Harlan’s manner was that of a certain reckless carelessness. He seemed to be perfectly at ease, confident, deliberate, and unwatchful. He knew Haydon was an outlaw; that the men who had been grouped in front of the bunkhouse were members of Haydon’s band; he knew the man who had escorted him to the Star had been deliberately stationed in the timber to watch for him. And he had no doubt that other outlaws had lain concealed along the trail to observe his movements.
He knew, too, that he had placed himself in a precarious predicament—that his life was in danger, and that he must be exceedingly careful.
Yet outwardly he was cool, composed. With Haydon’s eyes upon him he drew a chair to a point near the desk, seated himself in it, drew out paper and tobacco, and rolled a cigarette. Lighting it, he puffed slowly, watching while Haydon dropped into the chair he had vacated at Harlan’s appearance.
When Haydon dropped into his chair he grinned admiringly at Harlan.
“You’re a cool one, Harlan,” he said; “I’ve got to say that for you. But there’s no use in four-flushing. You’ve come here to tell me something about the chain. Where did you find it?”
“At Sentinel Rock—not far from where you plugged Lane Morgan.”
“You’re assuming that I shot Morgan?” charged Haydon.
“Morgan was assumin’, too, I reckon,” grinned Harlan. “He told me it was you who shot him—he saw your face by the flash of your gun. An’ he told me where to look for the chain—him not knowin’ it was a chain—but somethin’.”
Haydon’s eyes gleamed with a cold rage—which he concealed by passing a hand over his forehead, veiling his eyes from Harlan. His lips were wreathed in a smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me that the other day—the first time I met you?”