Harlan had paid strict attention to Lane Morgan’s words at Sentinel Rock, and he remembered that Morgan had told him that his son, whom he had called “Bill,” had left the Rancho Seco on some mission for the governor. Evidently it had not occurred to Morgan that his son’s mission had taken him only to the valley in which reigned those outlaws Morgan had reviled.
But it was plain to Harlan that “Billy” was here—he had said so himself, and he had given proof that he had been watchful and alert to Barbara’s interests. And now was explained young Morgan’s interest in himself. The thought that during all the days he had spent at the Rancho Seco, his movements had been watched by the man who had just killed Haydon, brought a glow of ironic humor to Harlan’s eyes.
During a long interval, through which Billy Morgan stood over Haydon, watching him with a cold savagery, Harlan kept at a respectable distance, also watching.
He saw that for Haydon the incident had been fatal. The man’s body did not move after it slipped to the ground beside the ranchhouse wall. Yet Morgan watched until he was certain; then he slowly wheeled and looked at Harlan.
“That settles him—damn him!” he said, with a breathlessness that told of the intense strain he had been laboring under.
Still Harlan did not speak; and his guns were in their holsters when Morgan walked close to him, grinning wanly.
“I had to do it. There’s no use tryin’ to depend on the law in this country. You’ve seen that, yourself.”
“I’ve noticed it,” grinned Harlan. “You’re feelin’ bad over it. I wouldn’t. If it had been my dad he killed I couldn’t have done any different. I reckon any man with blood in him would feel that way about a coyote like that killin’ his father. If men don’t feel that way, why do they drag murderers to courts—where they have courts—an’ ask the law to kill them. That’s just shovin’ the responsibility onto some other guy.
“I’ve handed several guys their pass-out checks, an’ I ain’t regrettin’ one of them. There wasn’t one of them that didn’t have it comin’ to him. They was lookin’ for it, mostly, an’ had to have it. I’ve heard of guys that had killed a man feelin’ squeamish over it—with ghosts visitin’ them at night; an’ sufferin’ a lot of mental torture. I reckon any man would feel that way if he’d killed an inoffensive man—or a good man, or one that hadn’t been tryin’ to murder him.” He grinned again. “Why, I’m preachin’!”
And now into his gaze as he looked at Morgan, came cold reproach.