CHAPTER IX
AN UNWELCOME GUEST
It was late afternoon when Barbara and Harlan--the girl still riding alittle in advance of the man--rode their horses out of a stretch ofbroken country featured by low, barren hills and ragged draws, and cameto the edge of a vast level of sage and mesquite that stretched southwardan interminable distance.
The sun was low--a flaming red disk that swam in a sea of ever-changingcolor between the towering peaks of two mighty mountains mileswestward--and the sky above the big level upon which Barbara and Harlanrode was a pale amethyst set in the dull gray frame of the dusk that wasrising from the southern and eastern horizons.
Eastward the gray was pierced by the burning, flaming prismatic streaksthat stretched straight from the cleft in the mountains where the sun wassinking--the sun seemed to be sending floods of new color into thestreaks as he went, deepening those that remained; tinging it all withharmonious tones--rose and pearl and violet and saffron blending themwith a giant, magic brush--recreating them, making the whole backgroundof amethyst sky glow like a huge jewel touched by the myriad colors of amighty rainbow.
The trail taken by Barbara Morgan ran now, in a southeasterly direction,and it seemed to Harlan that they were riding straight into the folds ofa curtain of gauze. For a haze was rising into the effulgent expanse ofcolor, and the sun's rays, striking it, wrought their magic upon it.
Harlan, accustomed to sunsets--with a matter-of-fact attitude toward allof nature's phenomena--caught himself admiring this one. So intent was hethat he looked around with a start when Purgatory halted, to find thatBarbara had drawn Billy down and was sitting in the saddle close to him,watching him, her eyes luminous with an emotion that thrilled Harlanstrangely.
"This is the most beautiful place in the world," she declared in a voicethat seemed to quaver with awe.
"It's sure a beauty," agreed Harlan. "I've been in a heap of places wherethey had sunsets, but dump 'em all together an' they wouldn't make anedge on this display. She's sure a hummer!"
The girl's eyes seemed to leap at his praise.
"I never want to leave this place," she said. "There is nothing like it.Those two mountains that you see far out into the west--where the sun isgoing down--are about forty miles distant. If you will notice, you cansee that there are other mountains--much smaller--connected with them.They are two small ranges, and they melt into the plains there--andthere."
She pointed to the south and to the north, where the two ranges,seemingly extending straight westward, merged into the edge of the biglevel where Barbara and Harlan sat on their horses.
The two ranges were perhaps a dozen miles apart, separated by a low levelvalley through which ran a narrow river, its surface glowing likeburnished gold in the rays of the sinking sun.
Gazing westward--straight into the glow--Harlan noted the virgin wildnessof the immense valley. It lay, serene, slumberous; its salientfeatures--ridges, low hills, rocky promontories and wooded slopes--touchedby the rose tints that descended upon them; while in the depressionsreigned purple shadows, soft-toned, blending perfectly with the brightercolors.
With the sunset glow upon it; with the bastioned hills--barren at theirpeaks, ridged and seamed--looming clear and definite above the vastexpanse of green, the colossal valley stretched, with no movement in itor above it--in a vacuum-like stillness that might have reigned over theworld on the dawn of creation's first morning.
Harlan looked covertly at Barbara. The girl's face was pale, and her eyeswere glowing with a light that made him draw a long breath of sympathyand understanding. But it had been many years since he had felt thethrill of awe that she was experiencing at this minute.
He knew that presently the spell would pass, and that material thingswould exact their due. And the resulting contrast between the beauty ofthe picture upon which she was gazing, and the solemn realization of lossthat memory would bring, instantly, would almost crush her.
Therefore he spoke seriously when he caught her looking at him.
"There's sunsets _an'_ sunsets," he said. "They tell me that they're aheap common in some parts of the world. Wyoming, now--Wyoming pridesherself on sunsets. An' I've heard they have 'em in Italy, an'France--an' some more of them foreign places--where guys go to look at'em. But it's always seemed to me that there ain't a heap of sense ingettin' fussed up over a sunset. The sun has got his work to do; an' hedoes it without any fussin'. An' they tell me that it's the same sun thatsets in all them places I've been tellin' you about.
"Well, it's always been my idee that the sun ain't got no compliments duehim--he'll set mighty beautiful--sometimes; an' folks will get awed an'thrilly over him. But the next day--if a man happens to be ridin' in thedesert, where there ain't any water, he'll cuss the sun prettythorough--forgettin' the nice things he said about it once."
Barbara scowled at him.
"You haven't a bit of poetry in your soul!" she charged. "I'm sorry westopped to look at the valley or the sun--or anything. You don't--youcan't appreciate the beautiful!"
He was silent as she urged Billy onward. And as they fled southwestward,with Purgatory far behind, Harlan swept his hat from his head and bowedtoward the mighty valley, saying lowly:
"You're sure a hummer--an' no mistake. But if a man had any poetry in hissoul--why----"
He rode on, gulping his delight over having accomplished what he hadintended to accomplish.
"She'll be givin' it to me pretty regular; an' she won't have time for nosolemn thoughts. They'll come later, though, when she gets to the RanchoSeco."
