watched the herd of cattle in the Star corrals grow in size until the enclosure grew too small to hold them comfortably. He had noted, too, the cleverness with which the men obliterated the brands on the stolen cattle—or refashioned them until proof of their identity was obscure.
He had taken no part in any of the raids, though he had passed a few nights at the Star, directing, with the help of Strom Rogers, the altering of the brands and the other work attending the disguising of the cattle.
Haydon he had seen but a few times, and Deveny not at all. He learned from Rogers that Haydonspent most of his time upon mysterious missions which took him to Lamo, to Lazette, and to Las Vegas; and that Deveny operated from a place that Rogers referred to as the “Cache,” several miles up the valley.
Latimer, a tawny giant of a man with a long, hooked nose, and thin, cruel lips, interested Harlan. He watched the man when the other was not conscious of his glances, noting the bigness of him, his slow, panther-like movements; the glowing, savage truculence of his eyes; the hard, bitter droop of his lips under the yellow mustache he wore. He felt the threat of the man when the latter looked at him—it was personal, intense—seeming to have motive behind it. It aroused in Harlan a responsive passion.
One day, seated on a bench in front of the long bunkhouse near the Star ranchhouse, Harlan was watching some of the men who were playing cards near him. They were lounging in the grass, laughingly pitting their skill against one another, while another group, in front of the stable, was diligently repairing saddles.
Apart from the two groups were Lanky, Poggs, and Latimer. They were standing near the corral fence, about a hundred feet from where Harlan sat. The subject of their talk was unpleasant, for their faces reflected the venomous passions that inspired it.
Latimer had been watching Harlan—his gaze boldly hostile and full of a hate that was unmistakable.
And Harlan had not been unaware of Latimer’s gaze; he had noted the wolfish gleam in the other’seyes—and because he was interested in Latimer, he watched him covertly.
But Harlan had betrayed no sign that he knew Latimer was watching him; and when he saw Strom Rogers coming toward him from the stable, he grinned at him and made room for him when the latter headed for the bench upon which Harlan was sitting.
“Lazy day,” offered Rogers as he dropped on the bench beside Harlan; “not a heap doin’.” He did not look at Harlan, but leaned forward, took up a cinch buckle that had been lying in the sand at his feet, and turned it idly over and over in his hands, apparently intent on its construction.
With his head down, so that even the card-players could not see his lips move, he whispered to Harlan:
“Don’t let ’em see you know I’m talkin’! They’re framin’ up on you!”
Harlan grinned, shielding his lips with a hand that he passed casually over them.
“Meanin’ Latimer—an’ his friends?” he said.
“Yep. Latimer’s jealous of you. Been jealous. Thinks he can match your gunplay—itchin’ for trouble—bound to have it out with you. We was at the Cache last night, an’ I heard him an’ Deveny yappin’ about it. Deveny’s back of him—he’s sore about the way you handed it to him in Lamo. Keep your eyes peeled; they’re pullin’ it off pretty soon. Latimer’s doin’ the shootin’—he’s tryin’ to work himself up to it. Be careful.”
“I’m thankin’ you.” Harlan leaned back, crossed his legs, and stared off into space, the light in his eyesbecoming vacuous. He seemed not to be interested in Latimer and the other two, but in reality he saw them distinctly. But they had their backs to him now, and were slowly sauntering toward the stable door.
“So Deveny ain’t admirin’ me none?” he said to Rogers.
“Not scarcely. No more than a gopher is admirin’ a side-winder.”
“Latimer,” said Harlan, “don’t like my style of beauty either. I’ve been noticin’ it. He’s a mighty interestin’ man. If I wasn’t dead sure he ain’t the kind of a guy which goes around shootin’ folks in the back, I’d say he pretty near fits the description I got of the man who helped Dolver salivate my side-kicker, Davey Langan, over in Pardo—a couple of months ago.”
Rogers’ side glance was pregnant with a grim, unsmiling humor.
“So you’ve picked him out? I’ve been wonderin’ how long it would take you.”
The emotion that passed over Harlan was not visible. It might have been detected, however, by the slight leap in his voice.
“You an’ Latimer is bosom friends, I reckon?”
“Shucks!”
Rogers’ glance met Harlan’s for a fleeting instant.
“This gang needs cleanin’ up,” said Rogers. He got up, and stood in front of Harlan, holding out the cinch buckle, as though offering it to the other. For both men had seen that Latimer had left his friends at the stable door and was coming slowly toward the bunkhouse.
“You’ll have to be slick,” warned Rogers. “He’s comin’. I’ll be moseyin’ out of the way.”
