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THE TRAIL HORDE

by

CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER

Author of "The Ranchman," "'Firebrand' Trevison," "The Range Boss," "The
Vengeance of Jefferson Gawne," "The Boss of the Lazy Y," Etc.

Frontispiece by P. V. E. Ivory







[Illustration: "Warden, if you move a quarter of an inch I'll blow you
to hell!"]




Chicago A.C. McClurg & Co. 1920 Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1920
Published September, 1920
Copyrighted in Great Britain
M. A. Donohue & Co., Printers and Binders, Chicago




CONTENTS

CHAPTER                                                    PAGE
      I Concerning Morals                                     1
     II Driving a Bargain                                    11
    III A Woman's Eyes                                       19
     IV Rebellion                                            24
      V A Man's Word                                         40
     VI The Invisible Power                                  52
    VII The Coalition                                        57
   VIII A Woman's Mercy                                      64
     IX The Arm of Power                                     80
      X The Second Obstacle                                  99
     XI The Long Trail                                      109
    XII The Night Wind's Mystery                            114
   XIII The Invisible Menace                                120
    XIV Lawler's "Nerve"                                    127
     XV Concerning an Outlaw                                142
    XVI A "Norther"                                         148
   XVII The Line Cabin                                      158
  XVIII Storm-Driven                                        165
    XIX Death at a Door                                     172
     XX The "Killing"                                       183
    XXI Chance--and a Man                                   186
   XXII The White Waste                                     191
  XXIII A Woman's Wiles                                     196
   XXIV Della's Handkerchief                                208
    XXV In Which a Man Plots                                215
   XXVI A Menace Appears                                    225
  XXVII Evidence                                            229
 XXVIII The Trail Horde                                     234
   XXIX Antrim Strikes                                      246
    XXX A Woman Lies                                        253
   XXXI "Jail's Empty, Kane!"                               257
  XXXII Red King Runs                                       263
 XXXIII The Fight at the Cabin                              270
  XXXIV "Good Old Shorty!"                                  283
   XXXV Haunting Memories                                   288
  XXXVI A Man Meditates Vengeance                           298
 XXXVII The Trap                                            303
XXXVIII The Governor's Guns                                 310
  XXXIX Slade's Prisoner                                    314
     XL Primitive Instincts                                 318
    XLI The Clean-up                                        323
   XLII Going East                                          331
  XLIII The Majesty of Peace                                341




THE TRAIL HORDE


       *       *       *       *       *




CHAPTER I

CONCERNING MORALS


There were fifty thousand acres within view of the ranchhouse--virgin
grass land dotted with sage, running over a wide level, into little
hills, and so on to an upland whose rise was so gradual that it could be
seen only from a distance, best from the gallery of the ranchhouse.

The first tang of autumn was in the sage-scented breeze that swept the
county, and the tawny valley, basking in the warm sunlight that came
down from a cloudless sky, showed its rugged beauty to advantage.

Kane Lawler paused at the edge of the gallery and filled his lungs from
the sage-laden breeze, and then wheeled to face his mother.

She smiled at him.

"Have you seen Ruth Hamlin lately, Kane?"

Lawler's lips opened, then closed again, tightly. And by that token Mrs.
Lawler knew that something Kane had been on the point of saying never
would be said. For she knew her son as no other person in the country
knew him.

Kane Lawler was big. From the broad shoulders that bulged the gray
flannel shirt, down the yellow corduroy trousers that encased his legs
to the tops of the boots with their high heels and dull-roweled spurs,
Lawler looked what he was, a man who asked no favors of his kind.

Mrs. Lawler had followed him out of the house, and she now stood near
him, watching him.

There was in Lawler's lean face as he turned from his mother and peered
steadily out into the valley, a hint of volcanic force, of resistless
energy held in leash by a contrary power. That power might have been
grim humor--for his keen gray eyes were now gleaming with something akin
to humor--it might have been cynical tolerance--for his lips were
twisted into a curious, mirthless half-smile; it might have been the
stern repression that had governed him all his days.

Whatever it was it seemed to be no secret from his mother, for she
smiled understandingly, and with pride that must have been visible to
anyone who watched her.

