Drag Harlan

by Seltzer, Charles Alden

  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.”

  Their wild, unruly passions and lurid imaginations were the urges that drove them—that shaped their conduct toward their fellows. Some of them were rapid gunslingers—in the picturesque idioms of their speech—and there 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 among them were some that doubted the veracity of rumor—some who felt that Harlan 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; he heard references to his ability from them—scraps of conversation in which such terms and phrases as “a false alarm, mebbe,” “he don’t look it,” “wears ’em for show, I reckon,” were used. He had learned the names of 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 their other depredations occurred at that time also. Harlan did not fail to hear of them, for their successes figured prominently in their daytime conversations; and he had watched the herd of cattle in the Star corrals grow in size until the enclosure grew too small to hold them comfortably. He had noted, too, the cleverness with which the men obliterated the brands on the stolen cattle—or refashioned them until proof of their identity was obscure.

  He had taken no part in any of the raids, though he had passed a few nights at the Star, directing, with the help of Strom Rogers, the altering of the brands and the other work attending the disguising of the cattle.

  Haydon he had seen but a few times, and Deveny not at all. He learned from Rogers that Haydon spent most of his time upon mysterious missions which took him to Lamo, to Lazette, and to Las Vegas; and that Deveny operated from a place that Rogers referred to as the “Cache,” several miles up the valley.

  Latimer, a tawny giant of a man with a long, hooked nose, and thin, cruel lips, interested Harlan. He watched the man when the other was not conscious of his glances, noting the bigness of him, his slow, panther-like movements; the glowing, savage truculence of his eyes; the hard, bitter droop of his lips under the yellow mustache he wore. He felt the threat of the man when the latter looked at him—it was personal, intense—seeming to have motive behind it. It aroused in Harlan a responsive passion.

  One day, seated on a bench in front of the long bunkhouse near the Star ranchhouse, Harlan was watching some of the men who were playing cards near him. They were lounging in the grass, laughingly pitting their skill against one another, while another group, in front of the stable, was diligently repairing saddles.

  Apart from the two groups were Lanky, Poggs, and Latimer. They were standing near the corral fence, about a hundred feet from where Harlan sat. The subject of their talk was unpleasant, for their faces reflected the venomous passions that inspired it.

  Latimer had been watching Harlan—his gaze bold
ly hostile and full of a hate that was unmistakable.

  And Harlan had not been unaware of Latimer’s gaze; he had noted the wolfish gleam in the other’s eyes—and because he was interested in Latimer, 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, he grinned at him and made room for him when the latter headed for the bench upon which Harlan was sitting.

  “Lazy day,” offered Rogers as he dropped on the bench beside Harlan; “not a heap doin’.” He did not look at Harlan, but leaned forward, took up a cinch buckle that had been lying in the sand at his feet, and turned it idly 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 lips move, 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 casually over them.

  “Meanin’ Latimer—an’ his friends?” he said.

  “Yep. Latimer’s jealous of you. Been jealous. Thinks he can match your gunplay—itchin’ for trouble—bound to have it out with you. We was at the 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 in Lamo. 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. Be careful.”

  “I’m thankin’ you.” Harlan leaned back, crossed his legs, and stared off into space, the light in his eyes becoming vacuous. He seemed not to be interested in Latimer and the other two, but in reality he saw them distinctly. But they had their backs to him now, and were slowly sauntering toward the stable door.