And now, shrinking into the open doorway of the sheriff's office, she watched breathlessly, with straining senses, the moving figures in the drama.

Harlan had backed a little way toward the doorway in which Barbara stood. The movement was strategic, and had been accomplished with deliberation. He was facing Lamo's population—at least that proportion of it which was at home—with the comforting assurance that no part of it could get behind him.

The gun he had drawn upon the approach of Barbara's pursuer was still in his right hand. It menaced no one, and yet it seemed to menace everyone within range of it.

For though the gun was held loosely in Harlan's hand, the muzzle downward, there was a glow in the man's eyes that conveyed a warning.

The smile on his face, too, was pregnant with the promise of violence. It was a surface smile, penetrating no deeper than his lips, and behind it, partially masked by the smile, the men in the group in the street could detect the destroying passion that ruled the man at this instant.

Deveny, who had approached to a point within a dozen feet of Harlan, came to a slow, reluctant halt when he caught a glimpse of the strange glow in Harlan's eyes. All the others, Sheriff Gage included, likewise halted—most of them at a considerable distance, as their conceptions of prudence suggested.

Harlan's grin grew ironic as he noted the pause—the concerted rigidity of Lamo's population.

"Seems there's a heap of folks wantin' to palaver," he said lowly. "An' no one is crowdin' me. That's polite an' proper. Seems you all sort of guessed there's plenty of room, an' crowdin' ain't necessary. I'd thank every specimen to hook his thumbs in the armholes of his vest—same as though he's a member of the pussy-cafe outfit which I've seen in Chicago, makin' moon-eyes at girls. If there's any of you ain't got on vests, why, you can fasten your sky-hooks on your shoulders any way to suit your idee of safety. Get them up!"

It seemed ludicrous to Barbara, despite the shadow of tragedy that lurked over it all—the embarrassed manner in which Lamo's citizens complied with the command, and the spectacle they presented afterward.

Deveny's hands were the last to go up. There was a coldly malignant glare in his eyes as under Harlan's unwavering gaze he finally raised his hands and held them, palms outward, as for inspection.

Rogers had complied instantly. There was a smile on his face, faint and suggestive of grim amusement, for he had been mentally tortured over the contemplation of Barbara's predicament, and had been unable to think of any plan by which he might assist her.

Meeder Lawson's face was sullen and full of impotent rage, and he watched Deveny with a gaze of bitter accusation when he saw that the big man intended to obey Harlan's order. Barbara's pursuer, having felt Deveny's angry gaze upon him, and being uncomfortably conscious that Harlan had not forgotten him, was red of face and self-conscious. He started, and the red in his face deepened, when Harlan, in the silence which followed the concerted raising of hands, spoke sharply to him:

"What was you tryin' to corral that girl for? Talk fast or I'll bust you wide open!"

The man grinned foolishly, shooting a furtive glance at Deveny.

"Why," he said, noting Deveny's scowl, "I reckon it was because I'd took a shine to her. I was tryin' to cotton up to her on the landin' about the Eatin'-House, an' she——"

"You lie!"

This was Barbara. Pale, her eyes flashing with indignation, she stepped down into the street, standing near Harlan.

"That man," Barbara went on, pointing to the red-faced pursuer, "told me early this morning that Luke Deveny had told him to watch me, that I was not to leave my room until Deveny came for me. I was a prisoner. He didn't try to make love to me. I should have killed him."

Speech had broken the tension under which Barbara had been laboring; the flow of words through her lips stimulated her thoughts and sent them skittering back to the salient incidents of her enforced confinement; they brought into her consciousness a recollection of the conversation she had heard between Meeder Lawson and Strom Rogers, regarding her father. She forgot Harlan, Deveny, and the others, and ran to Sheriff Gage.

Gage, a tall, slender man of forty, was pale and uncomfortable as he looked down at the girl's white, upturned face. He shrank from the frenzied appeal of her eyes, and he endured the pain of her tightly gripping fingers on the flesh of his arms without flinching.

"Did—is father dead!"

She waited, frantically shaking Gage. And Gage did not answer until his gaze had roamed the crowd.

Then he said slowly and reluctantly:

"I reckon he's dead. Deveny was tellin' me—he was chargin' this man, Harlan, with killin' your father."

Barbara wheeled and faced Deveny. Rage, furious and passionate, had overwhelmed the grief she felt over the death of her father. The shock had been tremendous, but it had come while she had been leaning out of the window listening to Rogers and Lawson—when she had lain for many minutes unconscious on the floor of the room. Therefore the emotion she experienced now was not entirely grief, it was rather a frantic yearning to punish the men who had killed her father.

"You charged this man with murdering my father?" she demanded of Deveny as she walked to him and stood, her hands clenched, her face dead white and her eyes blazing hate. "You know better. I heard Strom Rogers tell Meeder Lawson that it was Dolver and Laskar and somebody he called the 'Chief,' who did it. I want to know who those men are; I want to know where I can find them! I want you to tell me!"

"You're unstrung, Barbara," said Deveny slowly, coolly, a faint smile on his face. "I know nothing about it. I merely repeated to Gage the word Laskar brought. Laskar said this man Harlan shot your father. It happened about a day's ride out—near Sentinel Rock. If Laskar lied, he was paid for his lying. For Harlan has——"

Deveny paused, the sentence unfinished, for the girl turned abruptly from him and walked to Harlan.

"That was Laskar—the man you killed just now?"

"Laskar an' Dolver," relied Harlan. "There was three of them your father said. One got away in the night, leavin' Dolver an' Laskar to finish the job. I run plumb into them, crossin' here from Pardo. I bored Dolver, but I let Laskar off, not havin' the heart to muss up the desert with scum like him."

The girl's eyes gleamed for an instant with venomous satisfaction. Then she said, tremulously:

"And father?"

"I buried him near the rock," returned Harlan, lowly.

Soundlessly, closing her eyes, Barbara sank into the dust of the street.

Harlan broke the force of her fall with his left hand, supporting her partially until she collapsed; then, his eyes alight with a cold flame, he called, sharply, his gaze still on the group of men:

"Get her, Gage! Take her into your place!"

He waited until Gage carried the slack form inside. Then, his shoulders sagging, the heavy pistol in his right hand coming to a poise, the fingers of the left hand brushing the butt of the weapon in the holster at his left hip, the vacuous gleam in his eyes telling them all that his senses were alert to catch the slightest movement, he spoke, to Deveny:

"I seen that desert deal. It wasn't on the level. I ain't no angel, but when I down a man I do it fair an' square—givin' him his chance. I sent that sneak Dolver out—an' that coyote Laskar. It was a dirty, rotten deal, the way they framed up on Morgan. It's irritated me—I reckon you can hear my rattles right now. I'm stayin' in Lamo, an' I'm stickin' by this Barbara girl until you guys learn to walk straight up, like men!"

He paused, and a heavy silence descended. No man moved. A sneer began to wreathe Harlan's lips—a twisting, mocking, sardonic sneer that expressed his contempt for the men who faced him.

