It was Strom Rogers who indicated to the outlaws at the Star that henceforth Harlan was to exercise authority of a kind that had formerly been vested in Haydon and Deveny.

The corral was packed to suffocation with cattle, threatening the health of the animals; Deveny had sent no word from the Cache regarding the disposal of the stock, and Haydon’s whereabouts were unknown.

Rogers had moved stock on his own initiative in former days—for he had been an able assistant to both leaders. And Rogers could have moved the stock out of the corral and to the point far south where the outlaws had always sold them.

But there was malice in Rogers’ heart toward the two outlaw leaders, and a perverse devil lurked in him. For many months he had worshiped Barbara Morgan from a distance, vaguely aware that his passion for her could never be realized. But there was a spark of honesty and justice in Rogers despite his profession, and a sincere admiration for the girl that admitted of no thought of evil toward her.

He had almost betrayed his resentment to Deveny when in Lamo, on the day of the coming of Harlan, Deveny had boldly announced his intentions toward the girl; and it had been a dread of clashing with Deveny that had kept him from interfering. The will to protect the girl had been in Rogers’ mind, but he lacked the physical courage to risk his life for her.

This man who had boldly entered the outlaw camp, after first defying Deveny in Lamo, had made a stirring appeal to the good in Rogers; and he foresaw that trouble, in which Harlan had a chance to emerge victorious, was certain. And he had decided to align himself with the Pardo gunman.

Therefore, on this morning, when it was certain that the cattle in the corral must be moved, he deliberately refused to exercise his prerogative. Instead, he waited until after breakfast—when the men were congregated outside the bunkhouse door—when he was certain they would all hear him.

Harlan had come out, too. He had not visited the Rancho Seco for more than a week, fearing that his absence might jeopardize the advantage he had gained over the men through the killing of Latimer.

With the attention of all the men centered upon him, Rogers walked close to Harlan, speaking loudly:

“Them cattle ought to hit the trail, Harlan. It’s up to you—you’re the boss. Do we move ’em—an’ where?”

A comprehensive light gleamed in Harlan’s eyes.

“They move,” he said shortly. “Drive them where you’ve been drivin’ them.”

As though he had been giving orders to the outlaws all his life, he briskly mentioned the names of the men who were to form the trail herd.

Not a man dissented. Those whose names were called quickly detached themselves from the group, and sought the horse corral; where they roped their horses and began to make preparations to obey Harlan’s order. And later, when the cattle were driven out of the corral, and the trail herd crew straggled behind them over the level that led southward, the men were grinning.

For Harlan had told them that their share of the spoils resulting from the sale of the cattle was to be materially increased. He had likewise told them that they might spend an extra day in “town” before their return.

Only one man besides Harlan remained at the Star after the herd vanished into the southern distance. That man was the black-bearded fellow who had escorted Harlan to the ranchhouse on the occasion of his first visit—Lafe Woodward.

This man’s admiration for Harlan had never been concealed. He had stayed as close to Harlan as possible; and from his manner Harlan had divined that the man was eager to ingratiate himself.

Woodward stood near Harlan as the herd and the men vanished. He had grinned widely when, just before the outfit had departed, he had heard Rogers whisper to Harlan:

“You’ve made yourself solid with the bunch, for sure, by offerin’ ’em a bigger divvy. They’ve been grumblin’ about it for a long time. They’re all sore at Haydon an’ Deveny for bein’ greedy. But you’re sure cookin’ up a heap of trouble with Haydon an’ Deveny!”

Harlan grinned with grim mirthlessness. It had been his first opportunity to stir up dissension and strife in the outlaw camp, and he had taken instant advantage of it. He had created factional feeling, and he was prepared to accept the consequences.

And, later in the day, when he saw Haydon ride in, dismount and cast a surprised glance at the empty corral, he knew that the moment for which he had planned, had come.

Woodward was nowhere in sight; and Harlan, who had been in the blacksmith-shop, made himself visible to Haydon by stepping outside.

