“I reckon you’re to git off an’ visit,” he said; “Haydon is inside.” As he dismounted and trailed the reins over the head of his beast he cast a sharp, critical eye over Purgatory.
“There’s a heap of hoss in that black, eh?”
“Plenty.” Harlan got down and ran a hand over Purgatory’s neck, while trailing the reins over his head. “Man-killer,” he warned. “Don’t touch him. He ain’t been rode by nobody but me, an’ he won’t stand for nobody foolin’ around him.”
Harlan had raised his voice until he was sure the men in front of the bunkhouse heard him; then he grinned genially at them all and followed the black-bearded man into the ranchhouse.
An instant later, in a big room which had the appearance of an office, Harlan was confronting Haydon.
The latter was sitting in a chair at a desk, and when Harlan entered Haydon got up and grinned at him, shallowly, without mirth.
“So you got here,” he said; “I’ve been expecting you.”
“I’ve been notin’ that. That guy you left at the edge of the level to keep an eye on the Rancho Seco didn’t cover his tracks. I run onto them—an’ I saw him hittin’ the breeze—comin’ here. I reckon nobody is surprised.” Harlan grinned widely.
“So you noticed that,” said Haydon, answering Harlan’s grin. “Well, I don’t mind admitting that we’ve kept an eye on you. You’ve had me guessing.”
Haydon’s manner was that of the man who is careful not to say too much, his constraint was of the quality that hints of a desire to become confidential—a smooth, bland courtesy; a flattering voice—encouraging, suggesting frankness.