"Not havin' any thoughts, eh?" he jeered. "There's some guys that would rather do their fightin' with women, an' their thoughts wouldn't sound right if they put words around them. I ain't detainin' you no longer. Any man who thinks it's time to call for a show-down can do his yappin' right now. Them that's dead certain they're through can mosey along, takin' care not to try any monkey business!"

He stood, watching, his wide gaze including them all, until, one after another the men in the group silently moved away. They did not go far. Some of them merely stepped into near-by doorways, others sauntered slowly down the street and halted at a little distance to look back.

But no man made a hostile move, for they had seen the tragedy in which Laskar had figured, and they had no desire to provoke Harlan to express again the cold wrath that slumbered in his eyes.

Meeder Lawson was the first of Deveny's intimates to leave the group. His face sullen, his eyes venomous, he walked across the street to the First Chance, and stood in the doorway, beside Balleau, who had been an interested onlooker.

Then Strom Rogers moved. He wheeled slowly, flashing an inquiring glance at Deveny—who still stood motionless. Deveny had lowered his hands—they were hanging at his sides, the right hand having the palm toward Harlan, giving eloquent testimony of its owner's peaceable intentions.

Rogers' glance included the out-turned palm, and his lips curved in a faint smile. The smile held as his glance went to Harlan's face, and for an instant as the eyes of the two men met, appraisal was the emotion that ruled in them. Harlan detected in Rogers' eyes a grim scorn of Deveny, and a malignant satisfaction; Rogers saw in Harlan's eyes a thing that not one of the men who had faced the man had seen—cold humor.

Then Rogers was walking away, leaving Deveny to face the man who had disrupted his plans.

Deveny had not changed his position, and for an instant following the departure of Rogers, there was no word spoken. Then for the first time since he had dismounted from Purgatory, Harlan's eyes lost their wide, inclusive vacuity. They met Deveny's fairly, with a steady, direct, boring intensity; a light in them that resembled the yellow flame that Deveny had once seen in the eyes of a Mexican jaguar some year before at a camp on the Neuces.

Deveny knew what the light in Harlan's eyes meant. It meant the presence of a wild, rending passion, of elemental impulses; it meant that the man who faced him was eager to kill him, was awaiting his slightest hostile movement. It meant more. The gleam in Harlan's eyes indicated that the man possessed that strange and almost uncanny instinct of thought reading, that he could detect in another's eyes a mental impulse before the other's muscles could answer it. Also, it meant certain death to Deveny should he obey the half-formed determination to draw and shoot, that was in his mind at this instant.

He dropped his lids, attempting to veil the thought from Harlan. But when he again looked up it was to see Harlan's lips twisting into a cold smile—to see Harlan slowly sheathing the gun he had held in his right hand.

And now Harlan was standing before him, both weapons in their holsters. He and Deveny were facing each other upon a basis of equality. Harlan had disdained taking advantage.

Apparently, if Deveny now elected to draw and shoot, his chances were as good as Harlan's.

And yet Deveny knew they were not as good. For Harlan's action in sheathing his gun convinced Deveny that the man had divined his thoughts from the expression of his eyes before he had veiled them with the lids, and he was convinced that Harlan had sensed the chill of dread that had swept over him at that instant. He was sure of it when he heard Harlan's voice, low and taunting:

"You waitin' for a show-down?"

Deveny smiled, pallidly. "I don't mind telling you that I did have a notion that way a moment ago. But I was afraid I might be a little slow. When you downed Laskar I watched you, trying to learn the secret of your draw. I didn't learn it, because there is no secret—you're just a natural gunslinger without a flaw. You're the fastest man with a gun I ever saw—and I'm taking my hat off to you."

Harlan smiled faintly, but his eyes did not lose their alertness, nor did the flame in them cool visibly. Only his lips betrayed whatever emotion he felt. He distrusted Deveny, for he had seen the half-formed determination in the man's eyes, and his muscles were tensed in anticipation of a trick.

"You didn't stay here to tell me that. Get goin' with the real talk."

"That's right—I didn't," said Deveny. He was cool, now, and bland, having recovered his poise.

"Higgins was watching Barbara Morgan at my orders. But I meant no harm to the girl. I knew she was in town, and I heard there were a few of the boys that were making plans about her. So I set Higgins to guard her. Naturally, she thought I meant harm to her."

"Naturally," said Harlan.

Deveny said coolly: "I'll admit I have a bad reputation. But it doesn't run to women. It's more in your line." He looked significantly at the other.

"Meanin'?"

"Oh, hell—you know well enough what I mean. You're not such a law-abiding citizen, yourself. I've heard of you—often. And I've admired you. To get right down to the point—I could find a place where you'd fit in just right. We're needing another man—a man of your general size and character."

Harlan grinned. "I'm thankin' you. An' I sure appreciate what you've said. You've been likin' me so much that you tried to frame up on me about sendin' Lane Morgan out."

"That's business," laughed Deveny. "You were an unknown quantity, then."

"But not now—eh?" returned Harlan, his eyes gleaming with a cold humor. "You've got me sized up right. The yappin' I done about stickin' to Barbara Morgan wasn't the real goods, eh?"

"Certainly not!" laughed Deveny, "there must be some selfish motive behind that."

"An' you sure didn't believe me?"

"Of course not," chuckled Deveny, for he thought he saw a gleam of insincerity in Harlan's eyes.

"Then I've got to do my yappin' all over again," said Harlan. "Now get this straight. I'm stickin' to Barbara Morgan. I'm runnin' the Rancho Seco from now on. I'm runnin' it my way. Nobody is botherin' Barbara Morgan except them guys she wants to have bother her. That lets you out. You're a rank coyote, an' I don't have no truck with you except at the business end of a gun. Now take your damned, sneakin' grin over an' wet it down, or I'll blow you apart!"

Deveny's face changed color. It became bloated with a poisonous wrath, his eyes gleamed evilly and his muscles tensed. He stood, straining against the murder lust that had seized him, almost persuaded to take the slender chance of beating Harlan to his weapon.

"You got notions, eh?" he heard Harlan say, jeeringly. "Well, don't spoil 'em. I'd admire to make you feel like you'd ought to have got started a week ago."

Deveny smiled with hideous mirthlessness. But he again caught the flame in Harlan's eyes. He wheeled, saying nothing more, and walked across the street without looking back.

Smiles followed him; several men commented humorously, and almost immediately, knowing that this last crisis had passed, Lamo's citizens resumed their interrupted pleasures.

Harlan stood motionless until Deveny vanished into the First Chance, then he turned quickly and entered the sheriff's office.



CHAPTER VIII

BARBARA IS PUZZLED

Half an hour later, with Barbara Morgan, on "Billy"—a piebald pinto—riding beside him, Harlan loped Purgatory out of Lamo. They took a trail—faint and narrow—that led southward, for Barbara had said that the Rancho Seco lay in that direction.

Harlan had not seen Deveny or Rogers or Lawson after the scene in front of the sheriff's office. He had talked for some time with Gage, waiting until Barbara Morgan recovered slightly from the shock she had suffered. Then when he had told her that he intended to accompany her to the Rancho Seco—and she had offered no objection—he had gone on a quest for her pony, finding him in the stable in the rear of the Eating-House.

