He knew, too, that he had placed himself in a precarious predicament—that his life was in danger, and that he must be exceedingly careful.
Yet outwardly he was cool, composed. With Haydon’s eyes upon him he drew a chair to a point near the desk, seated himself in it, drew out paper and tobacco, and rolled a cigarette. Lighting it, he puffed slowly, watching while Haydon dropped into the chair he had vacated at Harlan’s appearance.
When Haydon dropped into his chair he grinned admiringly at Harlan.
“You’re a cool one, Harlan,” he said; “I’ve got to say that for you. But there’s no use in four-flushing. You’ve come here to tell me something about the chain. Where did you find it?”
“At Sentinel Rock—not far from where you plugged Lane Morgan.”
“You’re assuming that I shot Morgan?” charged Haydon.
“Morgan was assumin’, too, I reckon,” grinned Harlan. “He told me it was you who shot him—he saw your face by the flash of your gun. An’ he told me where to look for the chain—him not knowin’ it was a chain—but somethin’.”
Haydon’s eyes gleamed with a cold rage—which he concealed by passing a hand over his forehead, veiling his eyes from Harlan. His lips were wreathed in a smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me that the other day—the first time I met you?”
Harlan laughed. “I was havin’ notions then—notions that I’d be playin’ her a lone hand.”
“And now?” Haydon’s eyes were steady with cold inquiry.
“I’ve got other notions. I’m acceptin’ Deveny’s invitation to throw in with you.”
Haydon was silent for an instant, and during the silence his gaze met Harlan’s fairly. By the humorous gleam in Harlan’s eyes Haydon divined that the man could not be misled—that he knew something of the situation in the valley, and that he had come here with the deliberate intention of joining the outlaw band.
There was, as Haydon had intimated, little use for an attempt at equivocation or pretense. It was a situation that must be faced squarely by both himself and Harlan. Harlan’s reputation, and his action in keeping secret from Barbara Morgan the identity of her father’s murderer, indicated sincerity on the man’s part. And since Harlan knew him to be the murderer of Morgan it would be absurd for Haydon to pretend that he had no connection with Deveny’s band. He could not fool this man.
Yet a jealous hatred of Harlan was thinly concealed by the steady smile with which he regarded his visitor. He had felt the antagonism of Harlan that day when he had talked with him at the bunkhouse door; Harlan’s manner that day had convinced him that Harlan was jealous of his attentions to Barbara Morgan. Also, there was in his heart a professional jealousy—jealousy of Harlan’s reputation.
For this man who sat in his chair so calmly, with danger encompassing him, was greater than he. Haydon knew it. Had there been any doubt in his mind on that score it must have been removed by a memory of the manner in which his men had received the news that Harlan had left the Rancho Seco and was on his way up the valley.
The rider Harlan had seen had come in with that news—and Haydon had been standing with the group at the bunkhouse when the man arrived. And he had not failed to note the nervous glances of some of the men, and the restless eagerness, not unmixed with anxiety, with which they watched the trail.
And now, facing Harlan, he felt the man’s greatness—his especial fitness for the career he had adopted. Harlan was the ideal outlaw. He was cool, deep, subtle. He was indomitable; he felt no fear; his will was inflexible, adamant. Haydon felt it. The fear he had experienced at his first meeting with Harlan had endured until this minute—it was strong as ever.
Yet he admired the man; and knew that since he had come to the valley he must be considered an important factor. Haydon could not flatly tell him to get out of the valley; he could not order him away from the Rancho Seco. Harlan was in control there—for the rider who had come in with the news that Harlan had set out for the valley had also apprised Haydon of the coming, to the Rancho Seco, of the men of the T Down outfit.
The rider had not been able to tell Haydon who the men were, of course; but it made little difference. They were friends of Harlan’s, for they had come from the direction of the desert—from Pardo.
It was plain to Haydon that Harlan had come to the valley to stay. It was equally plain that he must be either propitiated or antagonized. He felt that Harlan was giving him his choice.
“What do you want—if you throw in with us?” Haydon asked, following the trend of his own thoughts.
“That’s straight talk,” said Harlan. “I’m givin’ you a straight answer. If I join your bunch I join on the same footing with you an’ Deveny—nothin’ less. We split everything three ways—the other boys takin’ their regular share after we take ours. I bring my boys in under the rules you’ve got that govern the others. I run the Rancho Seco—no one interferin’. When I rustle up that gold old Morgan hid, we split it three ways. Barbara Morgan goes with the ranch—no one interferin’.”
Color surged into Haydon’s face.
“You don’t want much, do you?” he sneered.
“I want what’s comin’ to me—what I’m goin’ to take, if I come in. That’s my proposition. You can take it or leave it.”
Haydon was silent for an instant, studying Harlan’s face. What he saw there brought a frown to his own.
“Harlan,” he said softly, “some of the boys feel a little resentful over the way you sent Dolver and Laskar out. There are several friends of those two men outside now. Suppose I should call them in and tell them that the bars are down on you—eh?”
If Haydon expected his threat to intimidate Harlan, he was mistaken. Harlan sat, motionless, watching the outlaw chief steadily. And into his eyes came a glitter of that cold contempt which Haydon had seen in them on the day he had faced Harlan near the bunkhouse at the Rancho Seco.
“You’re doin’ the honors, Haydon,” he said. “If you’re that kind of a coyote I don’t want to deal with you. If you think you want to pass up a share of that hundred thousand, start yappin’ to them boys. It’s likely there’s some of them hangin’ around, close. Mebbe you’ve got some of them peekin’ around corners at me now. I ain’t runnin’ from no trouble that comes my way. Get goin’ if you’re yearnin’ to requisition the mourners.”
Rage over the threat was now plain in his eyes, for they were aflame with a cold fire as he got up from his chair and stood, crouching a little, his hands lingering near the butts of his guns.
