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

unconscious burden. Because he felt that trouble would result from the meeting, Deveny had thrown Barbara from him.

He had instantly forgotten the girl. For when Harlan came up Deveny saw a gleam in his eyes that sent his brain to throbbing with those unmistakable impulses of fear which had seized him the day, in Lamo, when Harlan had faced him.

There had been a moment of silence when the two groups met; a stiffening of muscles and the heavy, strained breathing that, in men, tells of mental preparation for violence, swift and deadly.

It had been Harlan who had prevented concerted action—action that would have brought about a battle in which all would have figured. His guns came out before the thought of trouble could definitely form in the brains of the Deveny men; and he had held them—the men in the saddles, Deveny standing—until the T Down men, whom he had seen from a distance, coming toward him, could arrive.

Then, still menacing the Deveny men with weapons, he had dismounted to face Deveny—where he had been when Barbara Morgan had recovered consciousness.

And while the girl had been stealing away he had been talking to Deveny, though loud enough for all of them to hear.

There was about Harlan as this moment a threat that brought awe into the hearts of Deveny’s men—a cold, savage alertness that told them, unmistakably, that the man’s rage was at a pitch where the slightest movement by any of them would precipitate that action for which, plainly, Harlan longed.

“So you got Barbara Morgan?” he said as he stood close to Deveny. There was a taunt in his voice, and an irony that made Deveny squirm with fury.

And yet Deveny fought hard for composure. He could see in Harlan’s manner something akin to what he had seen that day, in Lamo, when Harlan had baited him. His manner was the same, yet somehow it was not the same. There was this difference:

In Lamo, Harlan had betrayed the threat of violence that Deveny had felt. But he had seemed to be composed, saturnine—willing to wait. It had seemed, then, that he wanted trouble, but he would not force it.

Now, he plainly intended to bring a clash quickly. The determination was in his eyes, in the set of his head, and in his straight, stiff lips.

He seemed to have forgotten the other men; his gaze was on Deveny with a boring intensity that sent a chill of stealthy dread over the outlaw.

Deveny had faced many men in whose hearts lurked the lust to kill; he had shot down men who had faced him with that lust in their eyes—and he knew the passion when he saw it.

He saw it now, in Harlan’s eyes—they were wanton—in them was concentrated all the hate and contempt that Harlan felt for him. But back of it all was that iron self-control that Deveny had seen in the man when he had faced him in Lamo.

Deveny had avoided Harlan since that day. He had known why—and he knew at this minute. It was because he was afraid of Harlan—he feared him as a coward fears the death that confronts him. The sensation was premonitory. Nor was it that. It had been premonitory—it was now a conviction. In the time, in Lamo, when he had faced Harlan some prescience had warned him that before him was the man whom the fates had selected to bring death to him.

He had felt it during all the days of Harlan’s presence in the section; he had felt it, and he had avoided the man. He felt it now, and his breathing grew fast and difficult—his chest laboring as he shrilled breath into his lungs.

He knew what was coming; he knew that presently Harlan’s passion would reach the point where action would be imperative; that presently would come that slow, halting movement of Harlan’s hands toward his gun—which gun? He would witness, with himself as one of the chief actors, the hesitating movement which had brought fame of a dread kind to the man who stood before him.

Could he beat Harlan to the “draw?” Could he? That question was dinned into his ears and into his consciousness by his brain and his heart. He heard nothing of what was going on around him; he did not hear Harlan’s voice, though he saw the man’s lips moving. He did not see any of the men who stood near, nor did he see his men, sitting in their saddles, watching him.

He saw nothing but Harlan; felt nothing except the blood that throbbed in his temples; was conscious of nothing but the question that filled his heart, his brain, and his soul—could he beat Harlan to the “draw?”

Presently, when he saw, with astonishment, that Harlan was slowly backing away from him, crouching a little, he divined vaguely that the moment had come. And now, curiously, he heard Harlan’s voice—low, distinct, even. What an iceberg the man was!