So far as Harlan knew, no one in Lamo besides Sheriff Gage had watched the departure of himself and Barbara. And there had been no word spoken between the two as they rode away—Lamo becoming at last an almost invisible dot in the great yawning space they left behind them.

Barbara felt a curious unconcern for what was happening; her brain was in a state of dull apathy, resulting from shock and the period of dread under which she had lived for more than a day and a night.

She did not seem to care what happened to her. She knew, to be sure, that she was riding toward the Rancho Seco with a man whom she had heard called an outlaw by other men; she was aware that she must be risking something by accepting his escort—and yet she could not bring herself to feel that dread fear that she knew any young woman in her position should feel.

It seemed to her that nothing mattered now—very much. Her father was dead—murdered by some men—two of whom had been punished by death, and another—a mysterious person called the "Chief"—who would be killed as soon as she could find him. That resolution was deeply fixed in her mind.

Her gaze though, after a while, went to Harlan, and for many miles she studied him without his suspecting. And gradually she began to think about him, to wonder why he had protected her from the man, Higgins, and why he was going with her to the Rancho Seco.

She provided—after a while—an answer to her first question: He had protected her because she had run into his arms in her effort to escape the clutches of the man who had pursued her—Higgins. She remembered that while she had been at the window, watching Harlan when he had dismounted in front of the sheriff's office, he had seemed to make a favorable impression upon her.

That was the reason, when she had seen him before her in the street, after he had shot Laskar, she had selected him as a protector. That had seemed to be the logical thing to do, for he had arrayed himself against her enemies in killing Laskar, and it was reasonable to suppose—conceding Laskar and Higgins were leagued with Deveny—that Harlan would protect her.

It all seemed exceedingly natural, that far. It was when she began to wonder why Harlan was with her now that an element of mystery seemed to rule. And she was puzzled.

She began to speculate over Harlan, and her mental efforts in that direction banished the somber thoughts that had almost overwhelmed her after the discovery of her father's death. Yet they had ridden more than ten miles before she spoke.

"What made you decide to ride with me to the Rancho Seco?" she demanded sharply.

Harlan flashed a grin at her. He was riding a little in advance of her, and he had to turn in the saddle to see her face.

"I was headin' that way, an' wanted company. It sure gets lonesome ridin' alone."

She caught her breath at this answer, for it seemed that he had not revealed the real reason. And she had got her first good look at his face. It was lean and strong. His eyes were deep-set and rimmed by heavy lashes and brows, and there was a glow in them as he looked at her—a compelling fixity that held her. Her own drooped, and were lifted to his again in sheer curiosity, she thought at first.

It was only when she found herself, later, trying to catch his glance again that she realized they were magnetic eyes, and that the glow in them was of a subtle quality that could not be analyzed at a glance.

The girl was alert to detect a certain expression in his eyes—a gleam that would tell her what she half feared—that the motive that had brought him with her was like that which had caused Deveny to hold her captive. But she could detect no such expression in Harlan's eyes, she could see a quizzical humor in his glances at times, or frank interest, and there were times when she saw a grim pity.

And the pity affected her strangely. It brought him close to her—figuratively; it convinced her that he was a man of warm sympathies in spite of the reputation he held in the Territory.

She had heard her father speak of him—always with a sort of awe in his voice; and tales of his reckless daring, his Satanic cleverness with a six-shooter, of his ruthlessness, had reached her ears from other sources. He had seemed, then, like some evil character of mythology, remote and far, and not likely to appear in the flesh in her section of the country.

It seemed impossible that she had fled to such a man for protection—and that he had protected her; and that she was now riding beside him—or slightly behind him—and that, to all appearances, he was quite as respectful toward her as other men. That, she surmised, was what made it all seem so strange.

Harlan did not seem disposed to talk; and he kept Purgatory slightly in the lead—except when the trail grew dim or disappeared altogether. Then he would pull the black horse up, look inquiringly at Barbara, and urge Purgatory after her when she took the lead.

But there were many things that Barbara wanted to inquire about; and it was when they were crossing a big level between some rimming hills, where the trail was broad, that she urged her pony beside the black.

"Won't you tell me about father—how he died?" she asked.

He looked sharply at her, saw that she was now quite composed, and drawing Purgatory to a walk, began to relate to her the incident of the fight at Sentinel Rock. His story was brief—brutally brief, she might have thought, had she not been watching his face during the telling, noting the rage that flamed in his eyes when he spoke of Dolver and Laskar and the mysterious "Chief."

It was plain to the girl that he had sympathized with her father; and it was quite as plain that he now sympathized with her. And thus she mentally recorded another point in his favor:

He might be a gunman, a ruthless killer, an outlaw of such evil reputation that men mentioned his name with awe in their voices—but she knew, now, that he had a keen sense of justice, and that the murder of her father had aroused the retributive instinct in him.

Also, she was convinced that compared to Deveny, Rogers, and Lawson, he was a gentleman. At least, so far he had not looked at her as those men had looked at her. He had been with her now for several hours, in a lonely country where there was no law except his own desires, and he had been as gravely courteous and considerate as it was possible for any man to be.

When he finished his story, having neglected to mention the paper he had removed from one of the cylinders of Morgan's pistol—upon which was written instructions regarding the location of the gold Morgan had secreted—Barbara rode for a long time in silence, her head bowed, her eyes moist.

At last she looked up. Harlan's gaze was straight ahead; he was watching the trail, where it vanished over the crest of a high ridge, and he did not seem to be aware of Barbara's presence.

"And father told you to tell me—wanted you to bring the news to me?"

Harlan nodded.

"Then," she went on "your obligation—if you were under any—seems to have been completed. You need not have come out of your way."

"I was headed this way."

"To the Rancho Seco?" she questioned, astonished.

Again he nodded. But this time there was a slight smile on his lips.

Her own straightened, and her eyes glowed with a sudden suspicion.

"That's odd," she said; "very odd."

"What is?"

"That you should be on your way to the Rancho Seco—and that you should encounter father—that you should happen to reach Sentinel Rock about the time he was murdered."

He looked straight at her, noting the suspicion in her eyes. His low laugh had a hint of irony in it.

"I've heard of such things," he said.

"What?"

"About guys happenin' to run plumb into a murder when they was innocent of it—an' of them bein' accused of the murder."

It was the mocking light in his eyes that angered her, she believed—and the knowledge that he had been aware of her suspicion before it had become half formed in her mind.

"I'm not accusing you!" she declared.

"You said it was odd that I'd be headed this way—after I'd told you all there was to tell."

"It is!" she maintained.

"Well," he conceded; "mebbe it's odd. But I'm still headin' for the Rancho Seco. Mebbe I forgot to tell you that your father said I was to go—that he made me promise to go."

He had not mentioned that before; and the girl glanced sharply at him. He met the glance with a slow grin which had in it a quality of that subtleness she had noticed in him before. A shiver of trepidation ran over her. But she sat rigid in the saddle, determined she would not be afraid of him. For the exchange of talk between them, and his considerate manner—everything about him—had convinced her that he was much like other men—men who respect women.

"There is no evidence that father made you promise to go to the Rancho Seco."

"There wasn't no evidence that I made any promise to keep that man Deveny from herd-ridin' you," he said shortly, with a grin. "I'm sure goin' to the Rancho Seco."

