Later, her cheeks a little flushed with the realization that she was surrendering to an emotion that she could not understand—but which, she decided guiltily, her face crimson, had its inception in a conviction that she would regret seeing Harlan ride away, to return no more—she went to the corral, roped her pony, threw saddle and bridle on it, mounted the animal, and rode away—westward.
She had not traveled more than half a mile when she heard the rapid beating of hoofs behind her. Glancing swiftly backward, she saw Purgatory coming, Harlan in the saddle, smoking a cigarette.
Her pulses leaped, unaccountably, and the crimson flush again stained her cheeks; but she sat rigid in the saddle, and looked straight ahead, pretending she had not discovered the presence of horse and rider behind her.
She rode another half mile before the flush died out of her cheeks. And then, responding to a swift indignation, she brought Billy to a halt, wheeled him, and sat motionless in the saddle, her face pale, her eyes flashing.
With apparent unconcern Harlan rode toward her. The big black horse did not change his pace, nor did Harlan change expression. It seemed to the girl that in both horse and rider were a steadfastness of purpose that nothing could change. And despite her indignation, she felt a thrill of admiration for both man and horse.
Yet her eyes were still flashing ominously when Harlan rode to within a dozen paces of her and brought the big black to a halt.
There was an expression of grave respect on Harlan’s face; but she saw a lurking devil in his eyes—a gleam of steady, quizzical humor—that made her yearn to use her quirt on him. For by that gleam she knew he had purposely followed her; that he expected her to be angry with him for doing so. And the gleam also told her that he had determined to bear with her anger.
“Well?” she inquired, icily.
“Good mornin’, ma’am.” He bowed to her, sweeping his broad-brimmed hat from his head with, it seemed to her, an ironical flourish.
“Is there something you want to speak to me about?” she asked, her chin elevated, disdain in her eyes. She assured herself that when he glanced at her as he was doing at this instant, she positively hated him. She wondered why she had tolerated his presence.
“I wasn’t havin’ any thoughts about speakin’ to you, ma’am. Kind of a nice mornin’ for a ride, ain’t it?”
“If one rides alone,” she returned, significantly.
“I enjoy ridin’ a whole lot better when I’ve got company,” he stated, gravely, with equal significance.
“Meaning that you have made up your mind to ride with me, I suppose?” she said coldly.
“You’ve hit it, ma’am.”
“Well,” she declared, her voice quivering with passion; “I don’t want you to ride with me. You came here and usurped whatever power and authority there is; and you are running the Rancho Seco as though it belongs to you. But you shan’t ride with me—I don’t want you to!”
Had she been standing she must have stamped one foot on the ground, so vehement was her manner. And the flashing scorn of her eyes should have been enough to discourage most men.
But not Harlan. His eyelids flickered with some emotion; and his eyes—she noted now, even though she could have killed him for his maddening insistence—were blue, and rimmed by heavy lashes that sun and sand had bleached until the natural brown of them threatened to become a light tan.
She studied him, even while hating him for she saw the force of him—felt it. And though she was thinking spiteful things of him, she found that she was forming a new impression of him—of his character, his appearance, and of the motives that controlled him.
And she thought she knew why men avoided having trouble with him. She told herself that if she were a man and she were facing him with violence in her heart, she would consider seriously before she betrayed it to him. For in his eyes, in the lips, in the thrust of his chin—even in the atmosphere that surrounded him at this instant, was a threat, an unspoken promise, lingering and dormant, of complete readiness—almost eagerness, she was convinced—for violence.
She drew a sharp breath as she watched him. And when she saw his lips curving into a slight smile—wholesome, though grave; with a hint of boyish amusement in them—she got another quick impression of his character, new and startling and illuminating.
For behind the hard, unyielding exterior that he presented to men; back of the promise and the threat of violence, was the impulsiveness and the gentleness that would have ruled him had not the stern necessity of self-preservation forced him to conceal them.