Massed in the big valley--at a distance of two or three miles from the
big ranchhouse, was a herd of cattle. Circling them were a number of
cowboys on horses. In the huge corral that spanned a shallow, narrow
river, were other cattle. These were the result of the fall--or
beef--round-up. For a month there had been intense activity in the
section. Half the cattlemen in the county had participated in the
round-up that had centered upon Lawler's range, the Circle L: and the
cattle had been herded down in the valley because of its natural
advantages.

There the herd had been held while the neighboring cattlemen engaged in
the tedious task of "cutting out"--which meant that each cattle owner
took from the herd the steers that bore his "brand," with the addition
of a proportionate number of unbranded steers, and calves, designated as
"mavericks." Then the neighboring outfit had driven their stock home.

"It was a big round-up, Kane," said Mrs. Lawler, watching the herd.

"Eight thousand head," Lawler replied. "We're starting a thousand toward
Willets today."

"Have you seen Gary Warden? I mean, have you arranged with Warden to
have him take the cattle?"

Lawler smiled. "I had an agreement with Jim Lefingwell. We made it early
last spring."

"A written agreement?"

"Shucks--no. I never had a written agreement with Lefingwell. Never had
to. Jim's word was all I ever wanted from him--all I ever asked for."

"But perhaps Gary Warden's business methods are different?"

"I talked that over with Lefingwell when he sold out to Warden. Jim said
he'd already mentioned our agreement to Warden and that Warden had
agreed to carry it out."

"But suppose Warden has changed his mind?"

Lawler spoke seriously. "No man goes back on his word in this country.
But from what I've heard of Warden, he's likely to. If he does, we'll
drive the stock to Keppler, at Red Rock. Keppler isn't buying for the
same concern, but he'll pay what Lefingwell agreed to pay. We'll ship
them, don't worry."

"Red Rock means a five hundred mile drive, Kane."

Lawler replied, "You're anticipating, Mother. Warden will take them."

Lawler grinned and stepped off the gallery. A few minutes later he
emerged from the stable carrying a saddle, which he flung over one of
the top rails of the corral fence. He roped a big, red bay, smooth, with
a glossy coat that shone like a flame in the clear white light of the
morning sun.

The bay was built on heroic lines. He was tall and rangy, and the spirit
of a long line of thoroughbred ancestors was in him. It showed in the
clear white of his gleaming, indomitable eyes, in his thin, sensitive
nostrils and long, shapely muzzle; in the contour of his head and chest,
and in his slender, sinewy legs.

Man and horse were big, capable, strong-willed. They were equipped for
life in the grim, wild country that surrounded them. From the slender,
powerful limbs of the big bay, to the cartridge-studded belt that
encircled the man's middle, with a heavy pistol at the right hip, they
seemed to typify the ruggedness of the country, seemed to embody the
spirit of the Wild.

Lawler mounted, and the big bay whistled as he pranced across the
ranchhouse yard to the big corral where the cattle were confined. Lawler
brought the bay to a halt at a corner of the corral fence, where his
foreman, Blackburn, who had been breakfasting in the messhouse, advanced
to meet him, having seen Lawler step down from the gallery.

Blackburn was of medium height, swarthy, with heavy brows under which
were keen, deep-set eyes. His mouth was big, expressive, with a
slightly cynical set in repose.

"We're hittin' the trail in about an hour," said Blackburn. "Are you
wantin' me to put 'em through, or are we takin' two days to it, as
usual?"

"Two days," advised Lawler. "There's no hurry. It's a bad trail in
spots, and they'll want to feed. They'll stand the trip on the cars
better if they've had plenty of grass."

"Gary Warden is keeping Lefingwell's agreement with you, I reckon?"
asked Blackburn. He eyed Lawler intently.

"Of course." Lawler caught the expression of his foreman's eyes, and his
brows drew together. He added: "Why do you ask?"

"Just wonderin'," hesitated Blackburn; "just wonderin'. You seen this
here man, Warden?"

Lawler had not met Warden; he had not even seen the man from a distance.
That was because he had not visited Willets since Warden had bought
Lefingwell's ranch and assumed Lefingwell's position as resident buyer
for a big eastern live-stock company. Lawler had heard, though, that
Warden seemed to be capable enough; that he had entered upon the duties
of his position smoothly without appreciable commotion; he had heard
that Warden, was quiet and "easy-going," and that as a cattle buyer he
seemed to "know his business."