He moved slowly from the bench, passed the group of card-players, and walked to the ranchhouse, where he hung the cinch buckle on a nail driven into the wall of the building. Then he slowly turned, facing the bench upon which Harlan still sat, and toward which Latimer was walking.
It was evident that all of the men in the vicinity were aware of the threatened clash, for their manner, upon the approach of Latimer, indicated as much.
For weeks they had been eager to test the traditional quickness of Harlan with the weapons that swung at his hips—those weapons had been a constant irritation to some of them, and an object of speculation to all. And when the night before some of them had heard the whispered word that Latimer—with Deveny’s sanction—indeed with Deveny’s encouragement—was determined to clash with Harlan, they had realized that the moment for which they had yearned was at hand.
For they had seen in Harlan’s eyes—and had felt in the atmosphere that surrounded the man—the certainty that he would not refuse the clash with Latimer. The only question in their minds concerning Harlan was that of his speed and accuracy. And so when they saw Latimer coming they ceased playing cards and sat, interestedly watching—alert to note how Latimer would bring about the clash, and how Harlan would meet it.
Latimer had nerved himself for the ordeal by talkingwith his friends. The will to kill Harlan had been in his heart for a long time, but he needed to reinforce it with an artificial rage. And, dwelling, with his friends, upon the irritating fact that Harlan had come among them to usurp authority to which he had no visible claim, he had succeeded in working his rage to a frenzy that took little account of consequences.
Yet Latimer would not have been able to reach that frenzy had he not been convinced that he was Harlan’s master with the six-shooter. He really believed that Harlan had been overrated. He believed that because he wanted to believe it, and because his contempt for the man had bred that conviction in his heart.
Also, he thought he knew why Harlan had come to the Star—why he had joined the outlaw camp. And the night before, he had communicated that suspicion to Deveny. It was because Harlan knew he had been with Dolver when Davey Langan had been killed. Latimer thought he had seen a slight relief in Deveny’s eyes when he had told the latter that, but he could not be sure, and it was not important.
The important thing was that he must kill Harlan—and he meant to do it. He would kill him fairly, if possible, thereby enhancing his reputation—but he was certain to kill him, no matter what the method.
That conviction blazed in his eyes as he came to a halt within a dozen paces of where Harlan was sitting. He had worked himself to such a pitch of rage that it gripped him like some strong fever—bloating his face, tensing his muscles, bulging his eyes.
Harlan had watched him; and his gaze was on theother now with a steady, unwavering alertness that advertised his knowledge of what was impending. But he sat, motionless, rigid, waiting Latimer’s first hostile movement.
Harlan had turned a very little when Latimer had begun his walk toward the bench; his right side was slightly toward the man, the leg partially extended; while the left leg was doubled under the bench—seemingly to give him leverage should he decide to rise.
But he gave no indication of meditating such a move. It was plain to the watchers that if he attempted it Latimer would draw his gun and begin to shoot.
Latimer was convinced also that Harlan would not attempt to rise. He had Harlan at a disadvantage, and he laughed loudly, sardonically, contemptuously as he stood, his right hand hovering close to his pistol holster, his eyes aflame with hate and passion.
“Keep a-settin’, you buzzard’s whelp!” he sneered; “keep a-settin’! Latimer’s out to git you. You know it—eh? You’ve knowed it right along—pretendin’ not to. ‘Drag’ Harlan—bah! Gunslinger with a record—an’ caught a-settin’. Caught with the goods on, sneakin’ in here, tryin’ to ketch a man unawares.
“Bah! Don’t I know what you’re here for? It’s me! You blowed Dolver apart for killin’ that damned, slick-eyed pardner of yourn—Davey Langan. Do you want to know who sent Langan out? I’m tellin’ you—it was me! Me—me!”
He fairly yelled the last words, and stiffened, holdingthe fingers of his right hand clawlike, above the butt of the holstered pistol.
And when he saw that Harlan did not move; that he sat there rigid, his eyes unblinking and expressionless; his right hand hanging limply at his side, near the partially extended leg; his left hand resting upon the thigh of the doubled leg—he stepped closer, watching Harlan’s right hand.
For a space—while one might have counted ten—neither man moved a muscle. Something in Harlan’s manner sent into Latimer’s frenzied brain the message that all was not what it seemed—that Harlan was meditating some astonishing action. Ten seconds is not long, as times goes, but during that slight interval the taut nerves of Latimer’s were twanged with a torturing doubt that began to creep over him.
