Harlan caught the glance, smiled mirthlessly and spoke shortly to Laskar:
“I told you to keep hittin’ the breeze till there wasn’t any more breeze,” he said. “I ought to have bored you out there by the red rock. I gave you your chance. Flash your gun!”
“Harlan!”
This was Gage. His voice sounded as though it had been forced out: it was hoarse and hollow.
Harlan did not move, nor did his eyes waver. There was feeling in them now: intense, savage, cold. And his voice snapped.
“You’re the sheriff, eh? You want to gas, I reckon. Do it quick before this coyote goes for his gun.”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “You’re under arrest, Harlan, for killin’ Lane Morgan out there in the desert yesterday.”
Harlan’s eyes narrowed, his lips wreathed into a feline smile. But he did not change his position.
“Who’s the witness against me?”
“Laskar.”