The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “No offense intended, Harlan. I was merely curious on Barbara’s account.” He mounted his horse, urged it along the corral fence, and sent back a smiling:

  “So-long.”

  Motionless, still standing where he had stood when Haydon climbed on his horse, Harlan watched while the man rode the short distance to the house. At the corner around which he had appeared some minutes before, Haydon brought his horse to a halt, waved a hand—at Barbara, Harlan supposed—and then rode on, heading westward toward Sunset Trail.

  Harlan watched him until he had penetrated far into the big valley; then he turned, slowly, and sought Red Linton—finding him in the blacksmith-shop.

  Later in the day—after Harlan and Linton had talked long, standing in the door of the blacksmith-shop—Linton mounted his horse and rode to where Harlan stood.

  Linton was prepared for a long ride. Folded in the slicker that was strapped to the cantle of his saddle was food; he carried his rifle in the saddle sheath, and a water-bag bulged above the horse’s withers.

  “You won’t find all the T Down boys yearnin’ to bust into this ruckus,” Harlan said as he stood near Linton’s horse as Linton grinned down at him; “but there’ll be some. Put it right up to them that it ain’t goin’ to be no pussy-kitten job, an’ that it’s likely some of them won’t ever see the T Down again. But to offset that, you can tell ’em that if we make good, the Rancho Seco will owe them a heap—an’ they’ll get what’s comin’ to them.”

  He watched while Linton rode eastward over the big level; then he grinned and walked to the ranchhouse, going around the front and standing in the wide gateway where he saw Barbara sitting on a bench in the patio, staring straight ahead, meditatively, unaware that he was standing in the gateway, watching her.

  Harlan watched the girl for a long time—until she turned and saw him. Then she blushed and stood up, looking at him in slight wonderment as he came toward her and stood within a few feet of her.

  On Harlan’s face was a slow, genial grin.

  “Sunnin’ yourself, eh?” he said. “Well, it’s a mighty nice day—not too hot. Have you knowed him long?”

  The startling irrelevance of the question caused Barbara to gaze sharply at Harlan, and when their eyes met she noted that his were twinkling with a light that she could not fathom. She hated him when she could not understand him.

  “Mr. Haydon, do you mean?” she questioned, a sudden coldness in her voice.

  Harlan nodded.

  “A little more than a year, I think. It was just after I returned from school, at Denver.”

  He watched her, saying lowly:

  “So it was Denver. I’d been wonderin’. I knowed it must have been some place. Schoolin’ is a thing that I never had time to monkey with—I reckon my folks didn’t believe a heap in ’em.”

  “You’ve lived in the West all your life—you were born in the West, I suppose?”

  He looked keenly at her. “I expect you knowed that without askin’. I’ve been wonderin’ if it would have made any difference.”

  “How?”

  “In me. Do you think an education makes a man act different—gives him different ideas about his actions—in his dealin’s with women, for instance?”

  “I expect it does. Education should make a man more considerate of women—it is refining.”

  “Then you reckon a man that ain’t had any education is coarse, an’ don’t know how to treat a woman?”

  “I didn’t say that; I said education should make a man treat women that way.”

  “But it don’t always?”

  “I think not. I have known men—well educated men—who failed to treat women as they should be treated.”

  “Then that ain’t what you might call a hard-an’-fast rule—it don’t always work. An’ there’s hope for any man who ain’t had schoolin’—if he’s wantin’ to be a man.”

  “Certainly.”

  “But an educated man can’t claim ignorance when he aims to mistreat a woman. That’s how it figures up, ain’t it?”

  She laughed. “It would seem to point to that conclusion.”

  “So you’ve knowed Haydon about a year? I reckon he’s educated?”

  “Yes.” She watched him closely, wondering at his meaning—why he had brought Haydon’s name into the discussion. She was marveling at the subtle light in his eyes.

  “Your father liked Haydon—he told me Haydon was the only square man in the country—besides himself an’ Sheriff Gage.”