Would Harlan never make that move? That question was dinned insistently into Latimer’s ears. He began to believe that Harlan did not intend to draw.
And then——
“Ah!”
It was Latimer’s lungs that breathed the ejaculation.
For Harlan’s right hand had moved slightly upward, toward the pistol at his right hip. It went only a few inches; it was still far below the holster when Latimer’s clawlike fingers descended to the butt of his own weapon. The thought that he would beat Harlan in a fair draw was in his mind—that he would beat him despite the confusion of the hesitating motion with which Harlan got his gun out.
Something was happening, though—something oddand unexplainable. For though Latimer had seemed to have plenty of time, he was conscious that Harlan’s gun was belching fire and death at him. He saw the smoke streaks, felt the bullets striking him, searing their way through him, choking him, weakening his knees.
He went down, his eyes wide with incredulity, filling with hideous self-derision when he saw that the pistol which had sent his death to him was not in Harlan’s right hand at all, but in his left.
Harlan got up slowly as Latimer stretched out in the dust at his feet—casting one swift glance at the fallen man to satisfy himself that forhimthe incident was ended. Then, with the gaze of every man in the outfit upon him, he strode toward the stable, where Lanky and Poggs were standing, having witnessed the death of their confederate.
They stiffened to immobility as they watched Harlan’s approach, knowing that for them the incident was not closed—their guilt plain in their faces.
And when Harlan halted in front of them they stood, not moving a muscle, their eyes searching Harlan’s face for signs that they too, were to receive a demonstration of the man’s uncanny cleverness.
“You was backin’ Latimer’s play,” said Harlan, shortly. “I’m aimin’ to play the string out. Pull—or I’ll blow you apart!”
Poggs and Lanky did not “pull.” They stood there, ghastly color stealing into their faces, their eyes wide with the knowledge that death would be the penalty of a hostile movement.
Harlan’s pistol was again in its holster, and yet they had no desire to provoke the man to draw it. The furtive gleam in the eyes of both revealed the hope that gripped them—that some of the watchers would interfere.
But not a man moved. Most of them had been stunned by the rapidity of Harlan’s action—by the deftness with which he had brought his left hand into use. They had received the practical demonstration for which they all had longed, and each man’s manner plainly revealed his decision to take no part in what was transpiring.
They remained in their places while Harlan—understanding that Poggs and Lanky would not accept his invitation—spoke gruffly to them:
“This camp ain’t got any room for skunks that go to framin’ up on any of the boys. Today you done it to me—tomorrow you’d try to pull it off on some other guy.
“You’re travelin’—pronto. You’re gettin’ your cayuses. Then you’re hittin’ the breeze away from here—an’ not comin’ back. That lets you out. Mosey!”
He stood watchful, alert, while the men roped their horses, got their “war-bags,” from the bunkhouse, mounted, and rode away without looking back. Then he walked over to the bench where he had been sitting when Rogers had warned him of the plan to kill him; ordered several of the men to take Latimer’s body away, and then resumed his place on the bench, where he rolled a cigarette.
Later, when the men who had gone with Latimer’s body returned to the vicinity of the ranchhouse, Harlan was still sitting on the bench.
No man said a word to him, but he saw a new respect in the eyes of all of them—even in Rogers’ gaze—which had not strayed from him for an instant during the trouble.
And a little later, when Rogers walked to the bench and sat beside him, the other men had resumed their various pastimes as though nothing had happened.
Again Rogers whispered to him, lowly, admiringly:
“This camp is yours, man, whenever you say the word!”
CHAPTER XXITHE BLACK-BEARDED MAN
It was Strom Rogers who indicated to the outlaws at the Star that henceforth Harlan was to exercise authority of a kind that had formerly been vested in Haydon and Deveny.
The corral was packed to suffocation with cattle, threatening the health of the animals; Deveny had sent no word from the Cache regarding the disposal of the stock, and Haydon’s whereabouts were unknown.
Rogers had moved stock on his own initiative in former days—for he had been an able assistant to both leaders. And Rogers could have moved the stock out of the corral and to the point far south where the outlaws had always sold them.
But there was malice in Rogers’ heart toward the two outlaw leaders, and a perverse devil lurked in him. For many months he had worshiped Barbara Morgan from a distance, vaguely aware that his passion for her could never be realized. But there was a spark of honesty and justice in Rogers despite his profession, and a sincere admiration for the girl that admitted of no thought of evil toward her.
He had almost betrayed his resentment to Deveny when in Lamo, on the day of the coming of Harlan, Deveny had boldly announced his intentions toward the girl; and it had been a dread of clashing with Devenythat had kept him from interfering. The will to protect the girl had been in Rogers’ mind, but he lacked the physical courage to risk his life for her.
