“Mine,” drawled Harlan. Harlan might have explained that the stock had been suffering in the crowded enclosure, thus assuaging Haydon’s wrath. But he gave no explanation—that would have been a revelation of eagerness to escape blame and the possible consequences of his act. Instead of explaining he looked steadily into Haydon’s eyes, his own cold and unblinking.
He saw Haydon’s wrath flare up—it was in the heightened color that spread upward above the collar of his shirt; he saw the man’s terrific effort at self-control; and his look grew bitter with insolence.
“What’s botherin’ you?” he said.
“The cattle—damn it!” shouted Haydon. “What in hell do you mean by sending them away without orders?”
“I’m havin’ my say, Haydon. We agreed to split everything three ways. Authority to give orders goes with that. That was the agreement. A man’s got to be either a captain or a private, an’ I’ve never played second to any man. I ain’t beginnin’ now.”
“Why, damn you!” gasped Haydon. His eyes were aglare with a terrible rage and hate; he stepped backward a little, bending his right arm, spreading the fingers.
Harlan had made no move, but the light in his eyes betrayed his complete readiness for the trouble that Haydon plainly meditated.
“Yes,” he said, slowly, drawling his words, a little! “It’s come to that, I reckon. You’ve got to flash your gun now, or take it back. No man cusses me an’ gets away with it. Get goin’!”
Haydon stood, swaying from side to side, in the grip of a mighty indecision. The fingers of his right hand spread wider; the hand descended to a point nearer to his pistol holster.
There it poised, the fingers hooked, like the talons of some giant bird about to clutch a victim.