The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “In the first place, Deveny’s gang ain’t never been heard of as pullin’ off anything anywheres else but in Sunset Valley. As for that, there’s plenty of room in the valley for them without gettin’ out of it. But it seems they’d get out once in a while. They don’t—they stay right in the valley, or close around it. Seems to me they’ve got a grudge ag’in’ them Sunset Valley ranchers, an’ are workin’ it off.

  “Why? That question has got Gage guessin’. It’s got everybody guessin’. Stock is bein’ run off in big bunches; men is bein’ murdered without no cause; no man is able to get any money in or out of the valley—an’ they’re doin’ other things that is makin’ the cattlemen feel nervous an’ flighty.

  “They’ve scared one man out—a Pole named Launski—from the far end. He pulled stakes an’ hit the breeze runnin’ sellin’ out for a song to a guy named Haydon. I seen Launski when he clumb on the Lamo stage, headin’ this way, an’ he sure was a heap relieved to get out with a whole skin.”

  Hallowell talked long, and the mystery that seemed to surround Sunset Valley appealed to Harlan’s imagination. Yet he did not reveal his interest to Hallowell until the latter mentioned Barbara Morgan. Then his eyes glowed, and he leaned closer to the marshal.

  And when Hallowell remarked that Lane Morgan, of the Rancho Seco had declared he would give half his ranch to a trustworthy man who could be depended upon to “work his guns” in the interest of the Morgan family, the slow tensing of Harlan’s muscles might have betrayed the man’s emotions—for Hallowell grinned faintly.

  Hallowell had said more. But he did not say that word had come to him from Sheriff Gage—an appeal, rather—to the effect that Morgan had sent to him for such a man, and that Gage had transmitted the appeal to Hallowell. Hallowell thought he knew Harlan, and he was convinced that if he told Harlan flatly that Morgan wanted to employ him for that definite purpose, Harlan would refuse.

  And so Hallowell had gone about his work obliquely. He knew Harlan more intimately than he knew any other man in the country; and he was aware that the chivalric impulse was stronger in Harlan than in any man he knew.

  And he was aware, too, that Harlan was scrupulously honest and square, despite the evil structure which had been built around him by rumor. He had watched Harlan for years, and knew him for exactly what he was—an imaginative, reckless, impulsive spirit who faced danger with the steady, unwavering eye of complete unconcern.

  As Hallowell had talked of the Rancho Seco he had seen Harlan’s eyes gleam; seen his lips curve with a faint smile in which there was a hint of waywardness. And so Hallowell knew he had scattered his words on fertile mental soil.

  And yet Harlan would not have taken the trail that led to the Rancho Seco had not the killing of his friend, Davey Langan, followed closely upon the story related to him by the marshal.

  Harlan had ridden eastward, to Lazette—a matter of two hundred miles—trailing a herd of cattle from the T Down—the ranch where he and Langan were employed.

  When he returned he heard the story of the killing of his friend by Dolver and another man, not identified, but who rode a horse branded with the L Bar M—which was the Rancho Seco brand.

  It was Hallowell who broke the news of the murder to Harlan, together with the story of his pursuit of Dolver and the other man, and of his failure to capture them.

  There was no thought of romance in Harlan’s mind when he mounted Purgatory to take up Dolver’s trail; and when he came upon Dolver at Sentinel Rock—and later, until he had talked with Lane Morgan—he had no thought of offering himself to Morgan, to become that trustworthy man who would “work his guns” for the Rancho Seco owner.

  But after he had questioned Laskar—and had felt that Laskar was not the accomplice of Dolver in the murder of Langan—he had determined to go to the ranch, and had told Morgan of his determination.

  Now, sitting on the threshold of the Rancho Seco bunkhouse, he realized that his talk with Morgan had brought him here in a different rôle than he had anticipated.