This man who had boldly entered the outlaw camp, after first defying Deveny in Lamo, had made a stirring appeal to the good in Rogers; and he foresaw that trouble, in which Harlan had a chance to emerge victorious, was certain. And he had decided to align himself with the Pardo gunman.
Therefore, on this morning, when it was certain that the cattle in the corral must be moved, he deliberately refused to exercise his prerogative. Instead, he waited until after breakfast—when the men were congregated outside the bunkhouse door—when he was certain they would all hear him.
Harlan had come out, too. He had not visited the Rancho Seco for more than a week, fearing that his absence might jeopardize the advantage he had gained over the men through the killing of Latimer.
With the attention of all the men centered upon him, Rogers walked close to Harlan, speaking loudly:
“Them cattle ought to hit the trail, Harlan. It’s up to you—you’re the boss. Do we move ’em—an’ where?”
A comprehensive light gleamed in Harlan’s eyes.
“They move,” he said shortly. “Drive them where you’ve been drivin’ them.”
As though he had been giving orders to the outlaws all his life, he briskly mentioned the names of the men who were to form the trail herd.
Not a man dissented. Those whose names werecalled quickly detached themselves from the group, and sought the horse corral; where they roped their horses and began to make preparations to obey Harlan’s order. And later, when the cattle were driven out of the corral, and the trail herd crew straggled behind them over the level that led southward, the men were grinning.
For Harlan had told them that their share of the spoils resulting from the sale of the cattle was to be materially increased. He had likewise told them that they might spend an extra day in “town” before their return.
Only one man besides Harlan remained at the Star after the herd vanished into the southern distance. That man was the black-bearded fellow who had escorted Harlan to the ranchhouse on the occasion of his first visit—Lafe Woodward.
This man’s admiration for Harlan had never been concealed. He had stayed as close to Harlan as possible; and from his manner Harlan had divined that the man was eager to ingratiate himself.
Woodward stood near Harlan as the herd and the men vanished. He had grinned widely when, just before the outfit had departed, he had heard Rogers whisper to Harlan:
“You’ve made yourself solid with the bunch, for sure, by offerin’ ’em a bigger divvy. They’ve been grumblin’ about it for a long time. They’re all sore at Haydon an’ Deveny for bein’ greedy. But you’re sure cookin’ up a heap of trouble with Haydon an’ Deveny!”
Harlan grinned with grim mirthlessness. It had been his first opportunity to stir up dissension and strife in the outlaw camp, and he had taken instant advantage of it. He had created factional feeling, and he was prepared to accept the consequences.
And, later in the day, when he saw Haydon ride in, dismount and cast a surprised glance at the empty corral, he knew that the moment for which he had planned, had come.
Woodward was nowhere in sight; and Harlan, who had been in the blacksmith-shop, made himself visible to Haydon by stepping outside.
Haydon called to him, sharply; and Harlan walked slowly to where the outlaw chief stood, a saturnine grin on his face, his eyes alight with a cold humor that might have been illuminating to Haydon had he taken the trouble to look into them.
Haydon was laboring under some strong passion. He was suppressing it with an effort, but it showed in his tensed muscles and in his flushed face.
“Where are the cattle?” he demanded, his voice a trifle hoarse.
“They’re headed for Willow Wells—where you’ve been sellin’ them.”
“By whose orders?” Haydon’s voice was choked with passion.
“Mine,” drawled Harlan. Harlan might have explained that the stock had been suffering in the crowded enclosure, thus assuaging Haydon’s wrath. But he gave no explanation—that would have been a revelation of eagerness to escape blame and the possibleconsequences of his act. Instead of explaining he looked steadily into Haydon’s eyes, his own cold and unblinking.
He saw Haydon’s wrath flare up—it was in the heightened color that spread upward above the collar of his shirt; he saw the man’s terrific effort at self-control; and his look grew bitter with insolence.
“What’s botherin’ you?” he said.
“The cattle—damn it!” shouted Haydon. “What in hell do you mean by sending them away without orders?”
“I’m havin’ my say, Haydon. We agreed to split everything three ways. Authority to give orders goes with that. That was the agreement. A man’s got to be either a captain or a private, an’ I’ve never played second to any man. I ain’t beginnin’ now.”
“Why, damn you!” gasped Haydon. His eyes were aglare with a terrible rage and hate; he stepped backward a little, bending his right arm, spreading the fingers.