This information had reached Lawler's ears through the medium of
neighboring cattle owners, and he was willing to accept it as accurate,
though he was not prepared to form an estimate of Warden until he had
an opportunity to talk with him personally.

"Well," went on Blackburn; "them that's looked him over don't hesitate
to say he don't measure up to Jim Lefingwell's size."

"Jim was a mighty big man--in size and principles," said Lawler.

"Now you're shoutin'! There wasn't no man bigger'n Jim, sideways,
edgeways, or up an' down. I reckon any man would have a hard time
measurin' up to Jim Lefingwell. Mebbe that's what's wrong with Warden.
Folks has got Jim Lefingwell on their minds, an' they're not givin'
Warden what's comin' to him, them bein' biased." He squinted at Lawler.
"Folks is hintin' that Warden don't own Jim Lefingwell's ranch a-tall;
that some eastern guys bought it, an' that Warden's just managin' it.
Seems like they's a woman at the Lefingwell's old place, keepin' Warden
company. She's eastern, too, they say. Got a old maid with her to keep
her company--a chapper-own, they say--which ain't in no ways
illuminatin' my think-tank none. Which is a chapper-own?"

"A kind of a moral monitor, Blackburn," grinned Lawler. "Some folks need
them. If you're thinking of getting one----"

"Bah!" Blackburn's eyes were vitriolic with disgust. "I sabe what you
are hintin' at when you gas of morals--which I'm a heap acquainted with
because I ain't got none to speak of. But I'm plumb flabbergasted when
you go to connectin' a battleship with anything that's got a whole lot
to do with morals. Accordin' to my schoolin', a monitor is a thing
which blows the stuffin' out of----"

"A monitor of morals could do that," gravely said Lawler. "In fact,
according to the best authorities, there have been many monitors who
have blown the stuffing out of the reputations of their charges."

Blackburn gulped. He was puzzled, and his eyes were glazed with the
incomprehension which had seized him. Twice again as he watched Lawler's
grave face he gulped. And then he eyed Lawler belligerently.

"I reckon them monitors is eastern. I've never seen one galivantin'
around these parts."

"They're a lot eastern," assented Lawler. "I've never seen one, but I've
read about them in books. And once my mother saw one--she tells me the
East raises them by the hundred."

"That accounts for it," declared Blackburn; "anything which comes from
the East is likely to be a heap shy on hoss sense."

He now squinted at Lawler, watching him keenly.

"Accordin' to report Joe Hamlin ought to go around draggin' one of them
monitors."

Blackburn shrewdly noted the quickening of Lawler's eyes, and the dull
red that stole into his face.

"What do you mean, Blackburn?"

"Davies an' Harris hit town ag'in last night; an' comin' back they run
plumb into Joe Hamlin. He was in the upper end of the box arroyo. He'd
roped an' hog-tied a Circle L cow an' was blottin' our brand out."

"What happened?" Lawler's lips were set in grim lines.

"Nothin'--followin' your orders regardin' the cuss. Davies an' Harris
let him go--after warnin' him. Somethin' ought to be done. It ain't
addin' a heap to the morals of the outfit for the men to know a man can
rustle cattle that promiscuous--an' the boss not battin' an eyewinker.
This is the fourth time he's been caught with the goods--to say nothin'
of the times he's done it without nobody gittin' wise--an' the boys is
beginnin' to ask questions, bein' a heap puzzled because somethin' don't
happen to Joe."

Lawler's face was expressionless. Except for the flush in his cheeks he
seemed to be unaffected by Blackburn's words. His voice was a trifle
cold when he spoke:

"I'll attend to Hamlin. I'll stop at the Two Bar on my way to Willets.
By the time you reach town with the cattle I'll have the deal with
Warden clinched."

Blackburn nodded, and Lawler wheeled the bay, heading him northward.

As he rode, Lawler's face changed expression. He frowned, and his lips
set stiffly.

