“‘Drag’ Harlan—eh?”
This was the tall, swarthy man. The malevolence had gone from his eyes, he was grinning broadly, though there was respect of a fawning character in his manner as he stepped out from the group and halted within a few feet of Harlan.
“Me an’ my friends wasn’t none tickled to find that we was goin’ to have a new manager. We was sort of expectin’ Miss Barbara to do the runnin’ herself. But if you say you’re runnin’ things, that makes it a whole lot different. We ain’t buckin’ ‘Drag’ Harlan’s game.”
“Thank you,” grinned Harlan. “I saw you reportin’ to Miss Morgan. You’re straw-boss, I reckon.”
“You’ve hit it. I’m Stroud—Lafe Stroud.”
“You’ll keep on bein’ straw-boss,” said Harlan, shortly. “I’m appointin’ a foreman.”
“Where’s Lawson?”
It was Stroud who spoke. There was a shadow of disappointment in his eyes.
“Lawson won’t be needin’ a title any more,” said Harlan, narrowing his eyes at the other. “He needs plantin’. Soon as we get set some of you boys can go over an’ take care of him. You’ll find him in the harness shop. He busted down the door of Miss Barbara’s room last night, an’ she made a colander out of him.”
Harlan ignored the effect of his news on the men, fixing his gaze on the short man who had spoken first, and who was now standing silent, in an attitude that hinted of dejection.