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 b