What he had been almost on the point of telling his mother was that he
knew why Ruth Hamlin had refused him. It was pride, nothing less. Lawler
suspected that Ruth knew her father was a rustler. In fact, there had
been times when he had seen that knowledge lying naked in her eyes when
she looked at her parent. Accusation and disgust had been there, but
mingling with them was the persistent loyalty that had always governed
the girl; the protective instinct, and a hope of reformation.

The pride that Mrs. Lawler had exhibited was not less strong in the
girl's heart. By various signs Lawler knew the girl loved him; he knew
it as positively as he knew she would not marry him while the stigma of
guilt rested upon her parent. And he was convinced that she was ignorant
of the fact that Lawler shared her secret. That was why Lawler had
permitted Hamlin to escape; it was why he had issued orders to his men
to suffer Hamlin's misdeeds without exacting the expiation that custom
provided. Lawler did not want Ruth to know that he knew.

He sent the big bay forward at a steady, even pace, and in an hour he
had crossed the sweep of upland and was riding a narrow trail that
veered gradually from the trail to Willets. The character of the land
had changed, and Lawler was now riding over a great level, thickly
dotted with bunch grass, with stretches of bars, hard sand, clumps of
cactus and greasewood.

He held to the narrow trail. It took him through a section of dead,
crumbling lava and rotting rock; through a little stretch of timber, and
finally along the bank of a shallow river--the Wolf--which ran after
doubling many times, through the Circle L valley.

In time he reached a little grass level that lay close to the river. A
small cabin squatted near the center of the clearing, surrounded by
several outbuildings in a semi-dilapidated condition, and a corral, in
which there were several horses.

Lawler sent Red King straight toward the cabin. When he reached the
cabin he swung off and walked toward the door, his lips set in straight
lines, his manner decisive.

He had taken only several steps when a voice greeted him, coming from
the interior of the cabin--a man's voice, snarling, venomous:

"You come another step, Kane Lawler, an' I'll bore you!"

Lawler halted, facing the door. The door was closed, but a little slide
in the upper part of it was open. Through the aperture projected the
muzzle of a rifle, and behind the rifle appeared a man's face--dark,
bearded, with eyes that gleamed with ferocious malignancy.




CHAPTER II

DRIVING A BARGAIN


Lawler stiffened. There was no mistaking the deadly threat of the rifle
and the man's menacing manner. Lawler's face was pale, but his eyes were
unwavering as they looked into those that glared out at him through the
aperture in the door.

Guilt and fear were the emotions that had driven Hamlin to this rather
hysterical threat. Lawler resisted an impulse to laugh, though he felt a
pulse of grim humor shoot through him.

To his knowledge--excepting Hamlin's predilection to rustle cattle--the
man was harmless. He never had been known to draw a gun, even in
self-defense, and Lawler was convinced that there was not sufficient
provocation for him to break one of the rules that had governed him
until now. Hamlin might be goaded, or frightened, into using the rifle,
but Lawler had no intention of goading or frightening him. In fact,
being aware of the reason for Hamlin's belligerence, he had no intention
of acquainting the man with the knowledge of what had happened the night
before. At least, not at this instant.

Lawler's lips wore a shadowy smile.

"I reckon you don't know me, Hamlin?" he said.

"I know you mighty well, Lawler," snapped Hamlin; "you heard me mention
your name!"

"Then you've got a new way of greeting your friends, eh--with a rifle.
Well, put it down and open the door. There's some things I want to say
to you."

"What about?" asked Hamlin, suspiciously. Overwhelming every other
thought in his mind was the conviction that Davies and Harris had
apprised Lawler of what had happened the night before, and that Lawler
had come to capture him, single-handed.

"About Ruth."

The wild gleam in Hamlin's eyes began to dull. However, he was still
suspicious.

"You seen any of your men this mornin'--Davies or Harris?" he asked.

"Davies and Harris went to town last night. I reckon they didn't get
back yet. What's Davies and Harris got to do with me visiting you?"

"Nothin'." There was relief in Hamlin's voice. The muzzle of the rifle
wavered; the weapon was withdrawn and the slide closed. Then the door
slowly opened, and Hamlin appeared in it, a six-shooter in hand.

"If you're foolin' me, Kane Lawler, I'll sure bore you a-plenty!" he
threatened.

