'Drag' Harlan by Charles Alden Seltzer (top novels of all time .txt) 📖

he faced more than one man, with trouble imminent.

He saw the face of every man in the group—while seeming not to be looking at any of them. He noted the various shades of expression that came into their faces as they digested his words, he saw how some of them watched him with sober interest and how others permitted themselves a sneer of incredulity or dislike.

He noted that a tall, slender, swarthy man on the extreme left of the group watched him with a malevolent gaze, his eyes flaming hate; he saw a black-haired, hook-nosed fellow near the center of the group watching him with a grin of cold contempt.

It seemed to Harlan that a fair proportion of the men were willing to acknowledge his authority—for they were frankly studying him, ready to greet him as their employer. Many others, however, were as frankly hostile.

After Harlan ceased speaking there came a short silence, during which many of the men looked at one another inquiringly.

It was a moment during which, had a leader appeared to take the initiative for those who intended to dissent from Harlan’s rule, the outfit might have been divided.

Evidently the tall, swarthy man divined that the time to dissent had come, for he cleared his throat, and grinned felinely.

Before he could speak, however, a short man with keen eyes that, since the instant they had rested upon Harlan, had been glowing with something that might have been defined as mingled astonishment and delight thinly concealed by a veneer of humor—said distinctly:

“You crossed over from Pardo—you say?”

Harlan nodded, and a pin-point of recognition glowed in his eyes as he looked at the man.

The other laughed, lowly. “Seems I know you,” he said. “You’re ‘Drag’ Harlan!”

A tremor ran through the group. There was a concerted stiffening of bodies, a general sigh from lungs in process of deflation. And then the group stood silent, every man watching Harlan with that intent curiosity that comes with one’s first glimpse of a noted character, introduced without expectation.

Harlan noted that a change had come over the men. Those whose faces had betrayed their inclination to accept his authority had taken—without exception—a glum, disappointed expression. On the other hand, those who had formerly betrayed hostility, were now grinning with satisfaction.

A tremor of malicious amusement, expressed visibly by a flicker of his eyelids, was Harlan’s only emotion over the change that had come in the men of the group. He could now have selected those of the men who—as Lane Morgan had said—could not be trusted, and he could have pointed out those who had been loyal to Morgan, and who would be loyal to Barbara and himself.

Among the former were the tall, swarthy man on the extreme left, and the hook-nosed fellow near the center. There were perhaps ten of the latter, and it was plain to Harlan that the short man who had spoken was their leader.

“‘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.

“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?”

“You wantin’ to quit, Red?” said Harlan, smoothly.

“Quit! Hell’s fire! I’m hangin’ on to the finish. But I’m findin’ out where you stand. What you meanin’ to do with Barbara Morgan?”

Harlan grinned. “I answered that question when I appointed you foreman, Red. But I reckon I made a mistake—I ought to have appointed a man who knows what his think-box is for.”

Linton flushed, and peered intently at the other.

“Meanin’ that you’re backin’ Barbara in this here deal?” he demanded.

“A real thoughtful man would have tumbled to it quicker,” was Harlan’s soft, ironical reply.

For an instant Linton’s gaze was intense with searching, probing inquiry. And Harlan’s steady eyes were agleam with a light that was so quietly honest that it made Linton gasp:

“Damn me! You mean it! You’re playin’ ’em straight, face up. That talk of yourn about Lane Morgan makin’ you manager was straight goods. I know Dolver an’ Laskar an’ the guy they call ‘Chief’ plugged Morgan—for I heard Stroud an’ some more of them talkin’ about it. An’ I heard that you got Dolver an’ Laskar, an’ kept Deveny from grabbin’ off Barbara Morgan, over in Lamo. But I thought you was playin’ for Barbara, too—an’ I wasn’t figurin’ on lettin’ you.”

Harlan laughed lowly.

“Things don’t always shape up the way a man thinks they will, Red. I started for Lamo, figurin’ to salivate Dolver an’ the other guy who killed Davey Langan. I got Dolver at Sentinel Rock, an’ I figured I’d be likely to run into the other guy somewheres—mebbe findin’ him in Deveny’s gang. But runnin’ into Lane Morgan sort of changed the deal. An’ now I’m postponin’ a lot of things until Barbara Morgan is runnin’ free, with no coyotes from the Deveny crowd tryin’ to rope her.”

Linton’s eyes were glowing, he crowded close to Harlan, so close that his body touched Harlan’s, and he stood thus for an instant, breathing fast. Then, noting the unwavering, genial gleam in Harlan’s eyes—a visible sign of Harlan’s knowledge of his deep emotion—Linton seized one of the other’s hands and gripped it tightly.

“Damn your hide,” he said, lowly, “you had me goin’. I’m dead set on seein’ that girl git a square deal, an’ when I saw you makin’ a play for them damned outlaws that are in the outfit, I sure figured there’d be hell a-poppin’ around the Rancho Seco. You sure had me flabbergasted when you named me foreman, for I couldn’t anticipate your trail none.

“But I reckon I’m wised up, now. You’re goin’ to run a whizzer in on ’em—playin’ ’em for suckers. An’ I’m your right-hand man—stickin’ with you until hell runs long on icebergs!”