  From where he sat he had a good view of all the buildings—low, flat-roofed adobe structures, scattered on the big level with no regard for system, apparently—erected as the needs of a growing ranch required. Yet all were well kept and substantial, indicating that Lane Morgan had been a man who believed in neatness and permanency.

  The ranchhouse was the largest of the buildings. It was two stories high on the side fronting the slope that led to the river, and another section—in what appeared to be the rear, facing the bunkhouse, also had a second story—a narrow, boxlike, frowning section which had the appearance of a blockhouse on the parapet wall of a fort.

  And that, Harlan divined, was just what it had been built for—for defensive purposes. For the entire structure bore the appearance of age, and the style of its architecture was an imitation of the Spanish type. It was evident that Lane Morgan had considered the warlike instincts of wandering bands of Apache Indians when he had built his house.

  The walls connecting the fortlike section in the rear with the two-story front were about ten feet in height, with few windows; and the entire structure was built in a huge square, with an inner court, or patio, reached by an entrance that penetrated the lower center of the two-story section in front.

  Harlan’s interest centered heavily upon the ranchhouse, for it was there that Barbara Morgan had hidden herself, fearing him.

  She had entered a door that opened in the wall directly beneath the fortlike second story, and it was upon this door that Harlan’s gaze was fixed. He smiled wryly, for sight of the door brought Barbara into his thoughts—though he was not sure she had been out of them since the first instant of his meeting with her in Lamo.

  “They’ve been tellin’ her them damn stories about me bein’ a hell-raiser—an’ she believes ’em,” he mused. And then his smile faded. “An she ain’t none reassured by my mug.”

  But it was upon the incident of his meeting with Barbara, and the odd coincidence of his coming upon her father at Sentinel Rock, that his thoughts dwelt longest.

  It was odd—that meeting at Sentinel Rock. And yet not so odd, either, considering everything.

  For he had been coming to the Rancho Seco. Before he had reached Sentinel Rock he had been determined to begin his campaign against the outlaws at the Rancho Seco. It was his plan to ask Morgan for a job, and to spend as much of his time as possible in getting information about Deveny and his men, in the hope of learning the identity of the man who had assisted in the murder of Langan.

  What was odd about the incident was that Morgan should attempt to cross to Pardo to have his gold assayed at just about the time Harlan had decided to begin his trip to the Rancho Seco.

  Harlan smiled as his gaze rested on the ranchhouse. He was glad he had met Lane Morgan; he was glad he had headed straight for Lamo after leaving Morgan. For by going straight to Lamo he had been able to balk Deveny’s evil intentions toward the girl who, in the house now, was so terribly afraid of him.

  He had told Morgan why he was headed toward the Rancho Seco section, but he had communicated to Morgan that information only because he had wanted to cheer the man in his last moments. That was what had made Morgan’s face light up as his life had ebbed away. And Harlan’s eyes glowed now with the recollection.

  “The damned cuss—how he did brighten up!” he mused. “He sure was a heap tickled to know that the deck wasn’t all filled with dirty deuces.”

  And then Harlan’s thoughts went again to Lamo, and to the picture Barbara had made running toward him. It seemed to him that he could still feel her in his arms, and a great regret that she distrusted him assailed him.

  He had sat for a long time on the threshold of the bunkhouse door, and after a time he noted that the moon was swimming high, almost overhead. He got up, unhurriedly, and again walked to the stable door, looking in at Purgatory. For Harlan did not intend to sleep tonight; he had resolved, since the Rancho Seco seemed to be deserted except for his and Barbara
’s presence, to guard the ranchhouse.

  For he knew that the passions of Deveny for the girl were thoroughly aroused. He had seen in Deveny’s eyes there in Lamo a flame—when Deveny looked at Barbara—that told him more about the man’s passions than Deveny himself suspected. He grinned coldly as he leaned easily against the stable door; for men of the Deveny type always aroused him—their personality had always seemed to strike discord into his soul; had always fanned into flame the smoldering hatred he had of such men; had always brought into his heart those savage impulses which he had sometimes felt when he was on the verge of yielding to the urge to become what men had thought him—and what they still thought him—a conscienceless killer.

