Larkin looked at the money,––smelt it,––as he said afterwards, grimly confessing his weakness at the sight of more than he could save in years of riding the range and branding mavericks. If there had been ten seconds more––
Haig galloped into the crowd, which gave him plenty of room, and reined up his pony just in front of the golden outlaw. For some instants he saw only the 41 horse; and his eyes kindled. Then he faced the cowboys and Huntington.
They were fixed in almost the very attitudes in which he had come upon them. Huntington’s outstretched hands had indeed fallen to his side, but they still clutched the crumpled bills. Raley’s blood-stained face was purple with anger and chagrin, while Smith’s wore a sullen, hangdog look. As for Larkin, he met Haig’s questioning scrutiny with a look of mingled triumph and guilt.
“Well, why don’t you go on?” asked Haig, with a smile.
There was no response. The silence was again so complete that the music of the Brightwater was heard across the meadows.
Haig slowly swept the crowd with an inquiring glance. All these men were hostile toward him, of course; but how far would they support Huntington? No matter! He swung himself suddenly out of the saddle, and addressed himself to the leader of the cowboys.
“You’re Larkin, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yes,” answered the embarrassed cow-puncher.
“And the others are Smith and––”
“Raley,” prompted Larkin.