That impression might have engaged the serious thoughts of some men. It widened the smile on Harlan’s face. For he knew there was no threat in the beauty of the valley; that it did not hide its secrets from the prying eyes of men. Whatever secret the valley held was in the minds of men—the minds of Deveny and the mysterious “Chief,” and their followers.
Harlan had not absented himself from the ranchhouse since the departure of Linton. He had lounged in the vicinity of the buildings during the day—and Barbara had seen him many times from the windows; and he had spent his nights watching the ranchhouse, half expecting another attack on Barbara.
The girl had seen him at night, too; and she had smiled at the picture he made with the moonlight shining upon him—or standing in some shadow—somber, motionless, undoubtedly guarding her.
She saw him this morning, too, as he stood beside the corral gate, and there was a glow in her eyes that, had he seen it, might have thrilled him with its gratitude.
She came out of a rear door after a while, and Harlan was still standing at the gate.
He watched her as she came toward him—it was the first time she had ventured in that direction since the return from Lamo with him—noting that she seemed to be in better spirits—that she was smiling.
“You looked lonesome,” she said, as she halted near him. “Did Linton join the outfit?”
“It’s likely; he went three days ago.”
“I knew he had gone; I saw you several times, and you were always alone. And,” she added, looking keenly at him; “I saw you several times, at night. Don’t you ever sleep?”
“I reckon I’m a sort of restless cuss.”