Harlan’s statement to Haydon, to the effect that he had visited the camps of Kelso, Rance, Larkin, and other outlaws had been strictly accurate. At one time or another each of those outlaw leaders had sent for Harlan, to endeavor to prevail upon him to cast his lot with them—so common was the report that Harlan was of their type.

And he had been able—as he had told Haydon—to go among them with impunity—unmolested, respected. And even after he had refused to join they had extended him the courtesy of faith—not even swearing him to secrecy. And he had vindicated their faith by keeping silent regarding them.

Knowing, however, that the ethics of men of the type of Kelso, Rance, Larkin, and others provided a safe conduct for any man of their kind that came among them, Harlan had felt contempt for Haydon for his threat. And yet Harlan’s rage on that occasion had been largely surface; it had been displayed for effect—to force an instant decision from Haydon.

Harlan was aware that his only hope of protecting Barbara Morgan from Haydon and Deveny was in an offensive war. He could not expect to wage such a war by remaining idly at the Rancho Seco, to await the inevitable aggressions of the outlaws, for he did not know when they would strike, nor how. It was certain they would strike, and it was as certain they would strike when he least expected them to.

Therefore he had determined to join them, depending upon his reputation to allay any suspicion they might have regarding his motives. Haydon had taken him into the band, but Harlan had been convinced that Haydon distrusted him. He had seen distrust in Haydon’s eyes; and he had known, when Haydon dropped his gaze at the instant they had shaken hands, that the man meditated duplicity.

Yet Harlan was determined to appear ignorant that Haydon meditated trickery. He intended to go among the men and deliberately to ignore the threatened dangers—more, to conduct himself in such a manner that Haydon would not suspect that he knew of any danger.

It had been a slight incident that had suggested the plan to him—merely a glance at Strom Rogers, while the latter, in Lamo, had been watching Deveny.

Harlan had seen hatred in Rogers’ face, and contempt and jealousy; and he knew that where such passion existed it could be made to grow and flourish by suggestion and by example.

And he was determined to furnish the example.

He knew something of the passions of men of the type which constituted the band headed by Deveny and Haydon; he knew how their passions might be played upon; he was aware of their respect and admiration for men of notorious reputation, with records for evil deeds and rapid “gunslinging.”

He had seen how Strom Rogers had watched him—with awed respect; he had seen approval in Rogers’ eyes when they had exchanged glances in Lamo; and he had heard men in the group in front of the sheriff’s office speaking of him in awed whispers.

He had never been affected by that sort of adulation—in Lamo or in the days that preceded his visit to the town. But he was not unmindful of the advantage such adulation would give him in his campaign for control of the outlaw camp. And that was what he had determined to achieve.

Three times in as many days he rode up the valley to the Star, each time talking with Haydon—then leaving the latter to go out and lounge around among the men, listening to their talk, but taking little part in it. He did not speak until he was spoken to, and thus he challenged their interest, and they began to make advances to him.

Their social structure was flimsy and thin, their fellowship as spontaneous as it was insincere; and within a few days the edge had worn off the strangeness that had surrounded Harlan, and he had been accepted with hardly a ripple of excitement.

And yet no man among them had achieved intimacy with Harlan. There was a cold constraint in his manner that held them off, figuratively, barring them from becoming familiar with him. Several of them tried familiarity, and were astonished to discover that they had somehow failed—though they had been repelled so cleverly that they could not resent it.

Harlan had established a barrier without them being aware of how he had done it—the barrier of authority and respect, behind which he stood, an engaging, saturnine, interesting, awe-compelling figure.

At the end of a week the men of the Star outfit were addressing him as “boss;” listening to him with respect when he spoke, striving for his attention, and trying to win from him one of those rare smiles with which he honored those among them whose personalities interested him.

At the end of two weeks half of the Star outfit was eager to obey any order he issued, while the remainder betrayed some slight hesitation—which, however, vanished when Harlan turned his steady gaze upon them.

Behind their acceptance of him, though—back of their seeming willingness to admit him to their peculiar fellowship—was a reservation. Harlan felt it, saw it in their eyes, and noted it in their manner toward him. They had heard about him; they knew something of his record; reports of his cleverness with a weapon had come to them. And they were curious.

There was speculation in the glances they threw at him; there was some suspicion, cynicism, skepticism, and not a little doubt. It seemed to Harlan that though they had accepted him they were impatiently awaiting a practical demonstration of those qualities that had made him famous in the country. They wanted to be “shown.”