It was the lowing of cattle that at last brought to Harlan the convictionthat they were near the Rancho Seco--that and the sight of the roofs ofsome buildings that presently came into view.
But they had been riding for half an hour before they came upon thecattle and buildings, and the flaming colors had faded into somber graytones. The filmy dusk that precedes darkness was beginning to settle overthe land; and into the atmosphere had come that solemn hush with whichthe wide, open places greet the night.
Barbara had no further word to say to Harlan until they reached a groupof buildings that were scattered on a big level near a river. They hadpassed a long stretch of wire fence, which Harlan suspected, enclosed asection of land reserved for a pasture; and the girl brought her pony toa halt in front of an adobe building near a high rail fence.
"This is the Rancho Seco," she said shortly. "This is the stable. Overthere is the ranchhouse. Evidently the men are all away somewhere."
She got off the pony, removed the saddle and bridle, carried them intothe stable, came out again, and opened a gate in the fence, through whichshe sent "Billy." Then she closed the gate and turned to Harlan, who haddismounted and was standing at Purgatory's head.
"I thank you for what you have done for me," she said, coldly. "And now,I should like to know just what you purpose to do--and why you havecome."
Harlan's eyes narrowed as he returned her gaze. He remembered LaneMorgan's words: "John Haydon is dead stuck on Barbara;" and he hadwondered ever since the meeting in Lamo if Barbara returned Haydon'saffection, or if she trusted Haydon enough to confide in him.
Barbara's attitude toward Haydon would affect Harlan's attitude towardthe girl. For if she loved Haydon, or trusted him enough to confide inhim--or even to communicate with him concerning ordinary details, Harlancould not apprise her of the significance of his presence at the RanchoSeco.
For Haydon was unknown to Harlan and Harlan was not inclined to acceptMorgan's praise of him as conclusive evidence of the man's worthiness.Besides, Morgan had qualified his instructions with: "Take a look at JohnHaydon, an' if you think he's on the level--an' you want to drifton--turn things over to him."
Harlan did not want to "drift on." Into his heart since his meeting inLamo with Barbara--and during the ride to the Rancho Seco--had grown adecided reluctance toward "drifting." And not even the girl's scorn couldhave forced him to leave her at the ranch, unprotected.
But he
could not tell her why he could not go. Despite her protests hemust remain--at least until he was able to determine the character ofJohn Haydon.
A gleam of faint mockery came into his eyes as he looked at Barbara.
"I'm keepin' my promise to your dad--I'm stayin' at the Rancho Secobecause he told me to stay. He wanted me to sort of look out that nothin'happened to you. I reckon we'll get along."
The girl caught her breath sharply. In the growing darkness Harlan'ssmile seemed to hold an evil significance; it seemed to express a thoughtthat took into consideration the loneliness of the surroundings, the factthat she was alone, and that she was helpless. More--it seemed to be apresumptuous smile, insinuating, full of dire promise.
For Harlan was an outlaw--she could not forget that! He bore a reputationfor evil that had made him feared wherever men congregated; and as shewatched him it seemed to her that his face betrayed signs of hisruthlessness, his recklessness, and his readiness for violence of everykind.
He might not have killed her father--Rogers and Lawson had acquitted himof that. But he might be lying about the promise to her father merely forthe purpose of providing an excuse to come to the Rancho Seco. It seemedto her that if her father had really exacted a promise from him he wouldhave written to her, or sent her some token to prove the genuineness ofit. There was no visible evidence of Harlan's truthfulness.
"Do you mean to say you are going to stay here--indefinitely?" shedemanded, her voice a little hoarse from the fright that was stealingover her.
He smiled at her. "You've hit it about right, ma'am."
"I don't want you to stay here!" she declared, angrily.
"I'm stayin', ma'am." His smile faded, and his eyes becameserious--earnest.
"Later on--when things shape themselves up--I'll tell you why I'mstayin'. But just now----"
She shrank from him, incredulous, a growing fear plain in her eyes. Andbefore he could finish what he intended to say she had wheeled, and wasrunning toward the ranchhouse.
He watched until she vanished through an open doorway; he heard the doorslam, and caught the sound of bars being hurriedly dropped into place.And after that he stood for a time watching the house. No light came fromwithin, and no other sound.
He frowned slightly, drawing a mental picture of the girl inside,yielding to the terror that had seized her. Then after a while he walkeddown along the corral fence until he came to another building--abunkhouse. And for a long time he stood in the doorway of the building,watching the ranchhouse, afflicted with grim sympathy.
"It ain't so damn' cheerful, at that," he mused. "I reckon she thinksshe's landed into trouble with both feet--with her dad cashin' in like hedid, an' Deveny after her. It sure must be pretty hard to consider allthem things. An' on top of that I mosey along, with a reputation as ano-good son-of-a-gun, an' scare the wits out of her with my homely mug.An' I can't tell her why she hadn't ought to be scared. I call thatmighty mean."
'Drag' Harlan Page 9
