CHAPTER XX
LEFT-HANDED
Harlan's statement to Haydon, to the effect that he had visited the campsof Kelso, Rance, Larkin, and other outlaws had been strictly accurate. Atone time or another each of those outlaw leaders had sent for Harlan, toendeavor to prevail upon him to cast his lot with them--so common was thereport that Harlan was of their type.
And he had been able--as he had told Haydon--to go among them withimpunity--unmolested, respected. And even after he had refused to jointhey had extended him the courtesy of faith--not even swearing him tosecrecy. And he had vindicated their faith by keeping silent regardingthem.
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 thatcame among them, Harlan had felt contempt for Haydon for his threat. Andyet Harlan's rage on that occasion had been largely surface; it had beendisplayed for effect--to force an instant decision from Haydon.
Harlan was aware that his only hope of protecting Barbara Morgan fromHaydon and Deveny was in an offensive war. He could not expect to wagesuch a war by remaining idly at the Rancho Seco, to await the inevitableaggressions 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 theywould strike when he least expected them to.
Therefore he had determined to join them, depending upon his reputationto allay any suspicion they might have regarding his motives. Haydon hadtaken him into the band, but Harlan had been convinced that Haydondistrusted 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, thatthe man meditated duplicity.
Yet Harlan was determined to appear ignorant that Haydon meditatedtrickery. He intended to go among the men and deliberately to ignore thethreatened dangers--more, to conduct himself in such a manner that Haydonwould not suspect that he knew of any danger.
It had been a slight incident that had suggested the plan to him--merelya glance at Strom Rogers, while the latter, in Lamo, had been watchingDeveny.
Harlan had seen hatred in Rogers' face, and contempt and jealousy; and heknew that where such passion existed it could be made to grow andflourish 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 theband headed by Deveny and Haydon; he knew how their passions might beplayed upon; he was aware of their respect and admiration for men ofnotorious reputation, with records for evil deeds and rapid "gunslinging."
He had seen how Strom Rogers had watched him--with awed respect; he hadseen 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 officespeaking of him in awed whispers.
He had never been affected by that sort of adulation--in Lamo or in thedays that preceded his visit to the town. But he was not unmindful of theadvantage such adulation would give him in his campaign for control ofthe 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 timetalking with Haydon--then leaving the latter to go out and lounge aroundamong the men, listening to their talk, but taking little part in it. Hedid not speak until he was spoken to, and thus he challenged theirinterest, and they began to make advances to him.
Their social structure was flimsy and thin, their fellowship asspontaneous as it was insincere; and within a few days the edge had wornoff the strangeness that had surrounded Harlan, and he had been acceptedwith hardly a ripple of excitement.
And yet no man among them had achieved intimacy with Harlan. There was acold constraint in his manner that held them off, figuratively, barringthem from becoming familiar with him. Several of them tried familiarity,and were astonished to discover that they had somehow failed--though theyhad been repelled so cleverly that they could not resent it.
Harlan had established a barrier without them being aware of how he haddone it--the barrier of authority and respect, behind which he stood, anengaging, 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 hisattention, and trying to win from him one of those rare smiles with whichhe honored those among them whose personalities interested him.
At the end of two weeks half of the Star outfit was eager to obey any orderhe 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 willingnessto admit him to their peculiar fellowship--was a reservation. Harlan feltit, saw it in their eyes, and noted it in their manner toward him. Theyhad heard about him; they knew something of his record; reports of hiscleverness with a weapon had come to them. And they were curious.
There was speculation in the glances they threw at him; there was somesuspicion, cynicism, skepticism, and not a little doubt. It seemed toHarlan that though they had accepted him they were impatiently awaiting apractical demonstration of those qualities that had made him famous inthe country. They wanted to be "shown."
Their wild, unruly passions and lurid imaginations were the urges thatdrove them--that shaped their conduct toward their fellows. Some of themwere rapid gunslingers--in the picturesque idioms of their speech--andthere was not a man among them who did not take pride in his ability to"work" his gun. They had accepted Harlan, but it was obvious that amongthem were some that doubted the veracity of rumor--some who felt thatHarlan had been overrated.
It did not take Harlan long to discover who those doubting spirits were.He saw them watching him--always with curling lip and truculent eye; heheard references to his ability from them--scraps of conversation inwhich such terms and phrases as "a false alarm, mebbe," "he don't lookit," "wears 'em for show, I reckon," were used. He had learned the namesof the men; there were three of them, known merely as "Lanky," "Poggs,"and "Latimer."
Their raids upon the cattle in the basin took place at night; and theirother depredations occurred at that time also. Harlan did not fail tohear of them, for their successes figured prominently in their daytimeconversations; and he had watched the herd of cattle in the Star corralsgrow in size until the enclosure grew too small to hold them comfortably.He had noted, too, the cleverness with which the men obliterated thebrands on the stolen cattle--or refashioned them until proof of theiridentity was obscure.