Their wild, unruly passions and lurid imaginations were the urges that drove them—that shaped their conduct toward their fellows. Some of them were rapid gunslingers—in the picturesque idioms of their speech—and there was not a man among them who did not take pride in his ability to “work” his gun. They had accepted Harlan, but it was obvious that among them were some that doubted the veracity of rumor—some who felt that Harlan had been overrated.

It did not take Harlan long to discover who those doubting spirits were. He saw them watching him—always with curling lip and truculent eye; he heard references to his ability from them—scraps of conversation in which such terms and phrases as “a false alarm, mebbe,” “he don’t look it,” “wears ’em for show, I reckon,” were used. He had learned the names of the men; there were three of them, known merely as “Lanky,” “Poggs,” and “Latimer.”

Their raids upon the cattle in the basin took place at night; and their other depredations occurred at that time also. Harlan did not fail to hear of them, for their successes figured prominently in their daytime conversations; and he had watched the herd of cattle in the Star corrals grow in size until the enclosure grew too small to hold them comfortably. He had noted, too, the cleverness with which the men obliterated the brands on the stolen cattle—or refashioned them until proof of their identity was obscure.

He had taken no part in any of the raids, though he had passed a few nights at the Star, directing, with the help of Strom Rogers, the altering of the brands and the other work attending the disguising of the cattle.

Haydon he had seen but a few times, and Deveny not at all. He learned from Rogers that Haydon spent most of his time upon mysterious missions which took him to Lamo, to Lazette, and to Las Vegas; and that Deveny operated from a place that Rogers referred to as the “Cache,” several miles up the valley.

Latimer, a tawny giant of a man with a long, hooked nose, and thin, cruel lips, interested Harlan. He watched the man when the other was not conscious of his glances, noting the bigness of him, his slow, panther-like movements; the glowing, savage truculence of his eyes; the hard, bitter droop of his lips under the yellow mustache he wore. He felt the threat of the man when the latter looked at him—it was personal, intense—seeming to have motive behind it. It aroused in Harlan a responsive passion.

One day, seated on a bench in front of the long bunkhouse near the Star ranchhouse, Harlan was watching some of the men who were playing cards near him. They were lounging in the grass, laughingly pitting their skill against one another, while another group, in front of the stable, was diligently repairing saddles.

Apart from the two groups were Lanky, Poggs, and Latimer. They were standing near the corral fence, about a hundred feet from where Harlan sat. The subject of their talk was unpleasant, for their faces reflected the venomous passions that inspired it.

Latimer had been watching Harlan—his gaze boldly hostile and full of a hate that was unmistakable.

And Harlan had not been unaware of Latimer’s gaze; he had noted the wolfish gleam in the other’s eyes—and because he was interested in Latimer, he watched him covertly.

But Harlan had betrayed no sign that he knew Latimer was watching him; and when he saw Strom Rogers coming toward him from the stable, he grinned at him and made room for him when the latter headed for the bench upon which Harlan was sitting.

“Lazy day,” offered Rogers as he dropped on the bench beside Harlan; “not a heap doin’.” He did not look at Harlan, but leaned forward, took up a cinch buckle that had been lying in the sand at his feet, and turned it idly over and over in his hands, apparently intent on its construction.

With his head down, so that even the card-players could not see his lips move, he whispered to Harlan:

“Don’t let ’em see you know I’m talkin’! They’re framin’ up on you!”

Harlan grinned, shielding his lips with a hand that he passed casually over them.

“Meanin’ Latimer—an’ his friends?” he said.

“Yep. Latimer’s jealous of you. Been jealous. Thinks he can match your gunplay—itchin’ for trouble—bound to have it out with you. We was at the Cache last night, an’ I heard him an’ Deveny yappin’ about it. Deveny’s back of him—he’s sore about the way you handed it to him in Lamo. Keep your eyes peeled; they’re pullin’ it off pretty soon. Latimer’s doin’ the shootin’—he’s tryin’ to work himself up to it. Be careful.”

“I’m thankin’ you.” Harlan leaned back, crossed his legs, and stared off into space, the light in his eyes becoming vacuous. He seemed not to be interested in Latimer and the other two, but in reality he saw them distinctly. But they had their backs to him now, and were slowly sauntering toward the stable door.

“So Deveny ain’t admirin’ me none?” he said to Rogers.

“Not scarcely. No more than a gopher is admirin’ a side-winder.”