The smile disarmed her. It did seem ludicrous—that she should try to force this man to do anything he did not want to do. And she had known that he would not obey her, and ride back to the ranchhouse; she was convinced that she must either go back or suffer him to follow her as he pleased.
And she was determined not to give up her ride. She was determined to be very haughty about it, though; but when she wheeled Billy, to head him again into the western distance, her eyes twinkled her surrender, and her lips trembled on the verge of a defiant smile.
Then Billy felt the quirt on his flank; he snorted with astonishment and disgust, and charged forward, tossing his head intolerantly.
Looking sidelong, after Billy had traveled two or three hundred yards, Barbara observed that the big black horse was not more than half a dozen steps behind. And curiously, Barbara again experienced that comfortable assurance of protection, and of satisfaction over the nearness of Harlan.
Moved by an entirely unaccountable impulse, she drew the reins slightly on Billy, slowing him, almost imperceptibly, so that both horses had traveled more than a quarter of a mile before the distance between them lessened noticeably.
And then, with an impatience that caused her cheeks to glow, Barbara noted that Purgatory had slowed also, Harlan seemingly accommodating the animal’s pace to her own. It was plain to see that Harlan did not intend to assume that she had relented.
For another quarter of a mile the distance remained the same, and the silence was unbroken except by the rhythmical beating of hoofs through the rustling, matted mesquite.
Then Barbara, yielding to an impulse of righteous anger, brought on by Harlan’s obvious intention to remain at a respectful distance, deliberately brought Billy to a walk and waited until Harlan rode beside her.
“You don’t need to be a brute—even if I did tell you to go back to the ranchhouse!”
“Meanin’ what, ma’am? Why, I don’t remember to have done anything. I was doin’ a heap of thinkin’ just now—if that’s what you mean.”
“Thinking mean things of me—I suppose—for what I said to you.”
He had been thinking of her—seriously. And his thoughts were far from fickle as he watched her now, riding within a few feet of him, her profile toward him, her head having a rigid set, her chin held high, her lips tight-pressed, and her hair drooping in graceful coils over her ears, and bulging in alluring disorder at the nape of her neck.
He was thinking that he had braved, to answer a mere whim, greater dangers than he would be likely to meet in defending her from the wolf-pack which circumstances had set upon her. He was thinking that heretofore his life had been lived without regard to order or system—that he had led a will-o’-the-wisp existence, never knowing that such women as she graced the world. He was thinking of what might have happened to her had not Davey Langan been killed, and if he had not started out to avenge him.
Into his thoughts at this minute flashed a mental picture that paled his face and brought his lips into straight, hard lines—a picture of Barbara at the mercy of Deveny.
With a quick turn he brought Purgatory around in front of Billy, blocking the animal’s further progress westward. The girl started at the rapid movement, and watched him fearfully, dreading—she knew not what.
But his smile—grim and mirthless though it was—partially reassured her, and she sat silent, looking at him as he spoke, rapidly, earnestly.
“I w
as thinkin’ of you; an’ I wasn’t thinkin’ mean things—about you. I was thinkin’ of Deveny—an’ of what your dad told me over there by Sentinel Rock.
“Your dad told me that you was in danger—that Deveny an’ Strom Rogers an’ some more of them had their eyes turned on you. Your dad made me promise that I’d come here an’ look out for you—an’ I mean to do it. That’s why I went to Lamo when I had no call to go there an’ that’s why I brought Deveny to a show-down in front of you.
“There’s somethin’ goin’ on around here that ain’t showin’ on the surface—somethin’ that’s hidden an’ sneakin’. You heard some of them guys in Lamo gassin’ about the ‘Chief’ bein’ one of the three that sent your dad over the Divide.
“Well, your dad told me that, too—that there was three of them pitched onto him. It was the fellow they call Chief that shot your dad while he was sleepin’—when it was too dark for your dad to see his face. Your dad made me promise to hunt that guy up an’ square things for him. That’s what I’m here for. Anyway, it’s one reason I’m here. The other reason is that I’m goin’ to see that you get a square deal from them guys.