"Shucks!" Lawler advanced to the door, ignoring the heavy pistol, which
was shoved close to his body as he walked into the cabin, Hamlin
retreating before him.

"Hamlin, you're losing whatever sense you had," said Lawler as he halted
near the center of the big room. There were three rooms, their doors
opening from the one in which Lawler and Hamlin stood.

"Meanin' what?" demanded Hamlin, nervously fingering the six-shooter.

It was clear that Hamlin was impressed with the repressed force that he
could see in Lawler; with the slumbering energy that Lawler's lithe,
sinewy body suggested; with the man's complete lack of fear and with the
cold confidence that swam in his steady eyes.

Hamlin did not know at this minute whether or not he had meant to shoot
Lawler. He believed that if Lawler had told him he had come to take him
for blotting out the Circle L brand in the arroyo the preceding night he
would have killed Lawler. But he was not sure. Something about Lawler
made the thought of shooting him seem ridiculous. It would take a lot of
provocation for _any_ man to kill Lawler, for something about Lawler
seemed to hint that it couldn't be done.

"Meaning that you are old enough to know that you can't keep on rustling
my cattle without getting in trouble."

"Ah!" exclaimed Hamlin, his breath hissing through his teeth as he
sucked it in with a gasp; "you sneaked on me, damn you!"

He threw the muzzle of the pistol up, his body stiffening, his eyes
glittering with the malignance that had been in them when he had been
looking out at Lawler through the aperture in the door.

"You know about that deal, an' you've come for me. You tried to fool me,
eh--tellin' me that you didn't see Davies an' Harris. Well, damn your
hide you ain't goin' to take me; I'll blow you to hell first!"

Lawler's eyes were steady and unblinking as he watched Hamlin; they
bored into Hamlin's with a compelling intensity, that brought a
conviction of futility into Hamlin's soul. They were cold eyes--cold as
icebergs, Hamlin thought as he watched them; but they seemed to flame
also, to flame with a fire that was cold as the ice in them.

The terrible power of them, and the promise of volcanic action back in
them; the awful confidence that shone in them; the threat compelling
Hamlin against his will, deadening his muscles, jumbling his
thoughts--brought chaos into the man's brain, and he stood, his mouth
agape with wonder over the thing that was happening to him, as Lawler
walked steadily to him. He made no resistance as Lawler deliberately
wrenched the pistol from his hand and as deliberately walked to a side
wall and placed it upon a shelf.

Hamlin stood, nerveless and pallid, for an instant, watching Lawler's
movements--until Lawler turned and faced him again. Then he staggered to
a chair and dropped into it, lowering his head dejectedly, sitting with
his hands folded, completely subjected.

Lawler would hang him, now. Lawler would take him to the Circle L and
turn him over to Blackburn and the other men of the outfit. And
Blackburn would hang him, for Blackburn had told him he would. Or, if
Lawler didn't take him to Blackburn he would take him to the sheriff. He
would be hanged then, but he would go to the new prison at the capital,
and Ruth would have to stay on here to do the real suffering for his
misdeeds.

"You damned fool!" came Lawler's voice into the vacuumlike stillness of
the cabin. "You haven't got nerve enough to shoot a coyote!"

Hamlin knew it; he knew, now, at least, that he hadn't had nerve enough
to shoot Lawler. He cringed under Lawler's contemptuous tone. And then
he became aware that Lawler was speaking again.

"I'm giving you another chance. I'm letting you off, clean. For Ruth's
sake.

"Look here, Hamlin!"

Hamlin's chin was caught in an iron grasp and he found himself looking
into the terrible eyes. He saw grim pity in the eyes and he shuddered.

"Ruth knows you're stealing cattle. Everybody knows it, now. Who is
buying them?"

"Singleton."

"Singleton!" Lawler's voice snapped with astonishment. "Dave Singleton,
Lefingwell's old range boss?"

Hamlin nodded. And then the grip of Lawler's fingers on his chin
relaxed. He heard Lawler step back, but he did not lift his head for a
few minutes, during which a strained silence descended upon the room.
Then he covertly raised his head, to see Lawler standing with his arms
folded over his chest, watching him.