“Latimer,” said Harlan, “don’t like my style of beauty either. I’ve been noticin’ it. He’s a mighty interestin’ man. If I wasn’t dead sure he ain’t the kind of a guy which goes around shootin’ folks in the back, I’d say he pretty near fits the description I got of the man who helped Dolver salivate my side-kicker, Davey Langan, over in Pardo—a couple of months ago.”

Rogers’ side glance was pregnant with a grim, unsmiling humor.

“So you’ve picked him out? I’ve been wonderin’ how long it would take you.”

The emotion that passed over Harlan was not visible. It might have been detected, however, by the slight leap in his voice.

“You an’ Latimer is bosom friends, I reckon?”

“Shucks!”

Rogers’ glance met Harlan’s for a fleeting instant.

“This gang needs cleanin’ up,” said Rogers. He got up, and stood in front of Harlan, holding out the cinch buckle, as though offering it to the other. For both men had seen that Latimer had left his friends at the stable door and was coming slowly toward the bunkhouse.

“You’ll have to be slick,” warned Rogers. “He’s comin’. I’ll be moseyin’ out of the way.”

He moved slowly from the bench, passed the group of card-players, and walked to the ranchhouse, where he hung the cinch buckle on a nail driven into the wall of the building. Then he slowly turned, facing the bench upon which Harlan still sat, and toward which Latimer was walking.

It was evident that all of the men in the vicinity were aware of the threatened clash, for their manner, upon the approach of Latimer, indicated as much.

For weeks they had been eager to test the traditional quickness of Harlan with the weapons that swung at his hips—those weapons had been a constant irritation to some of them, and an object of speculation to all. And when the night before some of them had heard the whispered word that Latimer—with Deveny’s sanction—indeed with Deveny’s encouragement—was determined to clash with Harlan, they had realized that the moment for which they had yearned was at hand.

For they had seen in Harlan’s eyes—and had felt in the atmosphere that surrounded the man—the certainty that he would not refuse the clash with Latimer. The only question in their minds concerning Harlan was that of his speed and accuracy. And so when they saw Latimer coming they ceased playing cards and sat, interestedly watching—alert to note how Latimer would bring about the clash, and how Harlan would meet it.

Latimer had nerved himself for the ordeal by talking with his friends. The will to kill Harlan had been in his heart for a long time, but he needed to reinforce it with an artificial rage. And, dwelling, with his friends, upon the irritating fact that Harlan had come among them to usurp authority to which he had no visible claim, he had succeeded in working his rage to a frenzy that took little account of consequences.

Yet Latimer would not have been able to reach that frenzy had he not been convinced that he was Harlan’s master with the six-shooter. He really believed that Harlan had been overrated. He believed that because he wanted to believe it, and because his contempt for the man had bred that conviction in his heart.

Also, he thought he knew why Harlan had come to the Star—why he had joined the outlaw camp. And the night before, he had communicated that suspicion to Deveny. It was because Harlan knew he had been with Dolver when Davey Langan had been killed. Latimer thought he had seen a slight relief in Deveny’s eyes when he had told the latter that, but he could not be sure, and it was not important.

The important thing was that he must kill Harlan—and he meant to do it. He would kill him fairly, if possible, thereby enhancing his reputation—but he was certain to kill him, no matter what the method.

That conviction blazed in his eyes as he came to a halt within a dozen paces of where Harlan was sitting. He had worked himself to such a pitch of rage that it gripped him like some strong fever—bloating his face, tensing his muscles, bulging his eyes.

Harlan had watched him; and his gaze was on the other now with a steady, unwavering alertness that advertised his knowledge of what was impending. But he sat, motionless, rigid, waiting Latimer’s first hostile movement.

Harlan had turned a very little when Latimer had begun his walk toward the bench; his right side was slightly toward the man, the leg partially extended; while the left leg was doubled under the bench—seemingly to give him leverage should he decide to rise.

But he gave no indication of meditating such a move. It was plain to the watchers that if he attempted it Latimer would draw his gun and begin to shoot.

Latimer was convinced also that Harlan would not attempt to rise. He had Harlan at a disadvantage, and he laughed loudly, sardonically, contemptuously as he stood, his right hand hovering close to his pistol holster, his eyes aflame with hate and passion.

“Keep a-settin’, you buzzard’s whelp!” he sneered; “keep a-settin’! Latimer’s out to git you. You know it—eh? You’ve knowed it right along—pretendin’ not to. ‘Drag’ Harlan—bah! Gunslinger with a record—an’ caught a-settin’. Caught with the goods on, sneakin’ in here, tryin’ to ketch a man unawares.