Harlan had made no move, but the light in his eyes betrayed his complete readiness for the trouble that Haydon plainly meditated.
“Yes,” he said, slowly, drawling his words, a little! “It’s come to that, I reckon. You’ve got to flash your gun now, or take it back. No man cusses me an’ gets away with it. Get goin’!”
Haydon stood, swaying from side to side, in the grip of a mighty indecision. The fingers of his right hand spread wider; the hand descended to a point nearer to his pistol holster.
There it poised, the fingers hooked, like the talons of some giant bird about to clutch a victim.
Had Haydon faced a man with less courage; had Harlan’s iron control lacked that quality which permitted him to give an enemy that small chance for life which he always gave them, death might have reigned at the Star again. Haydon owed his life to that hesitation which had made Harlan famous.
And as the strained, tense seconds passed with both men holding the positions they had assumed, it seemed Haydon was slowly beginning to realize that Harlan was reluctant, was deliberately giving him a chance.
A change came over Haydon. The clawlike fingers began to straighten; imperceptibly at first, and then with a spasmodic motion that flexed the muscles in little jerks. The hand became limp; it dropped slowly to his side—down beyond the pistol holster. Then it came up, and the man swept it over his eyes, as though to brush away a vision that frightened him.
His face grew pale, he shuddered; and at last he stood, swaying a little, his mouth open with wonder for the phenomenal thing that had happened to him.
Harlan’s voice, cold and expressionless, startled him:
“You wasn’t meanin’ to cuss me?”
“No!” The denial was blurted forth. Haydon grinned, faintly, with hideous embarrassment; the knowledge that he had been beaten, and that he owed his life to Harlan, was plain in his eyes.
He laughed, uncertainly, as he made an effort to stiffen his lagging muscles.
“I was a bit flustered, Harlan; I talked rather recklessly, I admit. You see, I’ve been used to giving orders myself. I was riled for a minute.”
“That goes!” said Harlan, shortly. His voice had changed. The slow drawl had gone, and a snapping, authoritative sharpness had replaced it.
Haydon gazed at him with a new wonder. He sensed in Harlan’s manner the consciousness of power, the determination to command. At a stroke, it seemed, Harlan had wrenched from him the right to rule. He felt himself being relegated to a subordinate position; he felt at this minute the ruthless force of the man who stood before him; he felt oddly impotent and helpless, and he listened to Harlan with a queer feeling of wonder for the absence of the rage that should have gripped him.
“I’m runnin’ things from now on,” Harlan said. “I ain’t interferin’ with the Star. But I’m runnin’ things for the boys. I told Rogers to drive the cattle to Willow’s Wells—an’ to sell them. I’ve promised the boys a bigger divvy. They get it. I’ve told them to take a day off, in town, after they turn the cattle over.
“There’s got to be a new deal. The boys are fussed up—claimin’ they ain’t gettin’ their share. I’m seein’ that they do. You can’t run a camp like this an’ not treat the boys right.”
The wonder that had been aroused in Haydon grew as Harlan talked; it increased in intensity until, when Harlan’s voice died away, it developed into suspicion.
That was what Harlan had come to the Star for!He wanted to run the camp, to direct the activities of the outlaws in the valley. Power! Authority! Those were the things Harlan craved for.
Haydon saw it all, now. He saw that Harlan wanted to dominate—everything. He wanted to rule the outlaw camp; he wanted to run the Rancho Seco; he intended to get possession of the gold that Morgan had left, and he wanted Barbara Morgan.
The rage that had held Haydon in its clutch when he had called Harlan to him was reviving. Haydon’s face was still white, but the fury in his eyes—slowly growing—was not to be mistaken.
Harlan saw it, and his lips straightened. He had expected Haydon would rage over what he had determined to tell him; and he was not surprised. He had deliberately goaded the man into his present fury. He had determined to kill him, and he had been disappointed when he had seen Haydon lose his courage when the crisis arrived. And now his deliberate and premeditated plan was to bear fruit.
Harlan was reluctant to kill, but there seemed to be no other way. Haydon was a murderer. He had killed Lane Morgan; he was an outlaw whose rule had oppressed the valley for many months. If Harlan could have devised some plan that would make it possible for him to attain his end without killing anybody, he would have eagerly adopted it.
But in this country force must be fought with force. It was a grim game, and the rules were inflexible—kill or be killed.
His own life would be safe in this section so longas he guarded it. Eternal vigilance and the will to take life when his own was threatened was a principle which custom had established. If he expected to save the girl at the Rancho Seco he could not temper his actions with mercy. And he knew that if he was to succeed in his design to disrupt the outlaw gang he would have to remove the man who stood before him, working himself into a new frenzy. There seemed to be no other way.