“An’ you won’t get a square deal ridin’ out alone, like this—especially when you head toward Sunset Trail, where Deveny an’ his gang hang out. An’ I’m settin’ down hard on you ridin’ that way. I’m keepin’ you from runnin’ any chances.”
Silently Barbara had watched Harlan’s face while he had been talking. There was no doubt that he was in earnest, and there was likewise no doubt that he was concerned for her safety. But why? It seemed absurd that Harlan, an outlaw himself, should protect her from other outlaws. Yet in Lamo he had done just that.
Behind his actions, his expressed concern for her, must be a motive. What was it? Was it possible that he was doing this thing unselfishly; that the promise her father had exacted from him had changed him; that in his heart at this instant dwelt those finer impulses which must be dormant in all men, however bad?
The light of that great inquiry was in her eyes; they searched his face for subtlety and craft and cunning—for something that would give her a clue to his thoughts. And when she could find in his expression only a grave concern she pulled Billy around and started him back toward the ranchhouse.
They had not ridden more than a hundred yards before she stole a glance at Harlan.
He was now riding beside her, looking straight ahead, his face expressionless. Had he betrayed the slightest sign of triumph she would have changed her mind about going back to the ranchhouse with him.
As it was, she felt a pulse of rage over her readiness in yielding to his orders. Yet the rage was softened by a lurking, stealthy joy she got out of his masterfulness.
“I presume I may ride in another direction—east, for instance—or north, or south?”
He apparently took no notice of the mockery in her voice.
“You’ll not be ridin’ alone, anywhere,” he declared.
“Oh!” she returned, raising her chin and looking at him with a cold scorn that, she thought, would embarrass him; “I am to have a guardian.”
He looked straight back to her, steadily, seemingly unaffected by the hostility of her gaze.
“It amounts to that. But mebbe I wouldn’t put it just that way. Somebody’s got to look out for you—to see that you don’t go to rushin’ into trouble. There was trouble over in Lamo—if you’ll remember.”
And now he smiled gravely at her, and her face reddened over the memory of the incident. She had been eager enough, then, to seek his protection; she had trusted him.
“That wasn’t your fault,” he went on gently. “You didn’t know then, mebbe, just what kind of a guy Deveny is. But you know now, an’ it would be your fault if you run into him again.”
He saw how she took it—how her color came and went, and how her eyes drooped from his. He smiled soberly.
“Looks to me that you’ve got to pin your faith to a mighty small chance, ma’am.”
“What chance?” She looked at him in startled wonderment, for it had not occurred to her that she faced any real danger, despite the threatening attitude of Deveny, and her isolation. For the great, peaceful world, and the swimming sunlight were full of the promise of the triumph of right and virtue; and the sturdy self-reliance of youth was in her heart.
“What chance?” she repeated, watching him keenly.
“The chance that me an’ Red Linton will be able to get things into shape to look out for you.” He was gravely serious.
“It must seem a mighty slim chance to you—me comin’ here with a reputation that ain’t any too good, an’ Linton, with his red head an’ his freckles. Seems like a woman would go all wrong, pinnin’ her faith to red hair an’ freckles an’ a hell-raisin’ outlaw. But there’s been worse combinations, ma’am—if I do say it myself. An’ me an’ Red is figurin’ to come through, no matter what you think of us.”
“Red Linton?” she said. “That is the little, short, red-haired man you put in Lawson’s place, isn’t it? I have never noticed him—particularly. It seems that I have always thought him rather unimportant.”
Harlan grinned. “That’s a trick Red’s got—seemin’ unimportant. Red spends a heap of his time not sayin’ anything, an’ hangin’ around lookin’ like he’s been misplaced. But when there’s any trouble, you’ll find Red like the banty rooster that’s figurin’ to rule the roost.
“I knowed him over in Pardo, ma’am—he rode for the T Down for two or three seasons.”
“You are anticipating trouble—with Deveny?” she asked, a tremor in her voice.
