Harlan smiled as his gaze rested on the ranchhouse. He was glad he had met Lane Morgan; he was glad he had headed straight for Lamo after leaving Morgan. For by going straight to Lamo he had been able to balk Deveny’s evil intentions toward the girl who, in the house now, was so terribly afraid of him.
He had told Morgan why he was headed toward the Rancho Seco section, but he had communicated to Morgan that information only because he had wanted to cheer the man in his last moments. That was what had made Morgan’s face light up as his life had ebbed away. And Harlan’s eyes glowed now with the recollection.
“The damned cuss—how he did brighten up!” he mused. “He sure was a heap tickled to know that the deck wasn’t all filled with dirty deuces.”
And then Harlan’s thoughts went again to Lamo, and to the picture Barbara had made running toward him. It seemed to him that he could still feel her in his arms, and a great regret that she distrusted him assailed him.
He had sat for a long time on the threshold of the bunkhouse door, and after a time he noted that the moon was swimming high, almost overhead. He got up, unhurriedly, and again walked to the stable door, looking in at Purgatory. For Harlan did not intend to sleep tonight; he had resolved, since the Rancho Seco seemed to be deserted except for his and Barbara’s presence, to guard the ranchhouse.
For he knew that the passions of Deveny for the girl were thoroughly aroused. He had seen in Deveny’s eyes there in Lamo a flame—when Deveny looked at Barbara—that told him more about the man’s passions than Deveny himself suspected. He grinned coldly as he leaned easily against the stable door; for men of the Deveny type always aroused him—their personality had always seemed to strike discord into his soul; had always fanned into flame the smoldering hatred he had of such men; had always brought into his heart those savage impulses which he had sometimes felt when he was on the verge of yielding to the urge to become what men had thought him—and what they still thought him—a conscienceless killer.
His smile now was bitter with the hatred that was in his heart for Deveny—for Deveny had cast longing, lustful eyes upon Barbara Morgan—and the smile grew into a sneer as he drew out paper and tobacco and began to roll a cigarette.
But as he rolled the cigarette his fingers stiffened; the paper and the tobacco in it dropped into the dust at his feet; and he stiffened, his lips straightening, his eyes flaming with rage, his muscles tensing.
For a horseman had appeared from out of the moonlit haze beyond the river. Rigid in the doorway—standing back a little so that he might not be seen—Harlan watched the man.
The latter brought his horse to a halt when he reached the far corner of the ranchhouse, dismounted, and stole stealthily along the wall of the building.