Harlan did not answer.
“You saw him?” questioned Linton.
“Shut your rank mouth.”
Linton chuckled. “I didn’t know you’d been hit that bad. Howsomever, if you have been, why, there’s no sense of me wastin’ time gassin’ to you. They ain’t nothin’ will cure that complaint but petticoats an’ smiles—the which is mighty dangerous an’ uncertain. I knowed a man once——”
Harlan got up and walked to the bunkhouse. And Linton, grinning, called loudly after him, pretending astonishment.
“Why, he’s gone. Disappeared complete. An’ me tryin’ to jam some sense into his head.”
Grinning, Linton sauntered away, vanishing within the blacksmith-shop.
He had hardly disappeared when Haydon appeared from around a corner of the ranchhouse, at about the instant Harlan, sensing the departure of Linton, came to the door, frowning.
The frown still narrowed Harlan’s eyes when they rested upon the horseman; and his brows were drawn together with unmistakable truculence when Haydon dismounted near the corral fence.
Haydon’s manner had undergone a change. When in the presence of Barbara he had been confident, nonchalant. When he dismounted from his horse and walked toward Harlan there was about him an atmosphere that suggested carefulness. Before Haydon had taken half a dozen steps Harlan was aware that the man knew him—knew of his reputation—and feared him.