Respect was in Haydon’s eyes, in the droop of his shoulders, in his hesitating step. And into Harlan’s eyes came a gleam of that contempt which had always seized him when in the presence of men who feared him.
And yet, had not Harlan possessed the faculty of reading character at a glance; had he not had that uncanny instinct of divining the thoughts of men who meditated violence, he could not have known that Haydon feared him.
For Haydon’s fear was not abject. It was that emotion which counsels caution, which warns of a worthy antagonist, which respects force that is elemental and destroying.
Haydon smiled as he halted within a few paces of Harlan and turned the palms of his hands outward.
“You’re ‘Drag’ Harlan, of Pardo,” he said.
Harlan nodded.
“My name’s Haydon. I own the Star—about fifteen miles west—on Sunset Trail. I happen to be a friend of Miss Morgan’s, and I’d like to talk with you about the Rancho Seco.”
Haydon’s smile grew less expansive.
“It’s a rather difficult subject to discuss. It rather seems to be none of my affair. But you will understand, being interested in Barbara’s future, and in the welfare of the ranch, why I am presuming to question you. What do you intend to do with the ranch?”