He had taken no part in any of the raids, though he had passed a fewnights at the Star, directing, with the help of Strom Rogers, thealtering of the brands and the other work attending the disguising of thecattle.
Haydon he had seen but a few times, and Deveny not at all. He learnedfrom Rogers that Haydon spent most of his time upon mysterious missionswhich took him to Lamo, to Lazette, and to Las Vegas; and that Devenyoperated from a place that Rogers referred to as the "Cache," severalmiles up the valley.
Latimer, a tawny giant of a man with a long, hooked nose, and thin, cruellips, interested Harlan. He watched the man when the other was notconscious of his glances, noting the bigness of him, his slow,panther-like movements; the glowing, savage truculence of his eyes; thehard, bitter droop of his lips under the yellow mustache he wore. He feltthe threat of the man when the latter looked at him--it was personal,intense--seeming to have motive behind it. It aroused in Harlan aresponsive passion.
One day, seated on a bench in front of the long bunkhouse near the Starranchhouse, Harlan was watching some of the men who were playing cardsnear him. They were lounging in the grass, laughingly pitting their skillagainst one another, while another group, in front of the stable, wasdiligently repairing saddles.
Apart from the two groups were Lanky, Poggs, and Latimer. They werestanding near the corral fence, about a hundred feet from where Harlansat. The subject of their talk was unpleasant, for their faces reflectedthe venomous
passions that inspired it.
Latimer had been watching Harlan--his gaze boldly hostile and full of ahate that was unmistakable.
And Harlan had not been unaware of Latimer's gaze; he had noted thewolfish gleam in the other's eyes--and because he was interested inLatimer, he watched him covertly.
But Harlan had betrayed no sign that he knew Latimer was watching him;and when he saw Strom Rogers coming toward him from the stable, hegrinned at him and made room for him when the latter headed for the benchupon which Harlan was sitting.
"Lazy day," offered Rogers as he dropped on the bench beside Harlan; "nota heap doin'." He did not look at Harlan, but leaned forward, took up acinch buckle that had been lying in the sand at his feet, and turned itidly over and over in his hands, apparently intent on its construction.
With his head down, so that even the card-players could not see his lipsmove, he whispered to Harlan:
"Don't let 'em see you know I'm talkin'! They're framin' up on you!"
Harlan grinned, shielding his lips with a hand that he passed casuallyover them.
"Meanin' Latimer--an' his friends?" he said.
"Yep. Latimer's jealous of you. Been jealous. Thinks he can match yourgunplay--itchin' for trouble--bound to have it out with you. We was atthe Cache last night, an' I heard him an' Deveny yappin' about it.Deveny's back of him--he's sore about the way you handed it to him inLamo. Keep your eyes peeled; they're pullin' it off pretty soon.Latimer's doin' the shootin'--he's tryin' to work himself up to it. Becareful."
"I'm thankin' you." Harlan leaned back, crossed his legs, and stared offinto space, the light in his eyes becoming vacuous. He seemed not to beinterested in Latimer and the other two, but in reality he saw themdistinctly. But they had their backs to him now, and were slowlysauntering toward the stable door.
"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 beennoticin' it. He's a mighty interestin' man. If I wasn't dead sure heain't the kind of a guy which goes around shootin' folks in the back, I'dsay he pretty near fits the description I got of the man who helpedDolver salivate my side-kicker, Davey Langan, over in Pardo--a couple ofmonths 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 takeyou."
The emotion that passed over Harlan was not visible. It might have beendetected, 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 frontof Harlan, holding out the cinch buckle, as though offering it to theother. For both men had seen that Latimer had left his friends at thestable 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, andwalked to the ranchhouse, where he hung the cinch buckle on a nail driveninto the wall of the building. Then he slowly turned, facing the benchupon which Harlan still sat, and toward which Latimer was walking.
It was evident that all of the men in the vicinity were aware of thethreatened clash, for their manner, upon the approach of Latimer,indicated as much.
For weeks they had been eager to test the traditional quickness of Harlanwith the weapons that swung at his hips--those weapons had been aconstant 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 thatLatimer--with Deveny's sanction--indeed with Deveny's encouragement--wasdetermined to clash with Harlan, they had realized that the moment forwhich they had yearned was at hand.
For they had seen in Harlan's eyes--and had felt in the atmosphere thatsurrounded the man--the certainty that he would not refuse the clash withLatimer. The only question in their minds concerning Harlan was that ofhis speed and accuracy. And so when they saw Latimer coming they ceasedplaying cards and sat, interestedly watching--alert to note how Latimerwould 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 heneeded to reinforce it with an artificial rage. And, dwelling, with hisfriends, upon the irritating fact that Harlan had come among them tousurp authority to which he had no visible claim, he had succeeded inworking 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 beenconvinced that he was Harlan's master with the six-shooter. He reallybelieved that Harlan had been overrated. He believed that because hewanted to believe it, and because his contempt for the man had bred thatconviction in his heart.