“There ain’t any use of tryin’ to hide it, ma’am. Mebbe your dad thought you’d be better off by him not mentionin’ it to you. But I’ve got a different idea. Anyone—man or woman—knows a heap more about how to go about things if they’re sort of able to anticipate trouble. Your dad told me things was in a mixup over here with Deveny an’ some more of his kind; an’ I ain’t aimin’ to let you go ramblin’ around in the dark.
“About half the Rancho Seco men belong to Deveny’s gang, Linton says. That’s why I put Linton in Lawson’s place; an’ that’s why I’m askin’ you to stick pretty close to the Rancho Seco, an’ requestin’ you not to go rummagin’ around the country.”
She rode on silently, her face pale, digesting this disquieting news. She remembered now that her father had seemed rather worried at times, and that upon several occasions he had hinted that he was distrustful of some of the Rancho Seco men. But as Harlan had said, he had never taken her completely into his confidence—no doubt because he had not wanted her to worry. That was very like her father—always making life easy for her.
However, covertly watching Harlan, she was conscious of an emotion that the latter did not suspect. The emotion was confidence—not in Harlan, for, though she had seen that he, apparently, was eager to become her champion, she could not forget that he, too, was an outlaw, with no proof that he had been sent to the Rancho Seco by her father; with nothing but his actions to convince her that his motives were founded upon consideration for her welfare.
She thought of John Haydon as she rode beside Harlan; and it was confidence in him that was expressed in her glances at Harlan; she was convinced that she did not have to depend entirely upon Harlan. And when, as they neared the ranchhouse, and she saw a big gray horse standing near the entrance to the patio, her face reddened and her eyes grew brilliant with a light that drew a cold smile to Harlan’s face.
“That will be John Haydon’s horse, I reckon,” he said slowly.
“Why,” she returned, startled; “how did you know?”
He rode on, not replying. When they reached the ranchhouse, Harlan loped Purgatory toward one of the bunkhouses, in front of which he saw Red Linton standing. Barbara directed Billy to the patio entrance, and dismounted, her face flushed, to meet a man who came out of the open gateway to greet her, his face wreathed in a delighted smile.
* * *
CHAPTER X
V
LINKED
“So you came at last?”
Barbara had some difficulty in keeping resentment prominent in her voice as she faced John Haydon, for other emotions were clamoring within her—joy because Haydon had come, even though tardily; self-reproach because she saw in Haydon’s eyes a glowing anxiety and sympathy that looked as though they were of recent birth.
There was repressed excitement in Haydon’s manner; it was as though he had only just heard of the girl’s affliction and had ridden hard to come to her.
She was sure of the sincerity in his voice when he grasped her hands tightly and said:
“At last, Barbara! I heard it only this morning, and I have nearly killed my horse getting over here! Look at him!”
The gray horse certainly did have the appearance of having been ridden hard. He stood, his legs braced, his head drooping, his muzzle and chest flecked with foam. Barbara murmured pityingly as she stroked the beast’s neck; and there was quick forgiveness in her eyes when she again looked at Haydon.
Haydon was big—fully as tall as Harlan, and broader. His shoulders bulged the blue flannel shirt he wore; and it was drawn into folds at his slim waist, where a cartridge-studded belt encircled him, sagging at the right hip with the weight of a heavy pistol.
He wore a plain gray silk handkerchief at his throat; it sagged at the front, revealing a muscular development that had excited the envious admiration of men. His hair was coal-black, wavy and abundant—though he wore it short—with design, it seemed, for he must have known that it gave him an alert, virile appearance.
His face, despite the tan upon it, and the little wrinkles brought by the sun and wind, had a clear, healthy color, and his eyes black as his hair, had a keen glint behind which lurked humor of a quality not to be determined at a glance—it was changeable, fleeting, mysterious.
Barbara was silent. The steady courage that had sustained her until this instant threatened to fail her in the presence of this big, sympathetic man who seemed, to her, to embody that romance for which she had always longed. She looked at him, her lips trembling with emotion.
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