“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 talking with 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 the other 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, holding the 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 odd and 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 for him the 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 XXI
THE 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 Deveny that 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 were called 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 possible consequences 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.
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