Drag Harlan

by Seltzer, Charles Alden

  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.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXIII

  DEVENY SECEDES

  Since the day he had heard that Harlan had appeared at the Star and had been taken into the outlaw band by Haydon, Deveny had exhibited fits of a sullen moroseness that had kept his closest friends from seeking his companionship. Those friends were few, for Deveny’s attitude toward his men had always been that of the ruthless tyrant; he had treated them with an aloofness that had in it a contempt which they could not ignore. More—he was merciless, and had a furious temper which found its outlet in physical violence.

  Deveny was a fast man with the big Colt that swung at his hip, a deadly marksman, and he needed but little provocation to exhibit his skill. For that reason his men kept the distance Deveny had established between them—never attempting familiarity with him.

  Deveny had heard from a Star man the story of Harlan’s coming to the Star and when a day or so later Haydon rode into the Cache, Deveny was in a state of furious resentment.

  There had been harsh words between Haydon and Deveny; the men of the Cache had no difficulty in comprehending that Deveny’s rage was bitter.

  Not even when Haydon told him that his acceptance of Harlan had been forced by circumstances, and that he was tricking Harlan into a state of fancied security in which he could the more easily bring confusion upon him did Deveny agree.

  “You’re a damned fool, Haydon!” he told the other, his face black with passion. “That guy is slick as greased lightning—and faster. And he don’t mean any good to the camp. He’s out for himself.”

  Deveny did not intimate that his dislike of Harlan had been caused by the latter’s interference with his plans the day he had held Barbara Morgan a prisoner in the room above the Eating-House in Lamo; but Haydon, who had heard the details of the affair from one of his men, smiled knowingly.

  It was not Haydon’s plan to let Deveny know he knew of the affair, or that he cared about it if he had heard. And so he did not mention it.

  But in his heart was a rage that made his thoughts venomous; though he concealed his emotions behind the bland, smooth smile of good-natured tolerance.

  “I’ll handle him, Deveny,” he said as he took leave of the other. “He’ll get his when he isn’t expecting it.”

  Deveny, however, had no faith in Haydon’s ability to “handle” Harlan. He had seen in the man’s eyes that day in Lamo something that had troubled him—an indomitability that seemed to indicate that the man would do whatever he set out to do.

  But Deveny did not ride to the Star to see Harlan; he was reluctant to stir outside the Cache, and for many days, while Harlan was attaining supremacy at the Star, and while Haydon was absent on a mysterious mission, Deveny kept close to the Cache, nursing his resentment against Haydon, and deepening—with fancied situations—his hatred for Harlan.

  It did not surprise Deveny when a Star man rode into the Cache one day and told him that Harlan had killed Latimer in a gunfight, and that Harlan was slowly but surely gaining a following among the men. The information did not surprise Deveny; but it sent his mind into a chaos of conjecture and speculation, out of which at last a conviction came—that Harlan was seeking control of the outlaw band; that Haydon’s days as a leader were almost over, so far as he was concerned. For if Haydon insisted on taking Harlan into the secret councils of the camp he—Deveny—was going to operate independently.

  The more his thoughts dwelt upon that feature the more attractive it seemed to him. Independence of Haydon meant that he could do as he pleased without the necessity of consulting anybody. He could rustle whatever cattle he wanted—getting them where he could without following Haydon’s plans—which had always seemed rather nonsensical, embracing as they did the scheme of railroad building and town sites; and he could do as he pleased with Barbara Morgan, not having to consider Haydon at all.

  It was that last consideration that finally decided Deveny. He was an outlaw—not a politician; he robbed for gain, and not for the doubtful benefits that might be got out of the building of a town. And when he looked with desire upon a woman he didn’t care to share her with another man—not even Haydon.

  For two or three days after the conviction seized Deveny, he pondered over his chances, and when he reached a decision he acted with the volcanic energy that had characterized his depredations in the basin.

  On the morning of the day upon which Haydon returned to the Star to find the cattle gone and Harlan in control, Deveny appeared to a dozen Cache men who were variously engaged near the corral, ordering them to saddle their horses.

  Later, Deveny and his men rode southward across a low plateau that connected the buttes near the entrance to the Cache with the low hills that rimmed the basin. They traveled fast, and when they reached the rimming hills they veered eastward upon a broad sand plain.

  There was a grin on Deveny’s face now—a grin which expressed craft, duplicity, and bestial desire. And as he rode at the head of his men he drew mental pictures that broadened his grin and brought into his eyes an abysmal gleam.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXIV

  KIDNAPPED

  Barbara Morgan had yielded to the fever of impatience which had afflicted her during the latter days of Harlan’s absence from the Rancho Seco. She had been impatient ever since she had been forced to stay close to the house by Harlan’s orders; but she had fought it off until now, for she had been interested in Harlan, and had felt a deep wonder over his probable actions regarding her future.

  She had known, of course, that real danger from Deveny existed, for the incident in Lamo had convinced her of that, but she felt that Harlan’s fears for her were rather extravagant—it was rather improbable that Deveny would come boldly to the Rancho Seco and attempt to carry her away by force.