  “Father liked Haydon. I’m beginning to believe you really did have a talk with father before he died!”

  He smiled. “Goin’ back to Haydon. I had a talk with him a little while ago. I sort of took a shine to him.” He drew from a pocket the section of gold chain he had found on the desert, holding it out to her.

  “Here’s a piece of Haydon’s watch chain,” he said slowly, watching her face. “The next time Haydon comes to see you, give it to him, tellin’ him I found it. It’s likely he’ll ask you where I found it. But you can say I wasn’t mentionin’.”

  He turned, looking back over his shoulder at her as he walked toward the gate.

  She stood, holding the glittering links in the palm of one hand, doubt and suspicion in her eyes.

  “Why,” she called after him; “he was just here, and you say you talked with him! Why didn’t you give it to him?”

  “Forgot it, ma’am. An’ I reckon you’ll be seein’ him before I do.”

  Then he strode out through the gate, leaving her to speculate upon the mystery of his words and his odd action in leaving the chain with her when he could have personally returned it to Haydon.

  Harlan, however, was grinning as he returned to the bunkhouse. For he wanted Barbara to see Haydon’s face when the section of chain was returned to him, to gain whatever illumination she could from the incident. He did not care to tell her—yet—that Haydon had killed her father; but he did desire to create in her mind a doubt of Haydon, so that she would hesitate to confide to him everything that happened at the Rancho Seco.

  For himself, he wanted to intimate delicately to Haydon his knowledge of what had really occurred at Sentinel Rock; it was a message to the man conveying a significance that Haydon could not mistake. It meant that for some reason, known only to himself, Harlan did not intend to tell what he knew.

  CHAPTER XVII

  FORGING A LETTER

  The impulse which had moved Harlan to send Red Linton to the T Down ranch to enlist the services of some of his old friends had resulted from a conviction that he could not depend upon those men of the Rancho Seco outfit who had seemed to him, to be unfriendly to Stroud, the straw-boss. He knew nothing about them, and their loyalty to Barbara Morgan might be of a quality that would not endure through the sort of trouble that seemed to be imminent.

  The T Down men—those who would come—would stand with him no matter what happened—they would do his will without question.

  There was no doubt in Harlan’s mind that John Haydon was the mysterious “Chief”—the man who had sent into Lane Morgan’s breast the bullet that had ultimately killed him; and there was no doubt that some powerful, secret force was at work in the country, and that the force was directing its attention to the Rancho Seco and the defenseless girl who was at the nominal head of it. For some reason the secret force had killed her father, had isolated the ranch, had encompassed it with enemies, and was working slowly and surely to enmesh the girl herself.

  Harlan was convinced that one of the motives behind the subtle aggressions of the men was a yearning for the gold that Morgan had left—in fact the presence of Dolver and Laskar at Sentinel Rock—and Morgan’s word to him about the gold—provided sufficient evidence on that score.

  They had watched Morgan; they suspected he was taking gold to Pardo to have it assayed, and they had killed him in the hope of finding something on his person which would reveal to them where he had hidden the rest of it.

  One other motive was that
of the eternal, ages-old passion of a man for woman. Evidence of that passion had been revealed to Harlan at Lamo, by the attack on Barbara by Deveny’s hireling—Higgins; by the subtle advances of John Haydon. It seemed to Harlan that all of these men had been—and were—equally determined to possess the girl.

  And yet back of it all—behind that which had been rendered visible by the actions of the man and by Harlan’s own deductions—was something else—something stealthy and hidden; a secret threat of dire things to come—a lingering promise of trickery.

  Standing at one of the gates of the corral upon the third morning following Linton’s departure, Harlan considered this phase of the situation. He felt the hidden threat of something sinister that lurked in the atmosphere.

  It was all around him. It seemed to lie secreted in the yawning space that engulfed the Rancho Seco—south, north, and east. From the haze that stretched into the unending distance westward it seemed to come, bearing its whispered promise. The solemn hills that flanked the wide stretches of Sunset Valley seemed to hint of it—somberly.

