'Drag' Harlan. Charles Alden Seltzer

Purgatory’s raised some objection.”

      He stepped back and peered around the rock. Laskar was lying in the sand near the base of the rock, doubled up and groaning loudly, while Purgatory, his nostrils distended, his eyes ablaze, was standing over the weapons that lay in the sand, watching the groaning man malignantly.

      Harlan returned to the wounded man, to find that he had collapsed and was breathing heavily.

      For some minutes Harlan stood, looking down at him; then he knelt in the sand beside him and lifted his head. The man’s eyes were closed, and Harlan laid his head down again and examined the wound in his chest.

      He shook his head as he got up, went to Purgatory, and got some water, which he used to wipe away the dust and blood which had become matted over the wound. He shook his head again after bathing the wound. The wound meant death for the man within a short time. Yet Harlan forced some water into the half-open mouth and bathed the man’s face with it.

      For a long time after Harlan ceased to work with him the man lay in a stupor-like silence, limp and motionless, though his eyes opened occasionally, and by the light in them Harlan knew the man was aware of what he had been doing.

      The sun was going now; it had become a golden, blazing ball which was sinking over the peaks of some distant mountains, its fiery rays stabbing the pale azure of the sky with brilliantly glowing shafts that threw off ever-changing seas of color that blended together in perfect harmony.

      Harlan alternately watched the wounded man and Laskar.

      Laskar was still groaning, and finally Harlan walked to him and pushed him with a contemptuous foot.

      “Get up, you sneak!” he ordered. And Laskar, groaning, holding his chest—where Purgatory’s hoofs had struck him—staggered to his feet and looked with piteously pleading eyes at the big man who stood near him, unmoved by the spectacle of suffering he presented.

      And when he found that Harlan gave him no sympathy, he cursed horribly. This drew a cold threat from Harlan.

      “Shut your rank mouth or I’ll turn Purgatory loose on you—again. Lookin’ for sympathy, eh? How much sympathy did you give that hombre who’s cashin’ in behind the rocks? None—damn you!”

      It was the first flash of feeling Harlan had exhibited, and Laskar shrank from him in terror.

      But Harlan followed him, grasping him by a shoulder and gripping it with iron fingers, so that Laskar screamed with pain.

      “Who is that man?” Harlan motioned toward the rock.

      “Lane Morgan. He owns the Rancho Seco—about forty miles south of Lamo,” returned Laskar after a long look into Harlan’s eyes.

      “Who set you guys onto him—what you wantin’ him for?”

      “I don’t know,” whined Laskar. “Day before yesterday Dolver an’ me meets up in Lamo, an’ Dolver asks me to help him give Morgan his pass-out checks on the ride over to Pardo—which Morgan’s intendin’ to make. I ain’t got any love for Morgan, an’ so I took Dolver up.”

      “You’re a liar!”

      Harlan’s fingers were sinking into Laskar’s shoulder again, and once more the man screamed with pain and impotent fury.

      “I swear—” began Laskar.

      Harlan’s grin was bitterly contemptuous. He placed the other hand on Laskar’s shoulder and forced the man to look into his eyes.

      “You’re a liar, but I’m lettin’ you off. You’re a sneak with Greaser blood in you. I don’t ever want to see you again. I’m goin’ to Lamo—soon as this man Morgan cashes in. I’ll be there some time tomorrow. Lamo wouldn’t please me none if I was to find you there when I ride in. You slope, now—an’ keep on hittin’ the breeze until there ain’t no more of it. I’d blow you apart if this man Morgan was anything to me. But it ain’t my game unless I see you again.”

      He watched until Laskar, still holding his chest, walked to where the two horses were concealed, and mounted one of them. When Laskar, leaning over the pommel of the saddle, had grown dim in the haze that was settling over the desert, Harlan scowled and returned to the wounded man.

      To his astonishment, Morgan was conscious—and a cold calmness seemed to have come over him. His eyes were filled with a light that told of complete knowledge and resignation. He half smiled as Harlan knelt beside him.

      “I’m about due, I reckon,” he said. “I heard you talkin’ to the man you just let get away. It don’t make any difference—about him. I reckon he was just a tool, anyway. There’s someone behind this bigger than Dolver an’ that man Laskar. He didn’t tell you?”

      Harlan shook his head negatively, watching the other intently.

      “I didn’t reckon he would,” said Morgan. “But there’s somebody.” He gazed long into Harlan’s face, and the latter gazed steadily back at him. He seemed to be searching Harlan’s face for signs of character.

      Harlan stood the probing glance well—so that at last Morgan smiled, saying slowly: “It’s funny—damned funny. About faces, I mean. Your reputation—it’s bad. I’ve been hearin’ about you for a couple of years now. An’ I’ve been lookin’ at you an’ tryin’ to make myself say, ‘Yes, he’s the kind of a guy which would do the things they say he’s done.’

      “I can’t make myself say it; I can’t even make myself think it. Either you’re a mighty good actor, or you’re the worst-judged man I ever met. Which is it?”

      “Mostly all of us get reputations we don’t deserve,” said Harlan lowly.

      Morgan’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Meanin’ that you don’t deserve yours?” he said.

      “I reckon there’s been a heap of lyin’ goin’ on about me.”

      For a long time Morgan watched the other, studying him. The long twilight of the desert descended and found them—Morgan staring at Harlan; the latter enduring the gaze—for he knew that the end would not long be delayed.

      At last Morgan sighed.

      “Well,” he said, “I’ve got to take a chance on you. An’, somehow, it seems to me that I ain’t takin’ much of a chance, either. For a man that’s supposed to be the hell-raisin’ outlaw that folks say you are, you’ve got the straightest eyes I ever seen. I’ve seen killers—an’ outlaws, an’ gun-fighters, an’ I never seen one that could look at a man like you’ve looked at me. Harlan,” he went on slowly, “I’m goin’ to tell you about some gold I’ve hid—a hundred thousand dollars!”

      Keenly, suspicion lurking deep in his eyes, his mouth half open, seemingly ready to snap shut the instant he detected greed or cupidity in Harlan’s eyes, he watched the latter.

      It seemed that he expected Harlan to betray a lust for the gold he had mentioned; and he was ready to close his lips and to die with his secret. And when he saw that apparently Harlan was unmoved, that he betrayed, seemingly, not the slightest interest, that even his eyelids did not flicker at his words, nor his face change color—Morgan drew a tremulous sigh.

      “You’ve got me guessin’,” he confessed weakly. “I don’t know whether you’re a devil or a saint.”

      “I ain’t claimin’ nothin’,” said Harlan. “An’ I ain’t carin’ a damn about your gold. I’d a heap rather you wouldn’t mention it. More than one man has busted his character chasin’ that rainbow.”

      “You ain’t interested?” demanded Morgan.

      “Not none.”

      Morgan’s eyes glowed with an eager light. For now that Harlan betrayed lack of interest, Morgan was convinced—almost—that the man’s reputation for committing