“You’ll be foreman, Linton,” he stated shortly.
Linton, who had been glumly listening, was so startled by the sudden descent upon his shoulders of the mantle of authority that he straightened with a snap and grabbed wildly at his hat—which dropped from his head despite his effort to clutch it, revealing a mop of fiery red hair. When he straightened, after recovering the hat, his freckled face was crimson with embarrassment and astonishment.
“I’m obliged to you,” he mumbled.
That had ended it. The following morning Linton came to Harlan for orders, and a little later the entire outfit, headed by Stroud, and trailed by the chuck-wagon and the horses of the remuda, started southward to a distant section of the big level, leaving Linton and Harlan at the ranchhouse.
And as the outfit faded into the southern distance, Harlan, walking near the larger of the two bunkhouses, came upon Linton.
Harlan grinned when he saw the other.
“You didn’t go with the outfit, Red?” he said. “Seems a foreman ought to be mighty eager to be with his men on their first trip after he’s appointed.”
Linton’s face was pale, his gaze was direct.
“Look here, Harlan,” he said, steadily. “I’ve knowed you a long time, an’ I know that you’re a damn’ sight straighter than a lot of men which has got reputations better than yourn. But there’s some things want explainin’. I’ve sort of took a shine to that little girl in there. There’s things brewin’ which is goin’ to make it mighty bad for her. It wasn’t so bad while old Morgan was here, but now he’s gone, an’ she’s got to play it a lone hand.
“You git riled an’ sling your gun on me if you want to. I know I wouldn’t have a chance. But just the same, I’m tellin’ you. You know that more’n half that outfit you’ve put me at the head of is Deveny’s men—sneakin’, thievin’, murderin’ outlaws?”