Lawler had not suspected Singleton. Between himself and Singleton there
had always been a lack of ordinary cordiality, a constraint closely
approaching dislike; but Lawler had never entertained a suspicion that
Lefingwell's range boss was dishonest.

Hamlin was a moral weakling, he knew. Everybody in the Wolf River
section knew it. Hamlin was lazy and shiftless, seemingly contented to
drift along in an aimless way, regardless of what happened to him. There
was at Hamlin's feet some of the wealth that other cattlemen of the
district were gaining. He had proved on a quarter-section of good grass
land amid plenty of water, and yet he chose to steal cattle rather than
raise them.

Lawler's pity for the man was stronger than the resentment he felt.
Hamlin was Ruth's father, though looking at him as he sat dejectedly in
the chair, Lawler found it hard to discern the relationship.

"How long has Singleton been buying cattle from you?"

"About a year. I sold him what stock I had, before--before I got to
runnin' my brand on other folks' stock, an' he hinted he wasn't
particular whose cattle I got, long as he could get 'em under the market
price."

"Does Singleton come here?"

"Sometimes--mostly nights."

Lawler's quick conclusion was that Ruth must have seen Singleton at the
cabin, must have noted that the visits seemed surreptitious. Perhaps she
had watched, convincing herself of her father's guilt. Lawler had
wondered how she had gained the knowledge she seemed to have, and
Singleton's visits must be the explanation.

Hamlin had bowed his head again after a swift glance at Lawler. He
stiffened when he felt Lawler at his side again, for there had come into
the atmosphere of the cabin a premonitory chill which warned him that
Lawler was on the verge of action.

But he was not prepared for what happened.

Lawler's sinewy hands fell on his shoulders. The fingers bit deeply into
the flesh, drawing a groan of pain from Hamlin. He was lifted to his
feet--off his feet, so that he dangled in the air like a pendulum. He
was suspended by the shoulders, Lawler's fingers gripping him like iron
hooks; he was shaken until his feet, powerless to retard the movement,
were flopping back and forth wildly, and his teeth rattled despite his
efforts to clench them. It seemed to him that Lawler would snap his head
from his shoulders, so viciously did Lawler shake him. Then suddenly the
terrible fingers relaxed, and Hamlin reeled and swayed, dizzy and weak
from the violence of movement. He was trying to keep his feet solidly on
the floor when he felt Lawler's fingers at his throat.

To his astonishment, the fingers did not sink into the flesh. They
touched his throat lightly, and he dazedly met Lawler's eyes, burning,
with a passion he never had seen in them before. And Lawler's voice was
dry and light, but steady--so steady and cold that Hamlin realized that
only the man's complete mastery of himself had kept him from committing
murder.

"Hamlin, I ought to kill you. I'm letting you off on one condition--that
you break off with Singleton, and that you keep silent about the things
we both know. If you confess to Ruth that you've been rustling cattle,
or if you tell her--or hint of it--that I know you've been
rustling--I'll tear you apart!

"You're like a lot of other damned, weak-kneed polecats. You've got a
girl who is good as gold, and you're making a regular hell for her.
She's wise to what you've been doing--she suspects you. And from now on
you're going to show her that she was wrong--that you're straight and
square.

"There's a job for you over at the Circle L--if you want it. I'll throw
things in your way; I'll put you on your feet again--give you stock and
tools, and pretend I've sold them to you. I'll do anything to keep you
square. But if you tell Ruth, I'll kill you as sure as my name is
Lawler!"

"I'm agreein'," said Hamlin, thickly. "I ain't wanted to do the things
I've been doin'. But things didn't go right, an' Singleton--damn it,
Lawler; I never liked the man, an' I don't know _why_ I've been doin' what
I have been doin'. But I've wanted to do somethin' for Ruth--so's she
could quit teachin' an' live like a lady. I thought if I could get a
bunch of coin together that mebbe she'd have----"

"She'd see you dead before she'd touch it," scoffed Lawler.

"Mebbe I'd be better off if I was dead," said Hamlin, glumly.

"You'll die, right enough, if you don't keep your word to me," grimly
declared Lawler.

He strode to the door, leaped upon Red King and rode away.

Inside the cabin, Hamlin got to his feet and swayed toward the door,
reaching it and looking out, to see Lawler riding rapidly toward
Willets.