But Haydon seemed to have control of himself, now, despite the frenzied glare of his eyes. He was outwardly cool; his movements were deliberate—he had conquered his fear of Harlan, it seemed.
He laughed, harshly.
“Harlan,” he said; “you had me going—talking that way. By Heaven! you almost convinced me that I’dletyou run things here. I was beginning to believe I’d lost my nerve. But see here!”
He held out his right hand toward Harlan—it was steady, rigid, not a nerve in it quivered.
“You’re fast with your guns, but you can’t run any whizzer in on me—you can’t intimidate me. You killed Latimer the other day; and you’ve got the boys with you. But you can’t run things here. Have all the boys gone?”
“Woodward’s here.”
Harlan spoke lowly; his eyes were keenly watchful. This flare-up on Haydon’s part was merely a phase of his confused mental condition. He saw that Haydon did not mean to use his gun—that he intended to ignore it, no doubt planning to regain his authority whenthe men of the outfit returned—when he might enlist the support of some of them.
“Woodward’s here—eh?” laughed Haydon. He raised his voice, shouting for the man. And Harlan saw Woodward come from behind an outbuilding, look toward the ranchhouse, and then walk slowly toward them.
Woodward halted when within several paces of the two, and looked from one to the other curiously, his eyes narrowed with speculation.
“Woodward,” directed Haydon; “hit the breeze after the outfit and tell them to drive those cattle back here!”
Harlan grinned. “Woodward,” he said, gently; “you climb on your cayuse an’ do as Haydon tells you. Haydon is figurin’ on cashin’ in when you do.”
Haydon blustered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that if Woodward goes after the boys I’m goin’ to blow you apart. I’m givin’ the orders around here!”
Watching Haydon, Harlan saw that he was not exhibiting rage, but intense interest. He was not looking at Harlan, but at Woodward. And, turning swiftly, his guns both leaping into his hands with the movement—for he had a swift suspicion that Woodward might be standing with Haydon against him—he saw that Woodward had fallen into a crouch; that the man’s right hand was hovering over his pistol holster, and that his eyes were gleaming with a light that could mean only the one thing—murder.
Backing slowly away from both Haydon and Woodward,Harlan watched them, his guns ready for instant action should he catch any sign that would indicate trickery toward himself.
He saw no such signs. It became plain to him that Woodward had no eyes for anyone but Haydon, and that Haydon’s attention was fixed upon Woodward with an intentness that meant he had divined that Woodward’s peculiar manner had a definite, personal meaning.
Woodward continued to advance on Haydon. He was waving his left hand as though giving Harlan a silent order to get out of his way, while his gaze was centered upon Haydon with an unspoken promise of violence, fascinating to behold.
It seemed to have fascinated Haydon. Harlan saw him shrink back, the bluster gone out of him, his face the color of ashes. He kept stepping back, until he brought up against the rear wall of the ranchhouse; and there he stood, watching Woodward, his eyes bulging with dread wonder.
Harlan saw his lips move; heard his voice, hoarse and throaty:
“It’s a frame-up—a frame-up. Both of you are out to get me!”
“Frame-up!”
This was Woodward. He was a sinister figure, with his black beard seeming to bristle with passion, his eyes flaming with it; all his muscles tensed and quivering, and his right hand, with clawlike fingers, poised above the butt of his pistol.
“Frame-up!” he repeated, laughing hoarsely betweenhis teeth. “Hell’s fire! Do you think it takes two men to ‘get’ you—you miserable whelp?
“I’ve been waitin’ for this day—waitin’ for it, waitin’ to get you alone—waitin’ for the boys to go so’s I could tell you somethin’.
“You know what it is. You ain’t guessin’, eh? Listen while I tell you somethin’. The day ‘Drag’ Harlan got in Lamo he brought news that Lane Morgan had been killed out in the desert. I heard the boys sayin’ you had a hand in it. But I thought that was just talk. I didn’t believe you was that kind of a skunk. I waited.
“Then you sent me over to the edge of the level, near the Rancho Seco—where Harlan found that flattened grass when he rode over here. You told me to watch Harlan and Barbara Morgan. You said you thought Harlan would try some sneak game with her.
“You can gamble I watched. I saw Harlan standin’ guard over her; I saw him follow that sneak Lawson. I heard the shot that killed Lawson, an’ I saw Harlan tote him downstairs, an’ then set on the door-sill all night, guardin’ Barbara Morgan.