  His smile now was bitter with the hatred that was in his heart for Deveny—for Deveny had cast longing, lustful eyes upon Barbara Morgan—and the smile grew into a sneer as he drew out paper and tobacco and began to roll a cigarette.

  But as he rolled the cigarette his fingers stiffened; the paper and the tobacco in it dropped into the dust at his feet; and he stiffened, his lips straightening, his eyes flaming with rage, his muscles tensing.

  For a horseman had appeared from out of the moonlit haze beyond the river. Rigid in the doorway—standing back a little so that he might not be seen—Harlan watched the man.

  The latter brought his horse to a halt when he reached the far corner of the ranchhouse, dismounted, and stole stealthily along the wall of the building.

  Harlan was not more than a hundred feet distant, and the glare of the moonlight shining full on the man as he paused before the door into which Barbara Morgan had gone, revealed him plainly to Harlan.

  The man was Meeder Lawson. Harlan’s lips wreathed into a grin of cold contempt. He stepped quickly to Purgatory, drew his rifle from its saddle sheath and returned to the doorway. And there, standing in the shadows, he watched Lawson as the latter tried the door and, failing to open it, left it and crept along the wall of the building, going toward a window.

  The window also was fastened, it seemed, for Lawson stole away from it after a time and continued along the wall of the house until he reached the southeast corner. Around that, after a fleeting glance about him, Lawson vanished.

  Still grinning—though there was now a quality in the grin that might have warned Lawson, had he seen it—Harlan stepped down from the doorway, slipped into the shadow of the corral fence, and made his way toward the corner where Lawson had disappeared.

  CHAPTER XI

  THE INTRUDER

  After closing the door through which she had entered, Barbara Morgan slipped the fastenings into place and stood, an ear pressed against the door, listening for sounds that would tell her Harlan had followed her. But beyond the door all was silence.

  Breathing fast, yielding to the panic of fear that had seized her, over the odd light she had seen in Harlan’s eyes—a gleam, that to her, seemed to have been a reflection of some evil passion in the man’s heart—she ran through the dark room she had entered, opened a door that led to the patio, and peered fearfully outward, as though she half expected to see Harlan there.

  But the court was deserted, apparently, though there were somber shadows ranging the enclosing walls that would afford concealment for Harlan, had he succeeded in gaining entrance. As she stepped out of the doorway she peered intently around.

  Then, further frightened by the brooding silence that seemed to envelop the place, and tortured by tragic thoughts in which her father occupied a prominent position—almost crazed by the memory of what had happened during the preceding twenty-four hours—she fled across the patio swiftly, her terror growing with each step.

  She knew the house thoroughly; she could have found her way in complete darkness; and when she reached the opposite side of the court she almost threw herself at a door which, she knew, opened into the big room in which she and her father had usually passed their leisure.

  Entering, she closed the door, and barred it. Then, feeling more secure, she stood for an instant in the center of the room, gazing about, afflicted with an appalling sense of loss, of loneliness, and of helplessness.

  For this was the first time she had entered the house since the news of her father’s death had reached her; and she missed him, feeling more keenly than ever the grief she had endured thus far with a certain stoic calm; yielding to the tears that had been very close for hours.

  She did not light the kerosene lamp that stood on a big center table in the room. For there was light enough for her to see objects around her; and she went at last to an arm-chair which had been her father’s favorite, knelt beside it, and sobbed convulsively.

  Later, yielding to a dull apathy which had stolen over her, she made her way upstairs, to her room—which was directly over the front entrance to the patio—and sank into a chair beside one of the windows.

  She had locked her door after entering; and for the first time since arriving at the Rancho Seco she felt comparatively safe.

  Her thoughts were incoherent—a queer jumble of mental impulses which seemed to lead her always back to the harrowing realization that she had lost her father. That was the gigantic axis around which her whole mental structure revolved. It was staggering, stupefying, and her brain reeled under it.