  The clear, brilliant sunshine of the country dispelled so grotesque a thought; the peaceful hills seemed to smile their denial; and the broad level near the entrance to the basin sent a calm message of reassurance to her.

  She had known Red Linton for a long time—for he had been with her father for nearly two seasons—and she had respected him for what he had seemed to be, a quiet, rather humorous man who did his work well, though without flourishes. He had never figured prominently in her thoughts, however, until the day Harlan had appointed him foreman of the Rancho Seco, and then her attention had been attracted to him because he had seemed interested in her.

  And she had noted that Linton’s interest in her seemed to grow after Harlan’s departure. He had talked with her several times, and she had questioned him about Harlan’s whereabouts. But Linton had not seemed to know; at least, if he did know, he kept his knowledge strictly to himself, not even intimating that he knew where Harlan had gone.

  Another thing she noted was that Linton seemed to have her under surveillance. Whenever she left the house—even for a short ride eastward—where Harlan had told her she might ride without danger—she discovered that Linton immediately mounted his horse, to linger somewhere in sight.

  The knowledge that she was watched began to irritate her and this morning she had got up with a determination to ride without company. With that end in view she had kept Billy all night in the patio; and when rather late in the morning she saw Linton riding eastward, she hurriedly threw saddle and bridle on the horse and rode westward, toward the big basin.

  She kept the house between her and the point where she had seen Linton—until a turn northward became inevitable; and then she urged Billy to a faster pace, in an endeavor to cross the wide plain that reached to the entrance to the b
asin before Linton could see her.

  Many times during the days before the coming of Deveny and Haydon to the valley she had ridden there; it had been a place in which reigned a mighty silence which she had loved, which had thrilled her. During those other days she was in the habit of riding to a point several miles up the valley—between the little basin where the Star was now and the Rancho Seco.

  The trail led upward in a slow, gradual slope to that point—a rugged promontory that jutted out from a mesa that rose above the floor of the valley. The mesa was fringed at the southern edge with stunt oak and nondescript brush. But there were breaks in the fringe which permitted her to ride close to the edge of the mesa; and from there she could look many miles up the valley—and across it, where the solemn hills rimmed the southern horizon, to a trail—called the South Trail by cattlemen in the valley, to distinguish it from the main trail leading through the mighty hollow in which she rode.

  When she reached the mesa she headed Billy directly for the break on the promontory. Dismounting, she stretched her legs to disperse the saddle weariness; then she found a huge rock which had been the seat from which she had viewed the wondrous landscape in the past.

  The reverent awe with which she had always viewed the valley was as strong in her today as it had ever been—stronger, in fact, because she had not seen the place for some time, and because in her heart there now dwelt a sadness that had not been there in those other days—at least since her mother had died.

  She was high above the floor of the valley; and she could see the main trail below her weaving around low mounds and sinking into depressions; disappearing into timber groves, reappearing farther on, disappearing again, and again reappearing until it grew blurred and indistinct in her vision.

  In the marvelous clarity of the atmosphere this morning every beauteous feature of the valley was disclosed to her inspection. The early morning haze had lifted, and the few fleecy clouds that floated in the blue bowl of sky were motionless, their majestic billows glowing in the sun. She saw a Mexican eagle swoop over the cloud, sailing on slow wing high above it, and growing so distant in her vision that he became a mere speck moving in the limitless expanse of space.

  It was a colossal landscape, and its creator had neglected no detail. And it was harmonious, from the emerald green that carpeted the floor of the valley near the gleaming river to the gigantic shoulders of the rugged hills that lifted their huge, bastioned walls into the blue of the sky. Some tall rock spires that thrust their peaks skyward far over on the southern side of the valley had always interested her; they seemed to be sentinels that guarded the place, hinting of an ages-old mystery that seemed to reign all about them.

  But there was mystery in everything in the valley, she felt; for it lay before her, spreading, slumbrous, basking in the brilliant sunlight—seeming to wait, as it seemed to have waited from the dawn of the first day, for man to wonder over it.

  She saw the Mexican eagle again after a while. It was making a wide circle beyond the rock spires, floating lazily above them in long, graceful swoops that were so lacking in effort that she longed to be up there with him—to ride the air with him, to feel the exhilaration he must feel.

  As she looked, however, she caught a faint blur on the southern horizon of the big picture—a yellowish-black cloud that hugged the horizon and traveled rapidly eastward. It was some time before she realized that what she saw was a dust cloud, and there were men in it—horsemen.

  She got up from the rock, her face slowly whitening. And into her heart came a presentiment that those men in the dust cloud were abroad upon an errand of evil.

  No doubt the presentiment was caused from the dread and fear she had lived under for days—the consciousness that Deveny was in the valley, and a recollection of the warnings that Harlan had given her. And she knew the horsemen could not be Rancho Seco men—for they had gone southward from the ranch, and there was no grass range where the horsemen were riding. Also, the men were riding eastward, toward the Rancho Seco.

