Rogers’ side glance was pregnant with a grim, unsmiling humor.
“So you’ve picked him out? I’ve been wonderin’ how long it would take you.”
The emotion that passed over Harlan was not visible. It might have been detected, however, by the slight leap in his voice.
“You an’ Latimer is bosom friends, I reckon?”
“Shucks!”
Rogers’ glance met Harlan’s for a fleeting instant.
“This gang needs cleanin’ up,” said Rogers. He got up, and stood in front of Harlan, holding out the cinch buckle, as though offering it to the other. For both men had seen that Latimer had left his friends at the stable door and was coming slowly toward the bunkhouse.
“You’ll have to be slick,” warned Rogers. “He’s comin’. I’ll be moseyin’ out of the way.”
He moved slowly from the bench, passed the group of card-players, and walked to the ranchhouse, where he hung the cinch buckle on a nail driven into the wall of the building. Then he slowly turned, facing the bench upon which Harlan still sat, and toward which Latimer was walking.
It was evident that all of the men in the vicinity were aware of the threatened clash, for their manner, upon the approach of Latimer, indicated as much.