Haydon called to him, sharply; and Harlan walked slowly to where the outlaw chief stood, a saturnine grin on his face, his eyes alight with a cold humor that might have been illuminating to Haydon had he taken the trouble to look into them.

Haydon was laboring under some strong passion. He was suppressing it with an effort, but it showed in his tensed muscles and in his flushed face.

“Where are the cattle?” he demanded, his voice a trifle hoarse.

“They’re headed for Willow Wells—where you’ve been sellin’ them.”

“By whose orders?” Haydon’s voice was choked with passion.

“Mine,” drawled Harlan. Harlan might have explained that the stock had been suffering in the crowded enclosure, thus assuaging Haydon’s wrath. But he gave no explanation—that would have been a revelation of eagerness to escape blame and the possible consequences of his act. Instead of explaining he looked steadily into Haydon’s eyes, his own cold and unblinking.

He saw Haydon’s wrath flare up—it was in the heightened color that spread upward above the collar of his shirt; he saw the man’s terrific effort at self-control; and his look grew bitter with insolence.

“What’s botherin’ you?” he said.

“The cattle—damn it!” shouted Haydon. “What in hell do you mean by sending them away without orders?”

“I’m havin’ my say, Haydon. We agreed to split everything three ways. Authority to give orders goes with that. That was the agreement. A man’s got to be either a captain or a private, an’ I’ve never played second to any man. I ain’t beginnin’ now.”

“Why, damn you!” gasped Haydon. His eyes were aglare with a terrible rage and hate; he stepped backward a little, bending his right arm, spreading the fingers.

Harlan had made no move, but the light in his eyes betrayed his complete readiness for the trouble that Haydon plainly meditated.

“Yes,” he said, slowly, drawling his words, a little! “It’s come to that, I reckon. You’ve got to flash your gun now, or take it back. No man cusses me an’ gets away with it. Get goin’!”

Haydon stood, swaying from side to side, in the grip of a mighty indecision. The fingers of his right hand spread wider; the hand descended to a point nearer to his pistol holster.

There it poised, the fingers hooked, like the talons of some giant bird about to clutch a victim.

Had Haydon faced a man with less courage; had Harlan’s iron control lacked that quality which permitted him to give an enemy that small chance for life which he always gave them, death might have reigned at the Star again. Haydon owed his life to that hesitation which had made Harlan famous.

And as the strained, tense seconds passed with both men holding the positions they had assumed, it seemed Haydon was slowly beginning to realize that Harlan was reluctant, was deliberately giving him a chance.

A change came over Haydon. The clawlike fingers began to straighten; imperceptibly at first, and then with a spasmodic motion that flexed the muscles in little jerks. The hand became limp; it dropped slowly to his side—down beyond the pistol holster. Then it came up, and the man swept it over his eyes, as though to brush away a vision that frightened him.

His face grew pale, he shuddered; and at last he stood, swaying a little, his mouth open with wonder for the phenomenal thing that had happened to him.

Harlan’s voice, cold and expressionless, startled him:

“You wasn’t meanin’ to cuss me?”

“No!” The denial was blurted forth. Haydon grinned, faintly, with hideous embarrassment; the knowledge that he had been beaten, and that he owed his life to Harlan, was plain in his eyes.

He laughed, uncertainly, as he made an effort to stiffen his lagging muscles.

“I was a bit flustered, Harlan; I talked rather recklessly, I admit. You see, I’ve been used to giving orders myself. I was riled for a minute.”

“That goes!” said Harlan, shortly. His voice had changed. The slow drawl had gone, and a snapping, authoritative sharpness had replaced it.

Haydon gazed at him with a new wonder. He sensed in Harlan’s manner the consciousness of power, the determination to command. At a stroke, it seemed, Harlan had wrenched from him the right to rule. He felt himself being relegated to a subordinate position; he felt at this minute the ruthless force of the man who stood before him; he felt oddly impotent and helpless, and he listened to Harlan with a queer feeling of wonder for the absence of the rage that should have gripped him.