“Bah! Don’t I know what you’re here for? It’s me! You blowed Dolver apart for killin’ that damned, slick-eyed pardner of yourn—Davey Langan. Do you want to know who sent Langan out? I’m tellin’ you—it was me! Me—me!”

He fairly yelled the last words, and stiffened, holding the fingers of his right hand clawlike, above the butt of the holstered pistol.

And when he saw that Harlan did not move; that he sat there rigid, his eyes unblinking and expressionless; his right hand hanging limply at his side, near the partially extended leg; his left hand resting upon the thigh of the doubled leg—he stepped closer, watching Harlan’s right hand.

For a space—while one might have counted ten—neither man moved a muscle. Something in Harlan’s manner sent into Latimer’s frenzied brain the message that all was not what it seemed—that Harlan was meditating some astonishing action. Ten seconds is not long, as times goes, but during that slight interval the taut nerves of Latimer’s were twanged with a torturing doubt that began to creep over him.

Would Harlan never make that move? That question was dinned insistently into Latimer’s ears. He began to believe that Harlan did not intend to draw.

And then——

“Ah!”

It was Latimer’s lungs that breathed the ejaculation.

For Harlan’s right hand had moved slightly upward, toward the pistol at his right hip. It went only a few inches; it was still far below the holster when Latimer’s clawlike fingers descended to the butt of his own weapon. The thought that he would beat Harlan in a fair draw was in his mind—that he would beat him despite the confusion of the hesitating motion with which Harlan got his gun out.

Something was happening, though—something odd and unexplainable. For though Latimer had seemed to have plenty of time, he was conscious that Harlan’s gun was belching fire and death at him. He saw the smoke streaks, felt the bullets striking him, searing their way through him, choking him, weakening his knees.

He went down, his eyes wide with incredulity, filling with hideous self-derision when he saw that the pistol which had sent his death to him was not in Harlan’s right hand at all, but in his left.

Harlan got up slowly as Latimer stretched out in the dust at his feet—casting one swift glance at the fallen man to satisfy himself that for him the incident was ended. Then, with the gaze of every man in the outfit upon him, he strode toward the stable, where Lanky and Poggs were standing, having witnessed the death of their confederate.

They stiffened to immobility as they watched Harlan’s approach, knowing that for them the incident was not closed—their guilt plain in their faces.

And when Harlan halted in front of them they stood, not moving a muscle, their eyes searching Harlan’s face for signs that they too, were to receive a demonstration of the man’s uncanny cleverness.

“You was backin’ Latimer’s play,” said Harlan, shortly. “I’m aimin’ to play the string out. Pull—or I’ll blow you apart!”

Poggs and Lanky did not “pull.” They stood there, ghastly color stealing into their faces, their eyes wide with the knowledge that death would be the penalty of a hostile movement.

Harlan’s pistol was again in its holster, and yet they had no desire to provoke the man to draw it. The furtive gleam in the eyes of both revealed the hope that gripped them—that some of the watchers would interfere.

But not a man moved. Most of them had been stunned by the rapidity of Harlan’s action—by the deftness with which he had brought his left hand into use. They had received the practical demonstration for which they all had longed, and each man’s manner plainly revealed his decision to take no part in what was transpiring.

They remained in their places while Harlan—understanding that Poggs and Lanky would not accept his invitation—spoke gruffly to them:

“This camp ain’t got any room for skunks that go to framin’ up on any of the boys. Today you done it to me—tomorrow you’d try to pull it off on some other guy.

“You’re travelin’—pronto. You’re gettin’ your cayuses. Then you’re hittin’ the breeze away from here—an’ not comin’ back. That lets you out. Mosey!”

He stood watchful, alert, while the men roped their horses, got their “war-bags,” from the bunkhouse, mounted, and rode away without looking back. Then he walked over to the bench where he had been sitting when Rogers had warned him of the plan to kill him; ordered several of the men to take Latimer’s body away, and then resumed his place on the bench, where he rolled a cigarette.

Later, when the men who had gone with Latimer’s body returned to the vicinity of the ranchhouse, Harlan was still sitting on the bench.

No man said a word to him, but he saw a new respect in the eyes of all of them—even in Rogers’ gaze—which had not strayed from him for an instant during the trouble.

And a little later, when Rogers walked to the bench and sat beside him, the other men had resumed their various pastimes as though nothing had happened.

Again Rogers whispered to him, lowly, admiringly:

“This camp is yours, man, whenever you say the word!”