"Suppose I should not wish it—what then?"

"I'd keep right on headin' for there—keepin' my promise."

"Do you always keep your promises?" she asked, mockery in her voice.

"When I make 'em. Usually, I don't do any promisin'. But when I do—that promise is goin' to be kept. If you ain't likin' my company, ma'am, why, I reckon there's a heap of trail ahead. An' I ain't afraid of gettin' lost."

"Isn't that remarkable!" she jeered.

He looked at her with sober eyes. "If we're figurin' on hittin' the Rancho Seco before night we'll have to quit our gassin' an' do some travelin'," he advised. "Accordin' to the figures we've got about forty miles to ride, altogether. We've come about fifteen—an'," he looked at a silver watch which he drew from a pocket, "it's pretty near two now."

Without further words—for it seemed useless to argue the point upon which he was so obviously determined—Barbara urged Billy on, taking the lead.

For more than an hour she maintained the lead, riding a short distance in advance, and seemingly paying no attention to Harlan. Yet she noted that he kept about the same distance from her always—though she never permitted him to observe that she watched him, for her backward glances were taken out of the corners of her eyes, when she pretended to be looking at the country on one side or the other.

Harlan, however, noted the glances. And his lips curved into a faint grin as he rode. Once when he had dropped behind a little farther than usual, he leaned over and whispered into Purgatory's ear:

"She's sure ignorin' us, ain't she, you black son-of-a-gun! She ain't looked back here more'n three times in the last five minutes!"

And yet Harlan's jocular mood did not endure long. During those intervals in which Barbara kept her gaze straight ahead on the trail, Harlan regarded her with a grave intentness that betrayed the soberness of his thoughts.

In all his days he had seen no woman like her; and when she had come toward him in Lamo, with Higgins close behind her, he had been so astonished that he had momentarily forgotten Deveny and all the rest of them.

Women of the kind he had met had never affected him as Barbara had affected him. He had still a mental picture of her as she had come toward him, with her hair flying in a golden-brown mass over her shoulders; her wide, fear-lighted eyes seeking his with an expression of appeal so eloquent that it had sent a queer, thrilling, protective sensation over him.

And as she rode ahead of him it was the picture she had made then that he saw; and the emotions that assailed him were the identical emotions that had beset him when for a brief instant, in Lamo, he had held her in his arms, with her head resting on his shoulder.

That, he felt, had been the real Barbara Morgan. Her manner now—the constrained and distant pose she had adopted, her suspicions, her indignation—all those were outward manifestations of the reaction that had seized her. The real Barbara Morgan was she who had run to him for protection and she would always be to him as she had appeared then—a soft, yielding, trembling girl who, at a glance had trusted him enough to run straight into his arms.



CHAPTER IX

AN UNWELCOME GUEST

It was late afternoon when Barbara and Harlan—the girl still riding a little in advance of the man—rode their horses out of a stretch of broken country featured by low, barren hills and ragged draws, and came to the edge of a vast level of sage and mesquite that stretched southward an interminable distance.

The sun was low—a flaming red disk that swam in a sea of ever-changing color between the towering peaks of two mighty mountains miles westward—and the sky above the big level upon which Barbara and Harlan rode was a pale amethyst set in the dull gray frame of the dusk that was rising from the southern and eastern horizons.

Eastward the gray was pierced by the burning, flaming prismatic streaks that stretched straight from the cleft in the mountains where the sun was sinking—the sun seemed to be sending floods of new color into the streaks as he went, deepening those that remained; tinging it all with harmonious tones—rose and pearl and violet and saffron blending them with a giant, magic brush—recreating them, making the whole background of amethyst sky glow like a huge jewel touched by the myriad colors of a mighty rainbow.

The trail taken by Barbara Morgan ran now, in a southeasterly direction, and it seemed to Harlan that they were riding straight into the folds of a curtain of gauze. For a haze was rising into the effulgent expanse of color, and the sun's rays, striking it, wrought their magic upon it.

Harlan, accustomed to sunsets—with a matter-of-fact attitude toward all of nature's phenomena—caught himself admiring this one. So intent was he that he looked around with a start when Purgatory halted, to find that Barbara had drawn Billy down and was sitting in the saddle close to him, watching him, her eyes luminous with an emotion that thrilled Harlan strangely.

"This is the most beautiful place in the world," she declared in a voice that seemed to quaver with awe.

"It's sure a beauty," agreed Harlan. "I've been in a heap of places where they had sunsets, but dump 'em all together an' they wouldn't make an edge on this display. She's sure a hummer!"

The girl's eyes seemed to leap at his praise.

"I never want to leave this place," she said. "There is nothing like it. Those two mountains that you see far out into the west—where the sun is going down—are about forty miles distant. If you will notice, you can see that there are other mountains—much smaller—connected with them. They are two small ranges, and they melt into the plains there—and there."

She pointed to the south and to the north, where the two ranges, seemingly extending straight westward, merged into the edge of the big level where Barbara and Harlan sat on their horses.

The two ranges were perhaps a dozen miles apart, separated by a low level valley through which ran a narrow river, its surface glowing like burnished gold in the rays of the sinking sun.

Gazing westward—straight into the glow—Harlan noted the virgin wildness of the immense valley. It lay, serene, slumberous; its salient features—ridges, low hills, rocky promontories and wooded slopes—touched by the rose tints that descended upon them; while in the depressions reigned purple shadows, soft-toned, blending perfectly with the brighter colors.

With the sunset glow upon it; with the bastioned hills—barren at their peaks, ridged and seamed—looming clear and definite above the vast expanse of green, the colossal valley stretched, with no movement in it or above it—in a vacuum-like stillness that might have reigned over the world on the dawn of creation's first morning.

Harlan looked covertly at Barbara. The girl's face was pale, and her eyes were glowing with a light that made him draw a long breath of sympathy and understanding. But it had been many years since he had felt the thrill of awe that she was experiencing at this minute.

He knew that presently the spell would pass, and that material things would exact their due. And the resulting contrast between the beauty of the picture upon which she was gazing, and the solemn realization of loss that memory would bring, instantly, would almost crush her.

Therefore he spoke seriously when he caught her looking at him.

"There's sunsets an' sunsets," he said. "They tell me that they're a heap common in some parts of the world. Wyoming, now—Wyoming prides herself on sunsets. An' I've heard they have 'em in Italy, an' France—an' some more of them foreign places—where guys go to look at 'em. But it's always seemed to me that there ain't a heap of sense in gettin' fussed up over a sunset. The sun has got his work to do; an' he does it without any fussin'. An' they tell me that it's the same sun that sets in all them places I've been tellin' you about.

"Well, it's always been my idee that the sun ain't got no compliments due him—he'll set mighty beautiful—sometimes; an' folks will get awed an' thrilly over him. But the next day—if a man happens to be ridin' in the desert, where there ain't any water, he'll cuss the sun pretty thorough—forgettin' the nice things he said about it once."

Barbara scowled at him.

"You haven't a bit of poetry in your soul!" she charged. "I'm sorry we stopped to look at the valley or the sun—or anything. You don't—you can't appreciate the beautiful!"

