She thought of John Haydon as she rode beside Harlan; and it was confidence in him that was expressed in her glances at Harlan; she was convinced that she did not have to depend entirely upon Harlan. And when, as they neared the ranchhouse, and she saw a big gray horse standing near the entrance to the _patio_, her face reddened and her eyes grew brilliant with a light that drew a cold smile to Harlan's face. "That will be John Haydon's horse, I reckon," he said slowly. "Why," she returned, startled; "how did you know?" He rode on, not replying. When they reached the ranchhouse, Harlan loped Purgatory toward one of the bunkhouses, in front of which he saw Red Linton standing. Barbara directed Billy to the _patio_ entrance, and dismounted, her face flushed, to meet a man who came out of the open gateway to greet her, his face wreathed in a delighted smile. CHAPTER XV LINKED "So you came at last?" Barbara had some difficulty in keeping resentment prominent in her voice as she faced John Haydon, for other emotions were clamoring within her--joy because Haydon _had_ come, even though tardily; self-reproach because she saw in Haydon's eyes a glowing anxiety and sympathy that looked as though they were of recent birth. There was repressed excitement in Haydon's manner; it was as though he had only just heard of the girl's affliction and had ridden hard to come to her. She was sure of the sincerity in his voice when he grasped her hands tightly and said: "At last, Barbara! I heard it only this morning, and I have nearly killed my horse getting over here! Look at him!" The gray horse certainly did have the appearance of having been ridden hard. He stood, his legs braced, his head drooping, his muzzle and chest flecked with foam. Barbara murmured pityingly as she stroked the beast's neck; and there was quick forgiveness in her eyes when she again looked at Haydon. Haydon was big--fully as tall as Harlan, and broader. His shoulders bulged the blue flannel shirt he wore; and it was drawn into folds at his slim waist, where a cartridge-studded belt encircled him, sagging at the right hip with the weight of a heavy pistol. He wore a plain gray silk handkerchief at his throat; it sagged at the front, revealing a muscular development that had excited the envious admiration of men. His hair was coal-black, wavy and abundant--though he wore it short--with design, it seemed, for he must have known that it gave him an alert, virile appearance. His face, despite the tan upon it, and the little wrinkles brought by the sun and wind, had a clear, healthy color, and his eyes black as his hair, had a keen glint behind which lurked humor of a quality not to be determined at a glance--it was changeable, fleeting, mysterious.