He frowned, convinced that for days a man had occupied the covert, watching the Rancho Seco; convinced also, that the mystery he had sensed some days ago had been man-made, as he had felt. The man who had been there had been a sentinel, a spy, sent by Deveny or Haydon to observe his movements, and to report them, of course, to one or the other of the two outlaws.
Harlan remounted Purgatory. His caution had not been wasted, and his vigilance in guarding the ranchhouse must have been irritating to the man who had been watching.
He urged Purgatory on again—heading him westward, as before. And when he reached the crest of a slight rise in the valley—from where he could see the trail as it twisted and undulated around hills and into depressions—he saw, far up the valley—and yet not so far, either—not more than two miles—a horseman, riding slowly—away from him.
The horseman was the spy, of course. Harlan had no doubt that if he lingered in the vicinity of the covert long enough he would discover the place where the horse had been concealed. But that was not important, now that he had discovered enough to satisfy himself that there had been a spy—and so he rode on, smiling faintly, knowing that the rider was headed into the valley—possibly to the outlaw rendezvous to appraise Deveny and the others of his coming.
The trail was clearly defined, and there were places where it ran over broad levels of grass where he presented a good target to men who might be eager to send a shot at him. There were other spots where the trail led into timber clumps and through tangles of brush where an ambuscade might be planned in perfect safety by an enemy; and there were the bastioned cliffs that towered above the trail at intervals, offering admirable hinding-places for any man with hostile intentions.
Harlan, however, rode steadily, outwardly unconcerned; inwardly convinced that no attempt would be made to ambush him. For Haydon has passed that way on his return to the Star, and Harlan had no doubt that since the incident of the smile and the wink, Haydon had passed word that he was not to be molested.
Haydon would be curious—as he had been curious at the Rancho Seco—to learn the significance of the smile and the wink. Haydon would want to discover just how much Harlan knew about the murder of Lane Morgan; and he would want to know what Harlan knew of the gold that Morgan had secreted. And so Harlan rode on, watching the country through which he passed, but feeling assured there would be no shot to greet him from one of the many natural vantage-points he encountered.
He rode for an hour, not making very good time, for it was a new trail, and he was examining the country intently as he passed, fixing it in his memory for future convenience, perhaps—no one ever knew just when it might be necessary to use one’s knowledge—when he reached a low ridge which crossed the valley.
Here he halted Purgatory and gazed about him.
Before him stretched a green grass level, about two miles long, running the entire width of the valley. It was dotted with mesquite, sage, and here and there the thorny blade of a cactus rose. Some cattle were grazing on the level; they were several miles south, and he could see some horsemen near them.