He was silent as she urged Billy onward. And as they fled southwestward, with Purgatory far behind, Harlan swept his hat from his head and bowed toward the mighty valley, saying lowly:

"You're sure a hummer—an' no mistake. But if a man had any poetry in his soul—why——"

He rode on, gulping his delight over having accomplished what he had intended to accomplish.

"She'll be givin' it to me pretty regular; an' she won't have time for no solemn thoughts. They'll come later, though, when she gets to the Rancho Seco."

It was the lowing of cattle that at last brought to Harlan the conviction that they were near the Rancho Seco—that and the sight of the roofs of some buildings that presently came into view.

But they had been riding for half an hour before they came upon the cattle and buildings, and the flaming colors had faded into somber gray tones. The filmy dusk that precedes darkness was beginning to settle over the land; and into the atmosphere had come that solemn hush with which the wide, open places greet the night.

Barbara had no further word to say to Harlan until they reached a group of buildings that were scattered on a big level near a river. They had passed a long stretch of wire fence, which Harlan suspected, enclosed a section of land reserved for a pasture; and the girl brought her pony to a halt in front of an adobe building near a high rail fence.

"This is the Rancho Seco," she said shortly. "This is the stable. Over there is the ranchhouse. Evidently the men are all away somewhere."

She got off the pony, removed the saddle and bridle, carried them into the stable, came out again, and opened a gate in the fence, through which she sent "Billy." Then she closed the gate and turned to Harlan, who had dismounted and was standing at Purgatory's head.

"I thank you for what you have done for me," she said, coldly. "And now, I should like to know just what you purpose to do—and why you have come."

Harlan's eyes narrowed as he returned her gaze. He remembered Lane Morgan's words: "John Haydon is dead stuck on Barbara;" and he had wondered ever since the meeting in Lamo if Barbara returned Haydon's affection, or if she trusted Haydon enough to confide in him.

Barbara's attitude toward Haydon would affect Harlan's attitude toward the girl. For if she loved Haydon, or trusted him enough to confide in him—or even to communicate with him concerning ordinary details, Harlan could not apprise her of the significance of his presence at the Rancho Seco.

For Haydon was unknown to Harlan and Harlan was not inclined to accept Morgan's praise of him as conclusive evidence of the man's worthiness. Besides, Morgan had qualified his instructions with: "Take a look at John Haydon, an' if you think he's on the level—an' you want to drift on—turn things over to him."

Harlan did not want to "drift on." Into his heart since his meeting in Lamo with Barbara—and during the ride to the Rancho Seco—had grown a decided reluctance toward "drifting." And not even the girl's scorn could have forced him to leave her at the ranch, unprotected.

But he could not tell her why he could not go. Despite her protests he must remain—at least until he was able to determine the character of John Haydon.

A gleam of faint mockery came into his eyes as he looked at Barbara.

"I'm keepin' my promise to your dad—I'm stayin' at the Rancho Seco because he told me to stay. He wanted me to sort of look out that nothin' happened to you. I reckon we'll get along."

The girl caught her breath sharply. In the growing darkness Harlan's smile seemed to hold an evil significance; it seemed to express a thought that took into consideration the loneliness of the surroundings, the fact that she was alone, and that she was helpless. More—it seemed to be a presumptuous smile, insinuating, full of dire promise.

For Harlan was an outlaw—she could not forget that! He bore a reputation for evil that had made him feared wherever men congregated; and as she watched him it seemed to her that his face betrayed signs of his ruthlessness, his recklessness, and his readiness for violence of every kind.

He might not have killed her father—Rogers and Lawson had acquitted him of that. But he might be lying about the promise to her father merely for the purpose of providing an excuse to come to the Rancho Seco. It seemed to her that if her father had really exacted a promise from him he would have written to her, or sent her some token to prove the genuineness of it. There was no visible evidence of Harlan's truthfulness.

"Do you mean to say you are going to stay here—indefinitely?" she demanded, her voice a little hoarse from the fright that was stealing over her.

He smiled at her. "You've hit it about right, ma'am."

"I don't want you to stay here!" she declared, angrily.

"I'm stayin', ma'am." His smile faded, and his eyes became serious—earnest.

"Later on—when things shape themselves up—I'll tell you why I'm stayin'. But just now——"

She shrank from him, incredulous, a growing fear plain in her eyes. And before he could finish what he intended to say she had wheeled, and was running toward the ranchhouse.

He watched until she vanished through an open doorway; he heard the door slam, and caught the sound of bars being hurriedly dropped into place. And after that he stood for a time watching the house. No light came from within, and no other sound.

He frowned slightly, drawing a mental picture of the girl inside, yielding to the terror that had seized her. Then after a while he walked down along the corral fence until he came to another building—a bunkhouse. And for a long time he stood in the doorway of the building, watching the ranchhouse, afflicted with grim sympathy.

"It ain't so damn' cheerful, at that," he mused. "I reckon she thinks she's landed into trouble with both feet—with her dad cashin' in like he did, an' Deveny after her. It sure must be pretty hard to consider all them things. An' on top of that I mosey along, with a reputation as a no-good son-of-a-gun, an' scare the wits out of her with my homely mug. An' I can't tell her why she hadn't ought to be scared. I call that mighty mean."



CHAPTER X

ON GUARD

The man whose soul held no love of the poetic sat for two or three hours on the threshold of the bunkhouse door, his gaze on the ranchhouse. He was considering his "reputation," and he had reached the conclusion that Barbara Morgan had reason to fear him—if rumor's tongues had related to her all of the crimes that had been attributed to him. And he knew she must have heard a great many tales about him, for rumor is a tireless worker.

And for the first time in his life Harlan regretted that he had permitted rumor to weave her fabric of lies. For not one of the stories that luridly portrayed him in the role of a ruthless killer and outlaw was true.

It was easy enough for him to understand how he had gained that reputation. He grinned mirthlessly now, as he mentally reviewed a past which had been rather like the record of a professional man-killer. And yet, reviewing his past—from the day about five years ago, when he had shot a Taos bully who had drawn a gun on him with murderous intent, until today, when he had sent Laskar to his death—he could not remember one shooting affray for which he could be blamed. As a matter of fact, he had—by the courts in some instances, and by witnesses in others, where there were no courts—been held blameless.

There had been men who had seen Harlan draw his weapons with deadly intent—men who insisted that the man's purpose was plain, to goad an enemy to draw a weapon, permitting him partially to draw it, and then to depend upon his superior swiftness and unerring aim. And this theory of Harlan's character had gone abroad.

And because the theory had been accepted, Harlan's name became associated with certain crimes which are inseparable from the type of character which the popular imagination had given him. Strangers—criminals—in certain towns in the Territory and out of it must have heard with considerable satisfaction that their depredations had been charged to Harlan. Only once had Harlan been able to refute the charge of rumor. That was when, having passed a night in the company of Dave Hallowell, the marshal of Pardo, word was brought by a stage-driver that "Drag" Harlan had killed a man in Dry Bottom—a town two hundred miles north—and that Harlan had escaped, though a posse had been on his trail.