CHAPTER III

A WOMAN'S EYES


There had been a day when Willets was but a name, designating a water
tank and a railroad siding where panting locomotives, hot and dry from a
long run through an arid, sandy desert that stretched westward from the
shores of civilization, rested, while begrimed, overalled men adjusted a
metal spout which poured refreshing water into gaping reservoirs.

In that day Willets sat in the center of a dead, dry section, swathed in
isolation so profound that passengers in the coaches turned to one
another with awe in their voices and spoke of God and the insignificance
of life.

But there was a small river near the water tank--the headwaters of the
Wolf--or there had been no tank. And a prophet of Business, noting
certain natural advantages, had influenced the railroad company to build
a corral and a station.

From that day Willets became assured of a future. Cattlemen in the Wolf
River section began to ship stock from the new station, rather than
drive to Red Rock--another shipping point five hundred miles east.

From the first it became evident that Willets would not be a boom town.
It grew slowly and steadily until its fame began to trickle through to
the outside world--though it was a cattle town in the beginning, and a
cattle town it would remain all its days.

Therefore, because of its slow growth, there were old buildings in
Willets. The frame station had an ancient appearance. Its roof sagged in
the center, its walls were bulging with weakness. But it stood defiantly
flaunting its crimson paint above the wooden platform, a hardy pioneer
among the moderns.

Business had strayed from the railroad track; it had left the station,
the freighthouse, the company corral, and some open sheds, to establish
its enterprises one block southward. There, fringing a wide, unpaved
street that ran east and west, parallel with the gleaming steel rails,
Business reared its citadels.

Willets buildings were not imposing. One-story frames predominated, with
here and there a two-storied structure, or a brick aristocrat seeming to
call attention to its substantial solidity.

Willets had plenty of space in which to grow, and the location of the
buildings on their sites, seemed to indicate that their builders
appreciated the fact that there was no need for crowding. Between each
building was space, suggestive of the unending plains that surrounded
the town. Willets sat, serene in its space and solitude, unhurried,
uncramped, sprawling over a stretch of grass level--a dingy, dirty,
inglorious Willets, shamed by its fringe of tin cans, empty bottles, and
other refuse--and by the clean sweep of sand and sage and grass that
stretched to its very doors. For Willets was man-made.

From the second story of a brick building that stood on the southern
side of the street, facing the station, Gary Warden could look past the
red station into the empty corrals beside the railroad track. Jim
Lefingwell, Warden's predecessor, had usually smiled when he saw the
corral comfortably filled with steers. But Gary Warden smiled because
the corral was empty.

Warden was standing beside a flat-topped desk at one of his office
windows. Warden was big, though not massive. He seemed to have the frame
of a tall, slender man, and had he stayed slender he might have carried
his flesh gracefully. But Warden had lived well, denying himself
nothing, and the flesh which had been added had formed in flabby
bunches, drooping his shoulders, sagging his jaws, swelling the back of
his neck.

And yet Warden was not old; he had told some new-made friends in Willets
that he was thirty-five. But he looked older, for a certain blasé
sophistication that shone from his eyes and sat on the curves of his
lips, did much to create the impression of past maturity.

Warden dressed well. He was coatless, but he wore a shirt of some soft,
striped material, with a loose, comfortable-looking collar and a neat
bow tie. His hair was short, with bristles in the roll of fat at the
back of his neck; while at his forehead it was punctiliously parted, and
plastered down with precision.

Warden was not alone. At another window, her elbows on the sill, her
hands crossed, her chin resting on the knuckles of the upper one, sat a
woman.

She was young, slender, lissom. There was grace in every line of her,
and witchery in the eyes that watched Warden with a steady gaze. She
too, was hatless, seemingly conscious of the beauty of her hair, which
was looped and twisted into glistening strands that fell over her
temples and the back of her neck.

As she watched Warden, who was smiling at the empty corral, she withdrew
her elbows from the window-sill, twisted around, so that she faced
Warden, and idly twirled the felt hat that she took from her lap.

"Does something please you, Gary?" she asked with slight, bantering
emphasis.

Warden's smile broadened. "Well, I'm not exactly displeased."

"With Willets--and the rest of it?"

"With that corral--over there." He pointed.