  Other thoughts came, flickered like feeble lights, and went out—thoughts of what had happened to her at Lamo; a dull wonder over Meeder Lawson’s presence in town when he should have been with the men on the range; speculation as to the whereabouts of the men—why none of them had remained at the ranchhouse; and a sort of dumb, vague wonder over what her future would be.

  She thought, too, of John Haydon of the Star ranch—the big, smiling, serene-eyed man who seemed to bring a breath of romance with him each time he visited the Rancho Seco. Haydon would help her, she knew, and she would go to him in the morning.

  Her father had trusted Haydon, and she would trust him. Haydon was the one man in the section who seemed to have no fear of Deveny and his men—many times he had told her that most of the stories told of Deveny’s crimes were untrue—that he had not committed all those that were attributed to him.

  Not that Haydon condoned those offenses upon which Deveny stood convicted by circumstantial evidence. Nor had Haydon ever sought to defend Deveny. On the other hand, Haydon’s condemnation of the outlaw and his men had been vigorous—almost too vigorous for Haydon’s safety, she had heard her father say.

  It was when her thoughts dwelt upon Harlan that she was most puzzled—and impressed. For though she was acquainted with the man’s reputation—knowing him to be an outlaw of the reckless, dare-devil type—she felt the force of him, the compelling originality of him—as he differed from the outlaw of popular conception—his odd personality, which seemed to be a mingling of the elements of character embracing both good and evil.

  For though an outlaw himself, he had protected her from outlaws. And she had seen in his eyes certain expressions that told her that he felt impulses of sympathy and of tenderness. And his words to Deveny and others had seemed to hint of a fairly high honorableness.

  And though she had seen in his eyes a cold gleam that was convincing evidence of the presence of those ruthless passions which had made him an enemy of the law, she had also detected expressions in his eyes that told plainly of genial humor, of gentleness, and of consideration for other humans.

  But whatever she had seen in him, she felt his force—the terrible power of him when aroused. It was in the atmosphere that surrounded him; it was in the steady gleam of his eyes, in the poise of his head, and in the thrust of his jaw, all around him. She feared him, yet he fascinated her—compelled her—seemed to insist that she consider him in her scheme of life.

  In fact, he had made it plain to her that he intended to be considered. “I’m stayin’ here,” he had told her in his slow, deliberate way.

  And that seemed to end it—she knew he would stay; that he was determined, and that nothing short of force would dissuade him. And what force could she bri
ng against him? A man whose name, mentioned in the presence of other men, made their faces blanch.

  Deep in her heart, though, lurked a conviction that Harlan had not told her everything that had happened at Sentinel Rock. She was afflicted with a suspicion that he was holding something back. She had seen that in his eyes, too, she thought. It seemed to her that her father might have told him to come to the Rancho Seco, and to stay there. And for that reason—because she suspected that Harlan had not told all he knew—she felt that she ought not order him away. If only he had not looked at her with that queer, insinuating smile!

  She had sat at the window for, it seemed to her, many hours before she became aware that the moon had risen and was directly overhead, flooding the ground in the vicinity of the ranchhouse with a soft, silver radiance.

  She got up with a start, remembering that she had left Harlan standing outside the door in the rear. She had almost forgotten that!

  She went to a window that opened into the patio, and looked downward. Every nook and corner of the patio was visible now; the dark, somber shadows had been driven away, and in the silvery flood that poured down from above the enclosure was brilliant, clearly defined—and deserted.

  And yet as the girl looked, a presentiment of evil assailed her, whitening her cheeks and widening her eyes. The quiet peace and tranquillity of the patio seemed to mock her; she felt that it held a sinister promise, a threat of dire things to come.

  The feeling was so strong that it drove her back from the window to the center of the room, where she stood, holding her breath, her hands clasped in front of her, the fingers twining stiffly. It seemed to her that she was waiting—waiting for something to happen—something that threatened.