Even when the driver was confronted by Harlan in the flesh he was doubtful, surrendering grudgingly, as though half convinced that Harlan had been able to transport himself over the distance from Dry Bottom to Pardo by some magic not mentioned.

So it had gone. But the terrible record of evil deeds attributed to Harlan had not affected him greatly. In the beginning—when he had killed the Taos bully—he had been reluctant to take life; and he had avoided, as much as possible, company in which he would be forced to kill to protect himself.

And through it all he had been able to maintain his poise, his self-control. The reputation he had achieved would have ruined some men—would have filled them with an ambition to fulfil the specifications of the mythical terror men thought him. There was a danger there; Harlan had felt it. There was a certain satisfaction in being pointed out as a man with whom other men dared not trifle; respect of a fearsome equality was granted him—he had seen it in the eyes of men, as he had seen an awed adulation in the eyes of women.

He had felt them all—all the emotions that a real desperado could feel. He had experienced the impulse to swagger, to pose—really to live the part that his ill-fame had given him.

But he had resisted those impulses; and the glow in his eyes when in the presence of men who feared him was not the passion to kill, but a humorous contempt of all men who abased themselves before him.

On the night he had been with Dave Hallowell, the marshal of Pardo, he had listened with steady interest to a story told him by the latter. It concerned the Lamo region and the great basin at which he and Barbara Morgan had been looking when the girl had accused him of a lack of poetic feeling.

"I've heard reports about Sunset Valley," Hallowell had said, squinting his eyes at Harlan. "I've met Sheriff Gage two or three times, an' he's had somethin' to say about it. Accordin' to Gage, everything ain't on the surface over there; there's somethin' behind all that robbin' an' stealin' that's goin' on. There's somethin' big, but it's hid—an' no man ain't ever been able to find out what it is. But it's somethin'.

"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 role 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 bring 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.

And when she heard a slight sound, seeming to arise from the room below her, she caught her breath with a gasp of horror.

But she did not move. She stood there, with no breath issuing from between her lips, for many minutes, it seemed—waiting, dreading, a cold paralysis stealing over her.

And then again it came—an odd sound—slow, creaking, seeming to come always nearer. It was not until she heard the sound directly outside her door that she realized that what she heard was a step on the stairs. And then, convinced that Harlan had gained entrance, she slipped noiselessly across the room to the front wall, where she took down a heavy pistol that hung from a wooden peg.

With the huge weapon in hand she returned to a point near the center of the room, and with bated breath and glowing, determined eyes, faced the door.

And when, after a time, she heard the door creak with a weight that seemed to be against it—after she saw it give; heard the lock break, and saw a man's form darken the opening as the door was flung wide—she pressed the trigger of the weapon once—twice—three times—in rapid succession.

She heard the man curse, saw him catch at his chest, and tumble headlong toward her. And she fired again, thinking he was trying to grasp her.

She laughed hysterically when she saw him sink to the floor and stretch out with a queer inertness. Then, swaying, her brain reeling with the horror of the thing, she managed to get to the bed at the other side of the room. When she reached it she collapsed gently, a long, convulsive shudder running over her.



CHAPTER XII

BARBARA SEES A LIGHT

When Barbara regained consciousness it was with a gasp of horror over the realization of what had happened. She stiffened immediately, however, and lay, straining at the dread paralysis that had gripped her; for she saw Harlan standing at her side, looking down into her face, his own set in a grim smile.

She must have fainted again, for it seemed to her that a long period of time elapsed until she again became conscious of her surroundings. Harlan had moved off a little, though he was still watching her with the grimly humorous expression.

She sat up, staring wildly at him; then shrank back, getting as far away from him as she could.

"You!" she gasped, "You! Didn't I——"

He interrupted her, drawling his words a little:

"The guy you shot was Lawson. You bored him a heap. I've toted him downstairs. He's plenty dead. It was plumb good shootin'—for a woman."

His words shocked her to action, and she got up and walked around the foot of the bed, from where she could see the spot where the intruder must have fallen after she had shot him. A dark stain showed on the floor where the man had lain, and the sight of it sent her a step backward, so that she struck the foot of the bed. She caught at the bed and grasped one of the posts, holding tightly to it while she looked Harlan over with dreading, incredulous eyes.

"It—it wasn't you!" she demanded. "Are you sure?"

He smiled and said, slowly and consolingly: "I reckon if you'd shot me I'd be knowin' it. Don't take it so hard, ma'am. Why, if a man goes to breakin' into a woman's room that way he sure ain't fit to go on livin' in a world where there is a woman."

"It was Lawson—you say? Meeder Lawson—the Rancho Seco foreman? I thought—why, I thought it was you!"

"I'm thankin' you, ma'am," he said, ironically. "But if you'll just stick your head out of that window, you'll see it was Lawson, right enough. He's layin' right below the window."

She did as bidden, and she saw Lawson lying on the ground beneath the window, flat on his back, his face turned upward with the radiant moonlight shining full upon his wide-open, staring eyes.

Barbara glanced swiftly, and then drew back into the room, shuddering.

Harlan stood, silently regarding her, while she walked again to the bed and sat upon it, staring out into the flood of moonlight, her face ghastly, her hands hanging limply at her sides.

She had killed a man. And though there was justification for the deed, she could not fight down the shivering horror that had seized her, the overpowering and terrible knowledge that she had taken human life.

She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, and Harlan said no word to her, standing motionless, his arms folded, one hand slowly caressing his chin, as he watched her.

After a time, drawing a long, shuddering breath, she looked up at him.

"How did you know—what made you come—here?" she asked.

"I wasn't reckonin' to sleep tonight—havin' thoughts—about things," he said. "I was puttin' in a heap of my time settin' in the doorway of the bunkhouse, wonderin' what had made you so scared of me. While I was tryin' to figure it out I saw Lawson comin'. There was somethin' in his actions which didn't jibe with my ideas of square dealin', an' so I kept lookin' at him. An' when I saw him prowlin' around, tryin' to open doors an' windows, why, I just naturally trailed him. An' I found the window he opened. I reckon that's all."

She got up, swaying a little, a wan smile on her face that reflected her astonishment and wonder over the way she had jumbled things. For this man—the man she had feared when she had left him standing outside the door some hours before—had been eager to protect her from the other, who had attacked her. He had been waiting, watching.

Moreover, there was in Harlan's eyes as he stood in the room a considerate, deferential gleam that told her more than words could have conveyed to her—a something that convinced her that he was not the type of man she had thought him.

The knowledge filled her with a strange delight. There was relief in her eyes, and her voice was almost steady when she again spoke to him:

"Harlan," she said, "did father really send you here? Did he make you promise to come?"

"I reckon he did, ma'am," he said.

For an instant she looked fairly at him, intently searching his eyes for indications of untruthfulness. Then she drew a long breath of conviction.

"I believe you," she said.

Harlan swept his hat from his head. He bowed, and there was an odd leap in his voice:

"That tickles me a heap, ma'am. I don't know when I've heard anything that pleased me more."

He backed away from her until he reached the doorway. And she saw his eyes—wide and eloquent—even in the subdued light of the doorway.

