BARBARA SEES A LIGHT

When Barbara regained consciousness it was with a gasp of horror over the realization of what had happened. She stiffened immediately, however, and lay, straining at the dread paralysis that had gripped her; for she saw Harlan standing at her side, looking down into her face, his own set in a grim smile.

She must have fainted again, for it seemed to her that a long period of time elapsed until she again became conscious of her surroundings. Harlan had moved off a little, though he was still watching her with the grimly humorous expression.

She sat up, staring wildly at him; then shrank back, getting as far away from him as she could.

"You!" she gasped, "You! Didn't I----"

He interrupted her, drawling his words a little:

"The guy you shot was Lawson. You bored him a heap. I've toted him downstairs. He's plenty dead. It was plumb good shootin'--for a woman."

His words shocked her to action, and she got up and walked around the foot of the bed, from where she could see the spot where the intruder must have fallen after she had shot him. A dark stain showed on the floor where the man had lain, and the sight of it sent her a step backward, so that she struck the foot of the bed. She caught at the bed and grasped one of the posts, holding tightly to it while she looked Harlan over with dreading, incredulous eyes.

"It--it wasn't _you_!" she demanded. "Are you sure?"

He smiled and said, slowly and consolingly: "I reckon if you'd shot _me_ I'd be knowin' it. Don't take it so hard, ma'am. Why, if a man goes to breakin' into a woman's room that way he sure ain't fit to go on livin'

in a world where there _is_ a woman."

"It was Lawson--you say? Meeder Lawson--the Rancho Seco foreman? I thought--why, I thought it was you!"

"I'm thankin' you, ma'am," he said, ironically. "But if you'll just stick your head out of that window, you'll see it was Lawson, right enough.

He's layin' right below the window."

She did as bidden, and she saw Lawson lying on the ground beneath the window, flat on his back, his face turned upward with the radiant moonlight shining full upon his wide-open, staring eyes.

Barbara glanced swiftly, and then drew back into the room, shuddering.

Harlan stood, silently regarding her, while she walked again to the bed and sat upon it, staring out into the flood of moonlight, her face ghastly, her hands hanging limply at her sides.

She had killed a man. And though there was justification for the deed, she could not fight down the shivering horror that had seized her, the overpowering and terrible knowledge that she had taken human life.

She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, and Harlan said no word to her, standing motionless, his arms folded, one hand slowly caressing his chin, as he watched her.

After a time, drawing a long, shuddering breath, she looked up at him.

"How did you know--what made you come--here?" she asked.

"I wasn't reckonin' to sleep tonight--havin' thoughts--about things," he said. "I was puttin' in a heap of my time settin' in the doorway of the bunkhouse, wonderin' what had made you so scared of me. While I was tryin' to figure it out I saw Lawson comin'. There was somethin' in his actions which didn't jibe with my ideas of square dealin', an' so I kept lookin' at him. An' when I saw him prowlin' around, tryin' to open doors an' windows, why, I just naturally trailed him. An' I found the window he opened. I reckon that's all."

She got up, swaying a little, a wan smile on her face that reflected her astonishment and wonder over the way she had jumbled things. For this man--the man she had feared when she had left him standing outside the door some hours before--had been eager to protect her from the other, who had attacked her. He had been waiting, watching.

Moreover, there was in Harlan's eyes as he stood in the room a considerate, deferential gleam that told her more than words could have conveyed to her--a something that convinced her that he was not the type of man she had thought him.

The knowledge filled her with a strange delight. There was relief in her eyes, and her voice was almost steady when she again spoke to him:

"Harlan," she said, "did father really send you here? Did he make you promise to come?"

"I reckon he did, ma'am," he said.

For an instant she looked fairly at him, intently searching his eyes for indications of untruthfulness. Then she drew a long breath of conviction.

"I believe you," she said.

Harlan swept his hat from his head. He bowed, and there was an odd leap in his voice:

"That tickles me a heap, ma'am. I don't know when I've heard anything that pleased me more."

He backed away from her until he reached the doorway. And she saw his eyes--wide and eloquent--even in the subdued light of the doorway.

"I'd go to sleep now, ma'am, if I was you. You need it a heap. It's been a long day for you--an' things ain't gone just right. I don't reckon there'll be anybody botherin' you any more tonight."

"And you?" she asked, "won't you try to get some sleep, too?"

He laughed, telling her that he would "ketch a wink or two." Then he turned and went down the stairs--she could hear him as he opened a lower door and went out.

Looking out of the window an instant later, she saw him taking Lawson's body away. And still later, hearing a sound outside, she stole to the window again.

Below, seated on the threshold of the door that led into the room she had entered when she had crossed the _patio_, she saw Harlan. He was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the door jamb in an att.i.tude of complete relaxation.

There was something in his manner that comforted her--a calm confidence, a slow ease of movement as he fingered his cigarette that indicated perfect tranquility--an atmosphere of peace that could not have surrounded him had he meditated any evil whatever.

She knew, now, that she had misjudged him. For he had made no attempt to take advantage of her loneliness and helplessness. And whatever his reputation--whatever the crimes he had committed against the laws--he had been a gentleman in his att.i.tude toward her. That feature of his conduct dominated her thoughts as she stretched out on the bed; it was her last coherent thought as she went to sleep.

CHAPTER XIII

HARLAN TAKES CHARGE

Barbara could not have told why she had not acted upon her determination to ride westward to the Star ranch to acquaint John Haydon with the predicament into which the events of the past few hours had plunged her.

She could not have explained why she permitted the first day--after Harlan's coming--to pa.s.s without going to see Haydon, any more than she could have explained why she permitted many other days to pa.s.s in the same manner.

She was almost convinced, though, that it was because of the manner in which Harlan took charge of the ranch--the capable and business-like way he had of treating the men.

For the outfit came in late in the afternoon following the night which had marked the death of Lawson--the straw-boss explaining that he had received explicit orders from Lawson to "work" a gra.s.s level several miles down the river.

One other reason for Barbara's failure to ride to the Star--a reason that she did not permit to dwell prominently in her thoughts--was resentment.

She had permitted the first day to pa.s.s without going to see Haydon. But when it had gone and another day dawned without Haydon coming to see _her_, she felt that he was deliberately absenting himself. For certainly he must have heard what had happened, and if he thought as much of her as he had led her to believe he would have come to her instantly.

Had Haydon seen the defiant gleam of her eyes when she gazed westward--in the direction of the Star--he might have realized that each day he stayed away from the Rancho Seco would make it that much more difficult for him to explain.

Barbara stayed indoors much of the time during the first days of Harlan's control of the ranch, but from the windows she saw him--noted that the men obeyed him promptly and without question.