“I’m runnin’ things from now on,” Harlan said. “I ain’t interferin’ with the Star. But I’m runnin’ things for the boys. I told Rogers to drive the cattle to Willow’s Wells—an’ to sell them. I’ve promised the boys a bigger divvy. They get it. I’ve told them to take a day off, in town, after they turn the cattle over.

“There’s got to be a new deal. The boys are fussed up—claimin’ they ain’t gettin’ their share. I’m seein’ that they do. You can’t run a camp like this an’ not treat the boys right.”

The wonder that had been aroused in Haydon grew as Harlan talked; it increased in intensity until, when Harlan’s voice died away, it developed into suspicion.

That was what Harlan had come to the Star for! He wanted to run the camp, to direct the activities of the outlaws in the valley. Power! Authority! Those were the things Harlan craved for.

Haydon saw it all, now. He saw that Harlan wanted to dominate—everything. He wanted to rule the outlaw camp; he wanted to run the Rancho Seco; he intended to get possession of the gold that Morgan had left, and he wanted Barbara Morgan.

The rage that had held Haydon in its clutch when he had called Harlan to him was reviving. Haydon’s face was still white, but the fury in his eyes—slowly growing—was not to be mistaken.

Harlan saw it, and his lips straightened. He had expected Haydon would rage over what he had determined to tell him; and he was not surprised. He had deliberately goaded the man into his present fury. He had determined to kill him, and he had been disappointed when he had seen Haydon lose his courage when the crisis arrived. And now his deliberate and premeditated plan was to bear fruit.

Harlan was reluctant to kill, but there seemed to be no other way. Haydon was a murderer. He had killed Lane Morgan; he was an outlaw whose rule had oppressed the valley for many months. If Harlan could have devised some plan that would make it possible for him to attain his end without killing anybody, he would have eagerly adopted it.

But in this country force must be fought with force. It was a grim game, and the rules were inflexible—kill or be killed.

His own life would be safe in this section so long as he guarded it. Eternal vigilance and the will to take life when his own was threatened was a principle which custom had established. If he expected to save the girl at the Rancho Seco he could not temper his actions with mercy. And he knew that if he was to succeed in his design to disrupt the outlaw gang he would have to remove the man who stood before him, working himself into a new frenzy. There seemed to be no other way.

But Haydon seemed to have control of himself, now, despite the frenzied glare of his eyes. He was outwardly cool; his movements were deliberate—he had conquered his fear of Harlan, it seemed.

He laughed, harshly.

“Harlan,” he said; “you had me going—talking that way. By Heaven! you almost convinced me that I’d let you run things here. I was beginning to believe I’d lost my nerve. But see here!”

He held out his right hand toward Harlan—it was steady, rigid, not a nerve in it quivered.

“You’re fast with your guns, but you can’t run any whizzer in on me—you can’t intimidate me. You killed Latimer the other day; and you’ve got the boys with you. But you can’t run things here. Have all the boys gone?”

“Woodward’s here.”

Harlan spoke lowly; his eyes were keenly watchful. This flare-up on Haydon’s part was merely a phase of his confused mental condition. He saw that Haydon did not mean to use his gun—that he intended to ignore it, no doubt planning to regain his authority when the men of the outfit returned—when he might enlist the support of some of them.

“Woodward’s here—eh?” laughed Haydon. He raised his voice, shouting for the man. And Harlan saw Woodward come from behind an outbuilding, look toward the ranchhouse, and then walk slowly toward them.

Woodward halted when within several paces of the two, and looked from one to the other curiously, his eyes narrowed with speculation.

“Woodward,” directed Haydon; “hit the breeze after the outfit and tell them to drive those cattle back here!”

Harlan grinned. “Woodward,” he said, gently; “you climb on your cayuse an’ do as Haydon tells you. Haydon is figurin’ on cashin’ in when you do.”

Haydon blustered. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that if Woodward goes after the boys I’m goin’ to blow you apart. I’m givin’ the orders around here!”

