“I didn’t reckon he would,” said Morgan. “But there’s somebody.” He gazed long into Harlan’s face, and the latter gazed steadily back at him. He seemed to be searching Harlan’s face for signs of character.
Harlan stood the probing glance well—so that at last Morgan smiled, saying slowly: “It’s funny—damned funny. About faces, I mean. Your reputation—it’s bad. I’ve been hearin’ about you for a couple of years now. An’ I’ve been lookin’ at you an’ tryin’ to make myself say, ‘Yes, he’s the kind of a guy which would do the things they say he’s done.’
“I can’t make myself say it; I can’t even make myself think it. Either you’re a mighty good actor, or you’re the worst-judged man I ever met. Which is it?”
“Mostly all of us get reputations we don’t deserve,” said Harlan lowly.
Morgan’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Meanin’ that you don’t deserve yours?” he said.
“I reckon there’s been a heap of lyin’ goin’ on about me.”
For a long time Morgan watched the other, studying him. The long twilight of the desert descended and found them—Morgan staring at Harlan; the latter enduring the gaze—for he knew that the end would not long be delayed.
At last Morgan sighed.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve got to take a chance on you. An’, somehow, it seems to me that I ain’t takin’ much of a chance, either. For a man that’s supposed to be the hell-raisin’ outlaw that folks say you are, you’ve got the straightest eyes I ever seen. I’ve seen killers—an’ outlaws, an’ gun-fighters, an’ I never seen one that could look at a man like you’ve looked at me. Harlan,” he went on slowly, “I’m goin’ to tell you about some gold I’ve hid—a hundred thousand dollars!”
Keenly, suspicion lurking deep in his eyes, his mouth half open, seemingly ready to snap shut the instant he detected greed or cupidity in Harlan’s eyes, he watched the latter.