Haydon did not move, but his face grew pallid and he smiled nervously, with shallow mirth.
“You are not in a joking mood today, Harlan?” he said.
“There’s jokes, an’ jokes, Haydon. I’ve come here in good faith. I’ve been in camps like this before—in Kelso’s, Dave Rance’s, Blondy Larkin’s, an’ some others. Them men are outlaws—like you an’ me; an’ they’ve done things that make them greater than you an’ me—in our line. But I’ve visited them, free an’ easy—goin’ an’ comin’ whenever I pleased. An’ no man threatenin’ me.
“Your manners is irritatin’ to me—I’m tellin’ you so. I’m through! You’re takin’ me out, now—back to the Rancho Seco. You’re ridin’ behind me—minus your guns, your mouth shut tighter than you ever shut it before. An’ if there’s any shootin’ you’ll know it—plenty!”
Harlan had brought matters to a crisis—suddenly, in a flash. The time for pretense had gone. Haydon could accept Harlan upon the terms he had mentioned, or he could take up the man’s challenge with all it implied—bitter warfare between the two factions, which would be unprofitable to both, and especially to Haydon.
It was for Haydon to decide; and he sat for some seconds motionless in the chair, before he spoke.
Then he got up—taking care to keep his right hand at a respectable distance from the butt of his pistol, and smilingly held out his hand.
“It goes your way, Harlan—we take you in on your terms. I beg
your pardon for saying what I did. That was just to try you out. I’ve heard a lot about you, and I wanted to see if you were in earnest—if you really wanted to come in. I’m satisfied.”
They shook hands; their gaze meeting as they stood close together. The gaze endured for an instant; and then Haydon’s fell. The handshake lasted for several seconds, and it was curious to see how Haydon’s eyes, after they had become veiled from Harlan’s by the drooping lids, glowed with a malignant triumph and cunning.
It was also curious to note that something of the same passion was revealed in Harlan’s eyes as they rested on the partially closed lids of the other—for there was triumph there, too—and comprehension, and craft of a kind that might have disturbed Haydon, had he seen it.
Then their hands parted, mutually, and Haydon grinned smoothly and with apparent cordiality at Harlan. He grasped Harlan by an elbow and urged him toward the door through which the latter had entered.
“I’ll give you a knockdown to the boys, now—those that are here,” he said.
An hour later—after Haydon and the dozen men to whom he had introduced Harlan had watched Harlan ride eastward through the valley toward the Rancho Seco—Haydon rode westward, accompanied by several of the men.
They rode for many miles into the heart of the big basin, coming at last to a gorge that wound a serpentine way southward, through some concealing hills, into a smaller basin. A heavy timber clump grew at the mouth of the gorge, hiding it from view from the trail that ran through the valley. Some rank underbrush that fringed the timber gave the mouth of the gorge the appearance of a shallow cave, and a wall of rock, forming a ragged arch over the entrance, heightened the impression. At first glance the place seemed to be impenetrable.
But the horsemen filed through easily enough, and the underbrush closed behind them, so that, had they been seen, the watcher might have been startled by their sudden disappearance.
Near the center of the little basin stood a huge cabin, built of adobe, with a flat roof. In a small corral were a number of cattle. Grazing upon the grass, with which the place was carpeted, were many horses; and lounging in the grass near the cabin, and upon some benches that ranged its walls, were perhaps a dozen men, heavily armed.
Several of the men grinned as the newcomers rode in and dismounted, and one or two spoke a short greeting to Haydon, calling him “Chief.”
Haydon did not linger to talk with the men, though; he dismounted and entered the cabin, where, an instant later, he was talking with Deveny.
Haydon’s eyes were still triumphant—glowing with a malignant satisfaction.
“He’s wise—and dead tickled to join,” he told Deveny, referring to Harlan. “And I took him in on his own terms. We’ll play him along, making him believe he’s regular and right, until we get what we want. Then we’ll down him!”
* * * *
At about the time Haydon was talking with Deveny, Harlan was dismounting at the Rancho Seco corral.
The T Down men were variously engaged—some of them in the corral; others in the stable, and still others in the blacksmith-shop—all attending to their new duties—and only Red Linton was at the corral gate to greet Harlan.
Triumph was in Harlan’s eyes as he grinned at Linton.
“I’m a Simon-pure outlaw now, Red,” he stated. “Haydon didn’t hesitate none. He’s a sneakin’, schemin’ devil, an’ he hates me like poison. But he took me in, reckonin’ to play me for a sucker. Looks like things might be interestin’.” He grinned. “I’m yearnin’ for grub, Red.”
Later, while Harlan was seated at a table in the cook shanty, he became aware of a shadow at the door; and he wheeled, to see Barbara Morgan looking in at him, her face flushed, a glow in her eyes that was entirely comprehensible to Harlan.
She was glad he had returned—any man with half Harlan’s wisdom could have told that! And color of a kind not caused by the wind and sun suffused Harlan’s face.
She had seen him from one of the kitchen windows, and curiosity—and an impatience that would not permit of delay—had brought her to search for him.
“Why,” she said, “I—I thought—didn’t you say that you were going away?”
“Didn’t I go?” he grinned.
“For a day,” she taunted, her voice leaping.
“A day,” he said gravely; “why, it was longer than that, wasn’t it? Seems that I ain’t seen you for years an’ years!”
He got up, his hunger forgotten. But when he reached the door he saw her running toward the ranchhouse, not even looking back. He stood watching her until she opened a door and vanished. Then he grinned and returned to his neglected food, saying aloud, after the manner of men who spend much time in open places: “I’ll sure take care of her, Morgan.”
CHAPTER XX
LEFT-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 certain they 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.”
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 127