Watching Haydon, Harlan saw that he was not exhibiting rage, but intense interest. He was not looking at Harlan, but at Woodward. And, turning swiftly, his guns both leaping into his hands with the movement—for he had a swift suspicion that Woodward might be standing with Haydon against him—he saw that Woodward had fallen into a crouch; that the man’s right hand was hovering over his pistol holster, and that his eyes were gleaming with a light that could mean only the one thing—murder.

Backing slowly away from both Haydon and Woodward, Harlan watched them, his guns ready for instant action should he catch any sign that would indicate trickery toward himself.

He saw no such signs. It became plain to him that Woodward had no eyes for anyone but Haydon, and that Haydon’s attention was fixed upon Woodward with an intentness that meant he had divined that Woodward’s peculiar manner had a definite, personal meaning.

Woodward continued to advance on Haydon. He was waving his left hand as though giving Harlan a silent order to get out of his way, while his gaze was centered upon Haydon with an unspoken promise of violence, fascinating to behold.

It seemed to have fascinated Haydon. Harlan saw him shrink back, the bluster gone out of him, his face the color of ashes. He kept stepping back, until he brought up against the rear wall of the ranchhouse; and there he stood, watching Woodward, his eyes bulging with dread wonder.

Harlan saw his lips move; heard his voice, hoarse and throaty:

“It’s a frame-up—a frame-up. Both of you are out to get me!”

“Frame-up!”

This was Woodward. He was a sinister figure, with his black beard seeming to bristle with passion, his eyes flaming with it; all his muscles tensed and quivering, and his right hand, with clawlike fingers, poised above the butt of his pistol.

“Frame-up!” he repeated, laughing hoarsely between his teeth. “Hell’s fire! Do you think it takes two men to ‘get’ you—you miserable whelp?

“I’ve been waitin’ for this day—waitin’ for it, waitin’ to get you alone—waitin’ for the boys to go so’s I could tell you somethin’.

“You know what it is. You ain’t guessin’, eh? Listen while I tell you somethin’. The day ‘Drag’ Harlan got in Lamo he brought news that Lane Morgan had been killed out in the desert. I heard the boys sayin’ you had a hand in it. But I thought that was just talk. I didn’t believe you was that kind of a skunk. I waited.

“Then you sent me over to the edge of the level, near the Rancho Seco—where Harlan found that flattened grass when he rode over here. You told me to watch Harlan and Barbara Morgan. You said you thought Harlan would try some sneak game with her.

“You can gamble I watched. I saw Harlan standin’ guard over her; I saw him follow that sneak Lawson. I heard the shot that killed Lawson, an’ I saw Harlan tote him downstairs, an’ then set on the door-sill all night, guardin’ Barbara Morgan.

“The sneakin’ game was played by you, Haydon. When I saw Harlan headin’ toward the valley the day he come here, I lit out ahead of him. And when he got to the timber over there I brought him in.

“An’ I heard you talk that day. I heard him sayin’ that you killed Lane Morgan. He said my dad told him you fired the shot that killed him.”

Harlan started and leaned forward, amazed. But Haydon swayed, and then steadied himself with an effort, and stared at Woodward with bulging, incredulous eyes.

“Your dad?” he almost shrieked; “Lane Morgan was your father?”

Woodward’s grin was wolfish. He took two or three steps toward Haydon—panther-like steps that betrayed the lust that was upon him.

“I’m Billy Morgan,” he said, his teeth showing in a merciless grin; “Barbara’s brother. Flash your gun, Haydon; I’m goin’ to kill you!”

Haydon clawed for his pistol, missing the butt in his eagerness, and striving wildly to draw it. It snagged on a rawhide thong that supported the holster and his fingers were loosening in the partial grip when Billy Morgan shot him.

He flattened against the wall of the ranchhouse for an instant, staring wildly around him; then his head sagged forward and he slid down the wall of the ranchhouse into the deep dust that was mounded near it.