“Haydon’s dead,” he heard Harlan saying—and he stared at Harlan, finding it difficult to comprehend. “Lafe Woodward killed him,” Harlan went on “killed him at the Cache. Now get this straight—all of you.” It seemed strange to Deveny that Harlan seemed to be speaking to the men, while watching him, only.

“Woodward was killed, too. His real name was Bill Morgan. He was Lane Morgan’s son. Bill Morgan was sent here by the governor, to get evidence against Haydon. He got it. I took it from his pockets when I planted him—an’ it’s goin’ straight to the governor.

“You guys are through here—” again he seemed to speak to all the men. “Morgan told me he had some men with the Cache gang. They’re to ride out an’ join my boys—the T Down outfit.”

Deveny was conscious that several men detached themselves from the group of riders he had brought with him, and rode to where the T Down men were standing. Then Harlan spoke again:

“Now, she shapes up like this. If there’s any of the Star gang wantin’ to go straight, they can throw in with the T Down boys, too. If there’s some that figure on pullin’ their freight out of the valley—an’ stayin’ out—they can hit the breeze right now—drivin’ that Star herd to Willow’s Wells, sellin’ them, an’ dividin’ the money. Whoever is takin’ up that proposition is startin’ right now!”

About half the Star men began to move; heading up the valley. There was a momentary pause, and then those that were left of Deveny’s men moved uneasily.

“Does that go for us guys too?”

“It’s wide open,” announced Harlan, cold humor seeming to creep into his voice. “It’s your chance to get out of this deal without gettin’ what’s comin’ to you.”

There was a rush and clatter as Deveny’s men joined the men of the Star, who were already on the move. And then there followed a long silence, during which Deveny glanced up the valley and saw the men riding away.

He turned again, to face Harlan, with the consciousness that he stood alone. The T Down men, half of the Star men, and a large proportion of the Cache men were standing with Harlan. Deveny saw Colver and Rogers among those who had aligned themselves with Harlan.

No invitation to withdraw had been extended to Deveny. The knowledge strengthened his conviction that Harlan intended to kill him. And yet, now, facing Harlan, he knew that he would never take up the slender thread of chance that was offered him—to draw his gun, kill Harlan and resume his authority over the men who were left.

The possibility, dangling at the other end of the slender thread of chance, did not allure him. For he knew he could not draw the pistol at his hip with Harlan’s gaze upon him—that would be suicide.

“Deveny!”

Harlan’s voice, snapping with menace roused him, straightened him, brought an ashen pallor to his face.

“It’s your turn, Deveny. You stay here. Flash your gun!”

Here it was—the dreaded moment. Deveny saw the men around him stiffen rigidly; he heard their slow-drawn breaths. The thought to draw his gun was strong in him, and he fought hard to force his recreant muscles to do the will of his mind. For an instant he stood, his right hand poised above the holster of his pistol, the elbow crooked, ready to straighten.

And then, with the steady, coldly flaming eyes of Harlan upon him, Harlan’s right hand extended slightly, the fingers spread a little as though he was about to offer his hand to the other. Deveny became aware that he was doing an astonishing thing. He was raising his right hand!

Already it was at his shoulder. And as he marveled, it went higher, finally coming to a level with his head, where it stopped. He had publicly advertised his refusal to settle his differences with Harlan with the pistol.

“Yellow!”

It was Harlan’s voice. “You won’t fight an’ you won’t run. Well, we’ll keep you, savin’ you for the governor. I reckon he’ll be glad to see you.”

Harlan turned, sheathing his pistol, and began to walk toward his horse, his back toward Deveny.

Then Deveny acted. His eyes flaming hate, he drew his pistol with a flashing movement, his face hideous with malignant passion.

He sent one bullet into Harlan’s back and two more as Harlan tumbled forward, sinking to his knees from the shock. But Deveny’s two last bullets went wild, tearing up the grass of the level as the gun loosened in his hand.

For Rogers’ rifle was spitting fire and smoke with venomous rapidity, and Deveny was sinking, his knees doubling under him, his body shuddering with the impact of each bullet.