Harlan alternately watched the wounded man and Laskar.
Laskar was still groaning, and finally Harlan walked to him and pushed him with a contemptuous foot.
“Get up, you sneak!” he ordered. And Laskar, groaning, holding his chest—where Purgatory’s hoofs had struck him—staggered to his feet and looked with piteously pleading eyes at the big man who stood near him, unmoved by the spectacle of suffering he presented.
And when he found that Harlan gave him no sympathy, he cursed horribly. This drew a cold threat from Harlan.
“Shut your rank mouth or I’ll turn Purgatory loose on you—again. Lookin’ for sympathy, eh? How much sympathy did you give that hombre who’s cashin’ in behind the rocks? None—damn you!”
It was the first flash of feeling Harlan had exhibited, and Laskar shrank from him in terror.
But Harlan followed him, grasping him by a shoulder and gripping it with iron fingers, so that Laskar screamed with pain.
“Who is that man?” Harlan motioned toward the rock.
“Lane Morgan. He owns the Rancho Seco—about forty miles south of Lamo,” returned Laskar after a long look into Harlan’s eyes.
“Who set you guys onto him—what you wantin’ him for?”