“The sneakin’ game was played by you, Haydon. When I saw Harlan headin’ toward the valley the day he come here, I lit out ahead of him. And when he got to the timber over there I brought him in.
“An’ I heard you talk that day. I heard him sayin’ that you killed Lane Morgan. He said my dad told him you fired the shot that killed him.”
Harlan started and leaned forward, amazed. ButHaydon swayed, and then steadied himself with an effort, and stared at Woodward with bulging, incredulous eyes.
“Yourdad?” he almost shrieked; “Lane Morgan was your father?”
Woodward’s grin was wolfish. He took two or three steps toward Haydon—panther-like steps that betrayed the lust that was upon him.
“I’m Billy Morgan,” he said, his teeth showing in a merciless grin; “Barbara’s brother. Flash your gun, Haydon; I’m goin’ to kill you!”
Haydon clawed for his pistol, missing the butt in his eagerness, and striving wildly to draw it. It snagged on a rawhide thong that supported the holster and his fingers were loosening in the partial grip when Billy Morgan shot him.
He flattened against the wall of the ranchhouse for an instant, staring wildly around him; then his head sagged forward and he slid down the wall of the ranchhouse into the deep dust that was mounded near it.
CHAPTER XXIIA DEAD MAN WALKS
Harlan had paid strict attention to Lane Morgan’s words at Sentinel Rock, and he remembered that Morgan had told him that his son, whom he had called “Bill,” had left the Rancho Seco on some mission for the governor. Evidently it had not occurred to Morgan that his son’s mission had taken him only to the valley in which reigned those outlaws Morgan had reviled.
But it was plain to Harlan that “Billy” was here—he had said so himself, and he had given proof that he had been watchful and alert to Barbara’s interests. And now was explained young Morgan’s interest in himself. The thought that during all the days he had spent at the Rancho Seco, his movements had been watched by the man who had just killed Haydon, brought a glow of ironic humor to Harlan’s eyes.
During a long interval, through which Billy Morgan stood over Haydon, watching him with a cold savagery, Harlan kept at a respectable distance, also watching.
He saw that for Haydon the incident had been fatal. The man’s body did not move after it slipped to the ground beside the ranchhouse wall. Yet Morgan watched until he was certain; then he slowly wheeled and looked at Harlan.
“That settles him—damn him!” he said, with abreathlessness that told of the intense strain he had been laboring under.
Still Harlan did not speak; and his guns were in their holsters when Morgan walked close to him, grinning wanly.
“I had to do it. There’s no use tryin’ to depend on the law in this country. You’ve seen that, yourself.”
“I’ve noticed it,” grinned Harlan. “You’re feelin’ bad over it. I wouldn’t. If it had been my dad he killed I couldn’t have done any different. I reckon any man with blood in him would feel that way about a coyote like that killin’ his father. If men don’t feel that way, why do they drag murderers to courts—where they have courts—an’ ask the law to kill them. That’s just shovin’ the responsibility onto some other guy.
“I’ve handed several guys their pass-out checks, an’ I ain’t regrettin’ one of them. There wasn’t one of them that didn’t have it comin’ to him. They was lookin’ for it, mostly, an’ had to have it. I’ve heard of guys that had killed a man feelin’ squeamish over it—with ghosts visitin’ them at night; an’ sufferin’ a lot of mental torture. I reckon any man would feel that way if he’d killed an inoffensive man—or a good man, or one that hadn’t been tryin’ to murder him.” He grinned again. “Why, I’m preachin’!”
And now into his gaze as he looked at Morgan, came cold reproach.
“You wasn’t figurin’ to let Barbara play it a lone hand?” he said.
“Hell’s fire—no!” denied Morgan, his eyes blazing. “I’ve been watchin’ the Rancho Seco—as I told Haydon. I saw Barbara set out for Lamo. There was no one followin’ her, an’ so I thought she’d be all right. That mixup at Lamo slipped me. But I seen you an’ Barbara come back, an’ I heard the boys talkin’ about what happened at Lamo. I’d heard of you, too; an’ when I seen you come back with Barbara I watched you. An’ I seen you was square, so I trusted you a heap.
“An’ I had a talk with Sheriff Gage about you, an’ he told me my dad had sent to Pardo for you, through Dave Hallowell, the marshal of Pardo. Gage said you was out to clean up Deveny an’ Haydon, an’ so I knowed I could depend on you.”
“Barbara don’t know you’re hangin’ around here—she ain’t known it?”