  Mystery was in the serene calm that seemed to encompass the big basin; from the far reaches westward, in the misty veil that seemed to hang from the far-flung shafts of sunlight that penetrated the fleecy clouds, came the sinister threat—the whole section seemed to pulse with it.

  And yet Harlan knew there could be no mystery except the mysteries of men. Nature was the same here as in any other section of the world, and her secrets were not more profound than usual.

  He grinned mirthlessly at the wonderful basin, noting that the Rancho Seco buildings seemed to lie on a direct line with its center; that the faint trail that ran through the basin—the trail men traveled—came on in its undulating way straight toward the Rancho Seco ranchhouse, seemed to bring the mystery of the big basin with it; seemed to be a link that connected the Rancho Seco with the promise of trouble.

  That impression might have engaged the serious thoughts of some men. It widened the smile on Harlan’s face. For he knew there was no threat in the beauty of the valley; that it did not hide its secrets from the prying eyes of men. Whatever secret the valley held was in the minds of men—the minds of Deveny and the mysterious “Chief,” and their followers.

  Harlan had not absented himself from the ranchhouse since the departure of Linton. He had lounged in the vicinity of the buildings during the day—and Barbara had seen him many times from the windows; and he had spent his nights watching the ranchhouse, half expecting another attack on Barbara.

  The girl had seen him at night, too; and she had smiled at the picture he made with the moonlight shining upon him—or standing in some shadow—somber, motionless, undoubtedly guarding her.

  She saw him this morning, too, as he stood beside the corral gate, and there was a glow in her eyes that, had he seen it, might have thrilled him with its gratitude.

  She came out of a rear door after a while, and Harlan was still standing at the gate.

  He watched her as she came toward him—it was the first time she had ventured in that direction since the return from Lamo with him—noting that she seemed to be in better spirits—that she was smiling.

  “You looked lonesome,” she said, as she halted near him. “Did Linton join the outfit?”

  “It’s likely; he went three days ago.”

  “I knew he had gone; I saw you several times, and you were always alone. And,” she added, looking keenly at him; “I saw you several times, at night. Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “I reckon I’m a sort of restless cuss.”

  Her face took on serious lines.

  “Look here, Harlan,” she said, reprovingly, “you are keeping something back. You have been watching the ranchhouse at night—and during the day. You are guarding me. Why is it? Do you think I am going to run away?”

  “From me?” he queried; “I was hopin’ you wouldn’t.”

  She stiffened with exasperation, for she felt the insincerity in his manner—caught the humorous note in his voice.

  “You are treating me as you would treat a child,” she declared; “and I won’t have it. Are you watching me because you fear there might be another—Lawson?”

  “There might be.”

  “Nonsense! There isn’t another man in the section would dare what Lawson dared!”

  “Gentlemen—eh?” he said, tauntingly. “Well, I’ve nosed around quite considerable, an’ I don’t remember to have ever run into a place where there was fewer men than in this neck of the woods.”

  “There are plenty of gentlemen. Do you think John Haydon—”

  Harlan grinned faintly. “He’s been fannin’ it right along for half an hour,” he said, with seeming irrelevance.

  “Who?” she asked, with a swift, uncomprehending glance at him.

  “Your gentleman,” he said slowly.

  She followed the direction of his gaze, and saw, on the trail that led downward from a little table-land to the level that stretched toward the ranchhouse, a horseman, coming rapidly toward them.

  “It’s Mr. Haydon!” she ejaculated, her voice leaping.

  “So it is,” said Harlan, dryly. He looked keenly at her, noting the flush on her face, the brightness of her eyes. “You ain’t forgettin’ to give him that piece of chain.”

  “Why,” she said, drawing the glittering links from a pocket of her skirt; “I have it here. You may return it to him.”

  “Me an’ Haydon ain’t on speakin’ terms,” he smiled. “He wouldn’t appreciate it none, if I give it to him.”