  Trembling a little with apprehension, she mounted Billy and sent him down the slope to the floor of the valley. The descent was hazardous, and Billy did not make good time, but when he reached the level at the foot of the slope he stretched his neck and fell into a steady, rapid pace that took him down the valley swiftly.

  As the girl rode, the presentiment of evil increased, and she grew nervous with a conviction that she would not be able to reach the Rancho Seco much in advance of the men. For she could see them more clearly now, because they were in the valley, traveling a shelving trail that sloped down from the hills toward the level that stretched to the ranchhouse.

  It was several miles from where she rode to the point where the horsemen were riding, and she was traversing a long ridge which must have revealed her to the men if they looked toward her.

  She had thought—after she had left the promontory—of concealing herself somewhere in the valley, to wait until she discovered who the men were and what their errand was; but she had a fear that if the men were Deveny’s outlaws they might return up the valley and accidentally come upon her. Also, she had yielded to the homing instinct which is strong in all living beings, for at home was safety that could not be found elsewhere.

  The South Trail, she knew, converged with the valley trail at the edge of the level. If she could reach that point a few minutes before the horsemen reached it she would rely on Billy to maintain his lead. Billy would have to maintain it!

  Leaning far over Billy’s mane she urged him on, coaxing him, flattering him, calling to him in terms of endearment. And the loyal little animal did his best, running as he had never run before.

  Barbara though, watching the horsemen with eyes into which there had come a glow of doubt, began to realize that Billy was losing the race. Also, by the time she had gone four or five miles, she discovered that the men had seen her. For the trails were growing close together now—not more than half a mile of slightly broken country stretched between them, and she could see the men waving their hats; could hear their voices above the whir and clatter of Billy’s passing.

  Still, she was determined to win, and Billy’s flanks felt the sting of the quirt that, hitherto, had swung from Barbara’s wrist.

  Billy revealed a marvelous burst of speed. But it did not last, and the horsemen, after hanging for an instant abreast of Billy, began to forge ahead.

  The courageous little animal had almost reached the covert that Harlan had discovered the day he had visited the Star the first time, and was nobly answering the stern urge of the quirt when another horseman suddenly appeared on the trail directly ahead of the girl, seemingly having ridden out of the covert.

  The trail was narrow, and Billy could not swerve around the new rider. So, sensing the danger of a collision he stiffened his legs, making a sliding halt that carried him a dozen feet, leaving him upon his haunches with Barbara frantically trying to keep to the saddle.

  Then Billy’s forehoofs came down; he grunted, heaved a tremendous sigh and stood, his legs braced, awaiting orders.

  No order came. For no words escaped Barbara’s lips. She sat in the saddle, her face ashen, terror clutching her.

  For the horseman who had ridden out of the covert was Stroud, the Rancho Seco straw-boss. He was grinning, and in his eyes was a gloating triumph that she could not mistake.

  “Lucky I took a notion to come in this mornin’,” he said. “I just got here. I seen you hittin’ the breeze for fair while you was quite a piece up the basin; an’ I seen Deveny an’ the boys a-fannin’ it, too. An’ I says to myself: ‘Stroud, here’s Deveny racin’ to see Miss Barbara, an’ her actin’ like she don’t want to see him. But I’ll fix it so she does.’”

  The girl touched Billy with the quirt, and the little animal lunged forward, close to Stroud’s horse. As the two beasts came close together Barbara struck at Stroud with the quirt, hoping to disconcert him so that she could send Billy past him.

  Stroud ducked and shot a h
and out, seized the quirt and wrenched it from her hand. She screamed as the hairloop scraped the flesh of her wrist. And then she heard a thundering clatter of hoofs and saw Deveny and his men appear from beyond the covert and race toward her.

  Deveny spoke no word. But as he rode toward her she saw the gleam in his eyes, and she silently fought Stroud, who had grasped her and was pulling her toward him.

  It seemed to her that Deveny must have misunderstood Stroud’s action, for it was clear to her—even in the stress and confusion of the moment—that Deveny thought Stroud had attacked her through motives that were strictly personal.

  Anyway, before Stroud could speak Deveny’s pistol glittered. And malignantly, his eyes blazing with a jealous, evil light, he shot Stroud—twice.

  He sat in the saddle, his lips twitching into a sneer as he watched the straw-boss tumble from his horse and fall limply into the grass. Then with a smile that was hideous with a triumphant passion, he spurred his horse to Billy’s side, pulled the girl from the saddle, and sent his horse up the valley, motioning his men to follow.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXV

  AMBUSHED

  Red Linton had ridden eastward to examine the grass of the range in that direction, for it had been some days since he had sent Stroud to the southern range, and since the cattle had been there for some time before that Linton felt they should be driven to fresh grass.

  And yet, perhaps, Linton’s search for good grass should not have taken him so far from the ranchhouse, for he remembered his promise to Harlan that he would not let Barbara out of his sight. But Barbara had made no objection to his guardianship of her, so far, and he had longed for a ride.