'Drag' Harlan, Charles Alden Seltzer [ebook reader computer TXT] 📗

The trail was clearly defined, and there were places where it ran over broad levels of grass where he presented a good target to men who might be eager to send a shot at him. There were other spots where the trail led into timber clumps and through tangles of brush where an ambuscade might be planned in perfect safety by an enemy; and there were the bastioned cliffs that towered above the trail at intervals, offering admirable hinding-places for any man with hostile intentions.

Harlan, however, rode steadily, outwardly unconcerned; inwardly convinced that no attempt would be made to ambush him. For Haydon has passed that way on his return to the Star, and Harlan had no doubt that since the incident of the smile and the wink, Haydon had passed word that he was not to be molested.

Haydon would be curious—as he had been curious at the Rancho Seco—to learn the significance of the smile and the wink. Haydon would want to discover just how much Harlan knew about the murder of Lane Morgan; and he would want to know what Harlan knew of the gold that Morgan had secreted. And so Harlan rode on, watching the country through which he passed, but feeling assured there would be no shot to greet him from one of the many natural vantage-points he encountered.

He rode for an hour, not making very good time, for it was a new trail, and he was examining the country intently as he passed, fixing it in his memory for future convenience, perhaps—no one ever knew just when it might be necessary to use one’s knowledge—when he reached a low ridge which crossed the valley.

Here he halted Purgatory and gazed about him.

Before him stretched a green grass level, about two miles long, running the entire width of the valley. It was dotted with mesquite, sage, and here and there the thorny blade of a cactus rose. Some cattle were grazing on the level; they were several miles south, and he could see some horsemen near them.

He decided he must be close to the Star; and he urged Purgatory on again, down upon the level, toward some timber that grew at the farther edge of the level. Just as he slipped down the slope of the ridge, he saw, far ahead of him, the horseman he had seen when he had entered the valley. The horseman was on the crest of a bald hill—low, and small—but Harlan caught a glimpse of him as he crossed it, riding fast.

Harlan smiled again, and rode on his way, resuming his scrutiny of the country.

The valley was mighty, magnificent; it deserved all the praise Barbara Morgan had heaped upon it. From the low mountain range on the north to the taller mountains southward, it was a virgin paradise in which reigned a peace so profound that it brought a reverent awe into the soul of the beholder.

It thrilled Harlan despite the certain blasé, matter-of-fact attitude he had for all of nature’s phenomena; he found himself admiring the majestic buttes that fringed it; there was a glint of appreciation in his eyes for the colossal bigness of it—for the gigantic, sweeping curves which seemed to make of it an oblong bowl, a cosmic hollow, boundless, hinting of the infinite power of its builder.

The trail that ran through it, drawled to threadlike proportions by the mightiness of the space through which it ran, was, for the greater part of the distance traveled by Harlan, a mere scratch upon a low rock ridge. And as he rode he could look down upon the floor of the valley, green and inviting.

When he entered the timber at the edge of the grass level, he was conscious of a stealthy sound behind him. He turned quickly in the saddle, to see a man standing at the edge of some brush that fringed the trail.

The man was big, a heavy black beard covered his chin and portions of his cheeks; his hat was drawn well down over his forehead, partially shielding his eyes.

A rifle in his hands was held loosely, and though it appeared that the man did not intend to use the weapon immediately, Harlan could see that his right forefinger was touching the trigger, and that the muzzle of the weapon was suggestively toward him.

For the past few miles of his ride Harlan had been expecting an apparition of this sort to appear, and so he now gave no sign of surprise. Instead, he slowly raised both hands until they were on a level with his shoulders—and, still twisted about in the saddle, he grinned faintly at the man.

“From now on I’m to have company, eh?” he said.

The man smirked grimly at him.

“You’ve hit it,” he answered. “You’re Harlan, ain’t you? ‘Drag’ Harlan, the Pardo two-gun man?”

The man’s eyes were glowing with interest—critical, almost cynical, and they roved over Harlan with a probing intensity that left no doubt in Harlan’s mind that the man had heard of him and was examining him with intent to discover what sort of a character he was.

Apparently satisfied—and also plainly impressed with what he saw, the man grinned—this time almost genially—and answered Harlan’s affirmative nod with:

“Well, Haydon is expectin’ you. You c’n let your paws down—takin’ a heap of care not to go to foolin’ with your guns. I ain’t takin’ them; Haydon didn’t say anything about it. You’re ridin’ that trail that forks off to the left.”

Harlan lowered his hands, resting them on the pommel of his saddle, and rode on, taking, as advised, a narrow trail that diverged from the other a short distance from where he had met the man. As he struck the other trail he heard the man coming behind him—on a horse.

There were no further words. Harlan kept to the trail, riding slowly; the man behind him following at a short distance.

In this manner they rode for perhaps a mile. Then the timber grew sparse, and Purgatory and his rider at last emerged upon a level that extended about a hundred feet and then sloped down abruptly to another level, through which flowed a narrow stream of water, shallow and clear.

Close to the bank of the stream was an adobe ranchhouse, and surrounding it were several other buildings. At a slight distance from the house was a corral in which were several horses. In front of a bunkhouse were several men who, when they saw Harlan and the other man coming, faced toward them and stood, motionless, watching.

The men maintained silence as Harlan rode to the ranchhouse and sat in the saddle, awaiting the pleasure of his escort. He saw the latter grin at the other men as he passed them; and he grinned at Harlan as he brought his horse to a halt near Purgatory and dismounted.

“I reckon you’re to git off an’ visit,” he said; “Haydon is inside.” As he dismounted and trailed the reins over the head of his beast he cast a sharp, critical eye over Purgatory.

“There’s a heap of hoss in that black, eh?”

“Plenty.” Harlan got down and ran a hand over Purgatory’s neck, while trailing the reins over his head. “Man-killer,” he warned. “Don’t touch him. He ain’t been rode by nobody but me, an’ he won’t stand for nobody foolin’ around him.”

Harlan had raised his voice until he was sure the men in front of the bunkhouse heard him; then he grinned genially at them all and followed the black-bearded man into the ranchhouse.

An instant later, in a big room which had the appearance of an office, Harlan was confronting Haydon.

The latter was sitting in a chair at a desk, and when Harlan entered Haydon got up and grinned at him, shallowly, without mirth.

“So you got here,” he said; “I’ve been expecting you.”

“I’ve been notin’ that. That guy you left at the edge of the level to keep an eye on the Rancho Seco didn’t cover his tracks. I run onto them—an’ I saw him hittin’ the breeze—comin’ here. I reckon nobody is surprised.” Harlan grinned widely.

“So you noticed that,” said Haydon, answering Harlan’s grin. “Well, I don’t mind admitting that we’ve kept an eye on you. You’ve had me guessing.”

Haydon’s manner was that of the man who is careful not to say too much, his constraint was of the quality that hints of a desire to become confidential—a smooth, bland courtesy; a flattering voice—encouraging, suggesting frankness.

Harlan’s manner was that of a certain reckless carelessness. He seemed to be perfectly at ease, confident, deliberate, and unwatchful. He knew Haydon was an outlaw; that the men who had been grouped in front of the bunkhouse were members of Haydon’s band; he knew the man who had escorted him to the Star had been deliberately stationed in the timber to watch for him. And he had no doubt that other outlaws had lain concealed along the trail to observe his movements.

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