“Shucks, I reckon not,” grinned Morgan. “I didn’t come here for six months after I left the Rancho Seco—until I growed a beard. Barbara’s been within a dozen feet of me, an’ never knowed me. I’ve been thinkin’ of telling her, but I seen Haydon was sweet on her, an’ I didn’t dare tell her. Women ain’t reliable. She’d have showed it some way, an’ then there’d have been hell to pay.”
“An’ I’ve been pridin’ myself on takin’ care of Barbara,” said Harlan. “I feel a heap embarrassed an’ useless—just like I’d been fooled.”
“You’ve done a thing I couldn’t do,” confessed Morgan; “you’ve busted Haydon’s gang wide open. If you hadn’t showed up there’d have been nothin’done. There’s some of the boys that ain’t outlaws—boys that are with me, havin’ sneaked into the gang to help me out. But we wan’t makin’ no headway to speak of.”
Harlan looked at Haydon. “That guy was educated,” he said. “What was his game? I’ve felt all along that there was somethin’ big back of him—that he wasn’t here just to steal cattle an’ rob folks, an’ such.”
“You ain’t heard,” smiled Morgan. “Of course you wouldn’t—unless Gage had gassed to you.
“There’s a gang of big men in Frisco, an’ in the East, figurin’ to run a railroad through the basin. A year or so ago there was secret talk of it in the capital. It leaked out that the railroad guys was intendin’ to run their road through the basin. They was goin’ to build a town right where the Rancho Seco lays; an’ they was plannin’ to irrigate a lot of the land around there. The governor says it was to be big—an’ likely it’ll be big, when they get around to it.
“But them things go slow, an’ a gang of cheap crooks got wise to it. They sent Haydon down here, to scare the folks in the basin into sellin’ out for a song. They’ve scared one man out—a Pole from the west end. But the others have stuck. Looks like they was figurin’ on grabbin’ the Rancho Seco without payin’anythingfor it—Haydon intendin’, I reckon, to put dad an’ me out of the way an’ marry Barbara. Then he could have cut the ranch up into town lots an’ made a mint of coin.”
“An’ Deveny?”
“Deveny’s a wolf. Haydon brought him here from Arizona—where he’d terrorized a whole county, runnin’ it regardless. He figured to cash in, I reckon, but he’s been grabbin’ up everything he could lay his hands on, on the way.”
“You’ll be tellin’ Barbara, now?” suggested Harlan.
“You’re shoutin’!” said Morgan, his eyes glowing. “I’m hittin’ the breeze to the Rancho Seco for fair.” He looked at Haydon, and his eyes took on a new expression. “I was almost forgettin’ what the governor sent me here for,” he added. “The governor was wantin’ to know who is behind Haydon an’ Deveny, an’ I’m rummagin’ around in Haydon’s office to find out. Goin’?” he invited.
Both looked down at Haydon as they passed him, and an instant later they were entering a door of the ranchhouse.
They had hardly disappeared when Haydon’s head moved slightly.
His eyes were open; he glanced at the door of the ranchhouse through which Harlan and Morgan had entered. Then he raised his head, dragged himself to an elbow—upon which he rested momentarily, his face betraying the bitter malignance and triumph that had seized him.
He had realized that Morgan had meant to kill him, even before Morgan had revealed his identity, and his backward movement, which had brought him against the wall of the ranchhouse had been made with design. He had felt that even if he should succeed inbeating Morgan, Harlan would have taken up the quarrel, for he knew that Harlan also had designs on his life. And with a cupidity aroused over the desperate predicament in which he found himself, he had decided to take a forlorn chance.
Morgan’s bullet had struck him, but by a convulsive side movement at the instant Morgan’s gun roared Haydon had escaped a fatal wound, and the bullet had entered his left side above the heart, paralyzing one of the big muscles of the shoulder.
His left arm was limp and useless, and dragged in the dust as he squirmed around and gained his feet. There was no window in the wall of the ranchhouse on that side; and he backed away, staggering a little, for he had lost much blood. He kept the blank wall before him as he backed away from the house; and when he reached his horse he was a long time getting into the saddle. But he accomplished it at last; and sent the horse slowly up the slope and into the timber out of which Harlan had ridden with the black-bearded man on the day of his first visit to the Star.
Back where the trail converged with the main trail that ran directly up the valley, Haydon, reeling in the saddle, sent his horse at a faster pace, heading it toward the Cache where he was certain he would find Deveny. And as he rode the triumph in his eyes grew. For he had heard every word of the conversation between Harlan and Morgan, and he hoped to get to the Cache before the two men discovered the trick he had played upon them—before they could escape.