"I'd go to sleep now, ma'am, if I was you. You need it a heap. It's been a long day for you—an' things ain't gone just right. I don't reckon there'll be anybody botherin' you any more tonight."

"And you?" she asked, "won't you try to get some sleep, too?"

He laughed, telling her that he would "ketch a wink or two." Then he turned and went down the stairs—she could hear him as he opened a lower door and went out.

Looking out of the window an instant later, she saw him taking Lawson's body away. And still later, hearing a sound outside, she stole to the window again.

Below, seated on the threshold of the door that led into the room she had entered when she had crossed the patio, she saw Harlan. He was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the door jamb in an attitude of complete relaxation.

There was something in his manner that comforted her—a calm confidence, a slow ease of movement as he fingered his cigarette that indicated perfect tranquility—an atmosphere of peace that could not have surrounded him had he meditated any evil whatever.

She knew, now, that she had misjudged him. For he had made no attempt to take advantage of her loneliness and helplessness. And whatever his reputation—whatever the crimes he had committed against the laws—he had been a gentleman in his attitude toward her. That feature of his conduct dominated her thoughts as she stretched out on the bed; it was her last coherent thought as she went to sleep.



CHAPTER XIII

HARLAN TAKES CHARGE

Barbara could not have told why she had not acted upon her determination to ride westward to the Star ranch to acquaint John Haydon with the predicament into which the events of the past few hours had plunged her. She could not have explained why she permitted the first day—after Harlan's coming—to pass without going to see Haydon, any more than she could have explained why she permitted many other days to pass in the same manner.

She was almost convinced, though, that it was because of the manner in which Harlan took charge of the ranch—the capable and business-like way he had of treating the men.

For the outfit came in late in the afternoon following the night which had marked the death of Lawson—the straw-boss explaining that he had received explicit orders from Lawson to "work" a grass level several miles down the river.

One other reason for Barbara's failure to ride to the Star—a reason that she did not permit to dwell prominently in her thoughts—was resentment.

She had permitted the first day to pass without going to see Haydon. But when it had gone and another day dawned without Haydon coming to see her, she felt that he was deliberately absenting himself. For certainly he must have heard what had happened, and if he thought as much of her as he had led her to believe he would have come to her instantly.

Had Haydon seen the defiant gleam of her eyes when she gazed westward—in the direction of the Star—he might have realized that each day he stayed away from the Rancho Seco would make it that much more difficult for him to explain.

Barbara stayed indoors much of the time during the first days of Harlan's control of the ranch, but from the windows she saw him—noted that the men obeyed him promptly and without question.

A sense of loss, of emptiness, still afflicted the girl, and yet through it all there ran a thrill of satisfaction, of assurance that the steady-eyed man who had saved her from Deveny, and who had treated her like a courtier of old on the night she had killed Lawson, seemed to have her welfare in mind, seemed—despite the reputation the people of the country had given him—to have constituted himself her guardian, without expectation of reward of the kind she had feared he sought.

Harlan's method of assuming control of the Rancho Seco had been direct and simple. When the twenty-seven men of the outfit had straggled into the yard surrounding the big corral—the chuck-wagon, bearing the cook and his assistant, trailing a little behind, and followed by the horses of the remuda with the wrangler hurling vitriolic language in the rear—Harlan was standing beside Purgatory near the corral fence in front of one of the bunkhouses.

He had paid—apparently—no attention to the men as they dismounted, unsaddled, and turned their horses into the corral, and he did not even look at the belligerent-eyed cook whose sardonic glance roved over him.

But the men of the outfit watched him out of the corners of their eyes; as they passed him to go to the bunkhouses, they shot inquiring, speculating glances at one another, full of curiosity, not unmixed with astonishment over his continued silence.

It was when, drawn by the wonder that consumed them, they gathered in a group near the door of one of the bunkhouses, that Harlan moved toward them.

For he had noted that they had become grouped, and that into the atmosphere had come a tension.

Harlan's actions had been governed by design. His continued silence had been strategy of a subtle order. It had attracted the attention of the men, it had intrigued their interest.

If he had spoken to them while they had been moving about on their different errands, telling them that henceforth he was to manage the Rancho Seco, they would have given him scant attention. Also, he would not have been able to study their faces as he had studied them while they had been watching him, and he would not have gained the knowledge of their characters that he now possessed.

Besides, a humorous malice possessed Harlan—he wanted to view them collectively when he gave them his news, to note the various ways in which they would receive it.

Absolute silence greeted Harlan's forward movement. He could hear the labored breathing of some of the men—men of violent temper who sensed trouble—and his grin grew broad as he halted within a dozen feet of the group.

"Boys," he said, slowly, "you've got a new boss. It's me. A day or so ago, crossin' from Pardo, I run into a ruckus at Sentinel Rock. Lane Morgan was the center of the ruckus—an' he got perforated—plenty. But before he cashed in he got a gleam of downright sense an' told me he'd been lookin' for me, to make me manager of the Rancho Seco.

"I'm reckonin' to be manager—beginnin' now. If there's any of you men that ain't admirin' to do the jumpin' when I yap orders to you, you're doin' your gassin' right now. Them that's pinin' to work under me is sure of a square deal, beginnin' now, and continuin' henceforth. I reckon that's all."

Into Harlan's eyes as he talked had come that vacuous light that had been in them when he had faced Deveny's men in Lamo—the light that was always in his eyes whenever he faced more than one man, with trouble imminent.

He saw the face of every man in the group—while seeming not to be looking at any of them. He noted the various shades of expression that came into their faces as they digested his words, he saw how some of them watched him with sober interest and how others permitted themselves a sneer of incredulity or dislike.

He noted that a tall, slender, swarthy man on the extreme left of the group watched him with a malevolent gaze, his eyes flaming hate; he saw a black-haired, hook-nosed fellow near the center of the group watching him with a grin of cold contempt.

It seemed to Harlan that a fair proportion of the men were willing to acknowledge his authority—for they were frankly studying him, ready to greet him as their employer. Many others, however, were as frankly hostile.

After Harlan ceased speaking there came a short silence, during which many of the men looked at one another inquiringly.

It was a moment during which, had a leader appeared to take the initiative for those who intended to dissent from Harlan's rule, the outfit might have been divided.

Evidently the tall, swarthy man divined that the time to dissent had come, for he cleared his throat, and grinned felinely.

Before he could speak, however, a short man with keen eyes that, since the instant they had rested upon Harlan, had been glowing with something that might have been defined as mingled astonishment and delight thinly concealed by a veneer of humor—said distinctly:

"You crossed over from Pardo—you say?"

Harlan nodded, and a pin-point of recognition glowed in his eyes as he looked at the man.

The other laughed, lowly. "Seems I know you," he said. "You're 'Drag' Harlan!"

A tremor ran through the group. There was a concerted stiffening of bodies, a general sigh from lungs in process of deflation. And then the group stood silent, every man watching Harlan with that intent curiosity that comes with one's first glimpse of a noted character, introduced without expectation.

Harlan noted that a change had come over the men. Those whose faces had betrayed their inclination to accept his authority had taken—without exception—a glum, disappointed expression. On the other hand, those who had formerly betrayed hostility, were now grinning with satisfaction.