  “Why—” she began, only to pause and look at him with a sudden comprehension in her eyes. For into Harlan’s face had come an expression that, she thought, she could analyze. It was jealousy. That was why he was reluctant to return the chain to Haydon.

  The situation was so positively puerile, she thought, that she almost felt like laughing. She would have laughed had it not been that she knew of Harlan’s unfailing vigilance—and that she felt differently toward him now than she had felt during the first days of their acquaintance. His steadfast vigilance, she decided, must have been responsible for the change, together with the steady consideration he revealed for her.

  At any rate, something about him had affected her. She felt more gentle toward him; more inclined to believe in him; and there had been times during the past few days when she had been astonished at the subtle, warm sensation that had stolen over her whenever she saw him or whenever she thought of him.

  Something of that warmth toward him was in her eyes now as she watched him and she decided that she should humor his whim; that she should perform the action that he was reluctant to perform.

  She smiled, with the wisdom of a woman to whom a secret had been unwittingly revealed.

  “You don’t like Haydon?”

  “Him an’ me ain’t goin’ to be bosom friends.”

  “Why don’t you like him?” she asked banteringly.

  She thought his grin was brazen. “Why don’t you like me?”

  “I don’t know,” she said coldly. But her face reddened a little.

  “Well,” he laughed; “that’s why I don’t like Haydon.”

  Haydon had crossed the big level, and was close to the ranchhouse.

  The girl had determined to remain where she was, to return the piece of chain to Haydon in the presence of Harlan—in order to learn what she could of the depth of Harlan’s dislike for Haydon when in the presence of the latter. And so a silence came between them as they watched Haydon ride toward them.

  When Haydon rode close to them he halted his horse and sat in the saddle, an expression of cold inquiry on his face. His smile at Miss Barbara was a trifle forced; his glance at Harlan had a fair measure of frank dislike and suspicion in it.

  Harlan deliberately turned his back toward Barbara and Haydon when the latter dismounted; walked a little distance, and pretended to be interested in a snubbing post in the corral.

  Yet he cast furtive glances toward the two, and when he
saw the girl reaching into a pocket for the section of chain he had given her, he slowly sauntered forward, and was within hearing distance when Barbara spoke to Haydon.

  “I was to give you this,” she said—and she extended a hand toward Haydon, the chain dangling from her fingers.

  Harlan saw Haydon’s muscles leap and become tense. He saw the man’s color go, saw his cheeks whiten; observed that his eyes widened and gleamed with mingled astonishment and alarm.

  He regained control of himself instantly, however, but Harlan had seen enough to strengthen his convictions, and he grinned as Haydon flashed a sharp glance at him.

  Barbara, too, had noted the strange light in Haydon’s eyes; she had seen that Haydon had seemed about to shrink from the chain when she held it out to him. She looked from Haydon to Harlan inquiringly and when her glance again returned to Haydon he was smiling.

  However, he had not taken the chain from her hand.

  “Is it yours?” she asked.

  “Yes—mine,” he answered, hesitatingly. “Where did you find it?”

  “Mr. Harlan found it.” Barbara noted Haydon’s quick start, the searching glance he gave Harlan—who was now leaning on a rail of the corral fence, seemingly uninterested.

  Haydon laughed, a little hoarsely, it seemed to Barbara, and more loudly than the occasion seemed to demand. She thought, though, that the laugh might have been a jeer for Harlan’s action in turning the chain over to her instead of returning it directly to the owner.

  She did not catch the searching inquiry of Haydon’s glance at Harlan, nor did she see Harlan’s odd smile at Haydon, and the slow wink that accompanied it.

  But the wink and the smile conveyed to Haydon the intelligence that Harlan knew the story connected with the loss of the chain, and that he had not communicated it to the girl. They also expressed to Haydon the message that Harlan and Haydon were kindred souls—the smile and the wink told Haydon that this man who knew his secret was secretly applauding him, even while inwardly laughing at him for his fear that the secret would be betrayed.

  Harlan’s voice broke a short silence.