Also, he thought he knew why Harlan had come to the Star--why he hadjoined the outlaw camp. And the night before, he had communicated thatsuspicion to Deveny. It was because Harlan knew he had been with Dolverwhen Davey Langan had been killed. Latimer thought he had seen a slightrelief in Deveny's eyes when he had told the latter that, but he couldnot 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 hisreputation--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 dozenpaces of where Harlan was sitting. He had worked himself to such a pitchof 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 towardthe bench; his right side was slightly toward the man, the leg partiallyextended; while the left leg was doubled under the bench--seemingly togive him leverage should he decide to rise.
But he gave no indication of meditating such a move. It was plain to thewatchers that if he attempted it Latimer would draw his gun and begin toshoot.
Latimer was convinced also that Harlan would not attempt to rise. He hadHarlan at a disadvantage, and he laughed loudly, sardonically,contemptuously as he stood, his right hand hovering close to his pistolholster, 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 rightalong--pretendin' not to. 'Drag' Harlan--bah! Gunslinger with arecord--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 apartfor killin' that damned, slick-eyed pardner of yourn--Davey Langan. Doyou 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 ofhis right hand clawlike, above the butt of the holstered pistol.
And when he saw that Harlan did not move; that he sat there rigid, hiseyes unblinking and expressionless; his right hand hanging limply at hisside, near the partially extended leg; his left hand resting upon thethigh of the doubled leg--he stepped closer, watching Harlan's righthand.
For a space--while one might have counted ten--neither man moved amuscle. Something in Harlan's manner sent into Latimer's frenzied brainthe message that all was not what it seemed--that Harlan was meditatingsome astonishing action. Ten seconds is not long, as times goes, butduring that slight interval the taut nerves of Latimer's were twangedwith a torturing doubt that began to creep over him.
Would Harlan never make that move? That question was dinned insistentlyinto Latimer's ears. He
began to believe that Harlan did not intend todraw.
And then----
"Ah!"
It was Latimer's lungs that breathed the ejaculation.
For Harlan's right hand had moved slightly upward, toward the pistol athis right hip. It went only a few inches; it was still far below theholster when Latimer's clawlike fingers descended to the butt of his ownweapon. The thought that he would beat Harlan in a fair draw was in hismind--that he would beat him despite the confusion of the hesitatingmotion with which Harlan got his gun out.
Something was happening, though--something odd and unexplainable. Forthough Latimer had seemed to have plenty of time, he was conscious thatHarlan's gun was belching fire and death at him. He saw the smokestreaks, 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 hideousself-derision when he saw that the pistol which had sent his death to himwas not in Harlan's right hand at all, but in his left.
Harlan got up slowly as Latimer stretched out in the dust at hisfeet--casting one swift glance at the fallen man to satisfy himself thatfor _him_ the incident was ended. Then, with the gaze of every man in theoutfit upon him, he strode toward the stable, where Lanky and Poggs werestanding, having witnessed the death of their confederate.
They stiffened to immobility as they watched Harlan's approach, knowingthat for them the incident was not closed--their guilt plain in theirfaces.
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 toreceive a demonstration of the man's uncanny cleverness.
"You was backin' Latimer's play," said Harlan, shortly. "I'm aimin' toplay the string out. Pull--or I'll blow you apart!"
Poggs and Lanky did not "pull." They stood there, ghastly color stealinginto their faces, their eyes wide with the knowledge that death would bethe penalty of a hostile movement.
Harlan's pistol was again in its holster, and yet they had no desire toprovoke the man to draw it. The furtive gleam in the eyes of bothrevealed the hope that gripped them--that some of the watchers wouldinterfere.
But not a man moved. Most of them had been stunned by the rapidity ofHarlan's action--by the deftness with which he had brought his left handinto use. They had received the practical demonstration for which theyall had longed, and each man's manner plainly revealed his decision totake no part in what was transpiring.
They remained in their places while Harlan--understanding that Poggs andLanky 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 ofthe boys. Today you done it to me--tomorrow you'd try to pull it off onsome other guy.
"You're travelin'--pronto. You're gettin' your cayuses. Then you'rehittin' the breeze away from here--an' not comin' back. That lets youout. Mosey!"
He stood watchful, alert, while the men roped their horses, got their"war-bags," from the bunkhouse, mounted, and rode away without lookingback. Then he walked over to the bench where he had been sitting whenRogers had warned him of the plan to kill him; ordered several of the mento 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 thevicinity 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 ofthem--even in Rogers' gaze--which had not strayed from him for an instantduring 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 hadhappened.
Again Rogers whispered to him, lowly, admiringly:
"This camp is yours, man, whenever you say the word!"
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