A tremor of malicious amusement, expressed visibly by a flicker of his eyelids, was Harlan's only emotion over the change that had come in the men of the group. He could now have selected those of the men who—as Lane Morgan had said—could not be trusted, and he could have pointed out those who had been loyal to Morgan, and who would be loyal to Barbara and himself.

Among the former were the tall, swarthy man on the extreme left, and the hook-nosed fellow near the center. There were perhaps ten of the latter, and it was plain to Harlan that the short man who had spoken was their leader.

"'Drag' Harlan—eh?"

This was the tall, swarthy man. The malevolence had gone from his eyes, he was grinning broadly, though there was respect of a fawning character in his manner as he stepped out from the group and halted within a few feet of Harlan.

"Me an' my friends wasn't none tickled to find that we was goin' to have a new manager. We was sort of expectin' Miss Barbara to do the runnin' herself. But if you say you're runnin' things, that makes it a whole lot different. We ain't buckin' 'Drag' Harlan's game."

"Thank you," grinned Harlan. "I saw you reportin' to Miss Morgan. You're straw-boss, I reckon."

"You've hit it. I'm Stroud—Lafe Stroud."

"You'll keep on bein' straw-boss," said Harlan, shortly. "I'm appointin' a foreman."

"Where's Lawson?"

It was Stroud who spoke. There was a shadow of disappointment in his eyes.

"Lawson won't be needin' a title any more," said Harlan, narrowing his eyes at the other. "He needs plantin'. Soon as we get set some of you boys can go over an' take care of him. You'll find him in the harness shop. He busted down the door of Miss Barbara's room last night, an' she made a colander out of him."

Harlan ignored the effect of his news on the men, fixing his gaze on the short man who had spoken first, and who was now standing silent, in an attitude that hinted of dejection.

"You'll be foreman, Linton," he stated shortly.

Linton, who had been glumly listening, was so startled by the sudden descent upon his shoulders of the mantle of authority that he straightened with a snap and grabbed wildly at his hat—which dropped from his head despite his effort to clutch it, revealing a mop of fiery red hair. When he straightened, after recovering the hat, his freckled face was crimson with embarrassment and astonishment.

"I'm obliged to you," he mumbled.

That had ended it. The following morning Linton came to Harlan for orders, and a little later the entire outfit, headed by Stroud, and trailed by the chuck-wagon and the horses of the remuda, started southward to a distant section of the big level, leaving Linton and Harlan at the ranchhouse.

And as the outfit faded into the southern distance, Harlan, walking near the larger of the two bunkhouses, came upon Linton.

Harlan grinned when he saw the other.

"You didn't go with the outfit, Red?" he said. "Seems a foreman ought to be mighty eager to be with his men on their first trip after he's appointed."

Linton's face was pale, his gaze was direct.

"Look here, Harlan," he said, steadily. "I've knowed you a long time, an' I know that you're a damn' sight straighter than a lot of men which has got reputations better than yourn. But there's some things want explainin'. I've sort of took a shine to that little girl in there. There's things brewin' which is goin' to make it mighty bad for her. It wasn't so bad while old Morgan was here, but now he's gone, an' she's got to play it a lone hand.

"You git riled an' sling your gun on me if you want to. I know I wouldn't have a chance. But just the same, I'm tellin' you. You know that more'n half that outfit you've put me at the head of is Deveny's men—sneakin', thievin', murderin' outlaws?"

"You wantin' to quit, Red?" said Harlan, smoothly.

"Quit! Hell's fire! I'm hangin' on to the finish. But I'm findin' out where you stand. What you meanin' to do with Barbara Morgan?"

Harlan grinned. "I answered that question when I appointed you foreman, Red. But I reckon I made a mistake—I ought to have appointed a man who knows what his think-box is for."

Linton flushed, and peered intently at the other.

"Meanin' that you're backin' Barbara in this here deal?" he demanded.

"A real thoughtful man would have tumbled to it quicker," was Harlan's soft, ironical reply.

For an instant Linton's gaze was intense with searching, probing inquiry. And Harlan's steady eyes were agleam with a light that was so quietly honest that it made Linton gasp:

"Damn me! You mean it! You're playin' 'em straight, face up. That talk of yourn about Lane Morgan makin' you manager was straight goods. I know Dolver an' Laskar an' the guy they call 'Chief' plugged Morgan—for I heard Stroud an' some more of them talkin' about it. An' I heard that you got Dolver an' Laskar, an' kept Deveny from grabbin' off Barbara Morgan, over in Lamo. But I thought you was playin' for Barbara, too—an' I wasn't figurin' on lettin' you."

Harlan laughed lowly.

"Things don't always shape up the way a man thinks they will, Red. I started for Lamo, figurin' to salivate Dolver an' the other guy who killed Davey Langan. I got Dolver at Sentinel Rock, an' I figured I'd be likely to run into the other guy somewheres—mebbe findin' him in Deveny's gang. But runnin' into Lane Morgan sort of changed the deal. An' now I'm postponin' a lot of things until Barbara Morgan is runnin' free, with no coyotes from the Deveny crowd tryin' to rope her."

Linton's eyes were glowing, he crowded close to Harlan, so close that his body touched Harlan's, and he stood thus for an instant, breathing fast. Then, noting the unwavering, genial gleam in Harlan's eyes—a visible sign of Harlan's knowledge of his deep emotion—Linton seized one of the other's hands and gripped it tightly.

"Damn your hide," he said, lowly, "you had me goin'. I'm dead set on seein' that girl git a square deal, an' when I saw you makin' a play for them damned outlaws that are in the outfit, I sure figured there'd be hell a-poppin' around the Rancho Seco. You sure had me flabbergasted when you named me foreman, for I couldn't anticipate your trail none.

"But I reckon I'm wised up, now. You're goin' to run a whizzer in on 'em—playin' 'em for suckers. An' I'm your right-hand man—stickin' with you until hell runs long on icebergs!"



CHAPTER XIV

SHADOWS

A desire to ride once more in the peaceful sunshine of the land she loved was one of the first indications that Barbara was recovering from the shock occasioned by her father's death. For two or three days she had not stirred from her room, except to go downstairs to cook her meals. She had spent much of her time sitting at a window nursing her sorrow.

But on this morning she got out of bed feeling more composed than usual, with several new emotions struggling for the mastery. One of those emotions was that of intolerance.

Harlan's assumption of authority enraged her. He had come to the Rancho Seco with no credentials other than his mere word that her father had forced him to promise to "take hold" of "things." And she intended, this very morning, to send Harlan away, and to assume control of the ranch herself.

This determination held until after she had breakfasted, and then she stood for a long time in the kitchen door, looking out into the brilliant sunshine, afflicted with a strange indecision.

Harlan had helped to fill the void created by her father's death—that was certain. There had been something satisfying in his presence at the ranch; it had seemed to mean an assurance for her safety; she had felt almost as fully protected as when her father had been with her. It angered her to see him moving about the place as though he had a perfect right to be there, but at the same time she felt comfortably certain that as long as he was around no harm could come to her.

Her emotions were so contradictory that she could not reach a decision regarding the action she should take and she bit her lips with vexation as she stood in the doorway.

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 was 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.