"Why, it's empty!"

"That's why."

"Why you are pleased! That is odd. As a buyer, I should think you would
be more pleased if the corral were full--had cows in it. That is what
you are here for, isn't it?"

"Yes," grinned Warden; "to keep it empty until it is filled with steers
at my price."

"Oh, bother!" The woman yawned. "I am glad it is you and not I who is to
deal with these clod-hoppers. I should turn sour--or laugh myself to
death."

"Getting tired of it already, Della?"

"Dreadfully tired, Gary. If I could see one interesting person, or a
good-looking man with whom I could flirt----"

"Don't forget our engagement, Della," warned Warden.

She laughed, shooting a mischievous glance at him. "Oh, it would be
harmless, I assure you--mere moral exercise. Do you imagine I could lose
my heart to one of these sagebrush denizens?"

"Not you, Della," grinned Warden; "that isn't your style."

The girl yawned again, and got to her feet, smoothing her ruffled
skirts. Then she walked to a mirror on a wall near the door, and spent
some time placing the felt hat on her head at a precise angle, making
certain that the coils of hair under it were arranged in the most
effective manner. She tucked a stray wisp into the mass at the nape of
her neck, patted the glistening coils so that they bulged a little
more--smiling with smooth serenity at the reflection in the glass.

"Well, good-bye, Gary. I left Aunt Hannah at Corwin's store. She'll be
afraid I've eloped with you. No," she added, as Warden advanced toward
her; "no kisses now. I'll look in again before we leave town."

She opened the door, and as it closed she flashed a smile at Warden.
Then he heard her descending the stairs. He watched the closed door for
an instant, frowning disappointedly; then he strode again to one of the
front windows, grinning as his gaze rested on the empty corral.




CHAPTER IV

REBELLION


Accident or design had placed the schoolhouse at the eastern edge of
town. The invisible power which creates the schoolhouse seemingly takes
no account of time or place. It comes, unheralded, unsung, and squats in
the place where the invisible power has placed it, and instantly becomes
as indispensable as the ungainly youth that occupies it.

All youth is not ungainly. Ruth Hamlin was considering the negative
proposition as she stood on the little platform in front of the
blackboard just before noon, calmly scrutinizing the faces of the score
of pupils who composed her "class."

About half of her pupils, she decided, were worthy of the affection she
had bestowed upon them. The remainder were ungrateful, incorrigible
hoodlums. There had been times when Ruth wondered if the task of
teaching was worth while.

A good teacher must not be vindictive; and Ruth was trying her best to
keep alive the spark of mercy and compassion that threatened to burn
itself out.

Despite her apparent calm--the outward sign of cold self-control--Ruth's
face revealed indications of the terrific struggle that was going on
within her. Her face was pale, and though her eyes seemed to smile,
there was a gleam far back in them that suggested thoughts of force,
instant, vicious. Also there was wrath in them--wrath that threatened to
break with volcanic fury.

The girl was of medium height, and yet she seemed to be almost tall as
she stood on the platform. She was erect, her head was held high. She
was slender, with a gracefully rounded figure, but as she stood there,
her muscles straining, her chest swelling with the passion she was
trying to suppress, she must have appeared Amazonic to the culprits
whose crimes had goaded her to thoughts of corporal punishment.

It was not difficult to single out the culprits. There were two, and
they sat defiantly in their seats, sneering their contempt of the
teacher's wrath, advertising their entire disregard for the restraining
influence of rules.

Both were boys. The larger, freckle-faced, with an uptilted nose and
belligerent eyes, was fully as tall as Ruth. He was broad and muscular,
and it was evident that consideration for his size was one influence
that had thus far delayed the punishment he no doubt merited.

It was evident, too, that the culprit suspected this, for as Ruth's
hesitation continued he grew bolder and more contemptuous. And now,
having divined that Ruth would not attempt to inflict the punishment she
meditated, the young man guffawed loudly.

"Shucks," he sneered, winking piratically at his brother-culprit; "she's
tryin' to run a whizzer in on us. She ain't goin' to do _nuthin'_!"

"Jimmy Singleton; you advance to the platform!" Ruth's voice came
sharply, quavering with the passion she had been suppressing until now.

She stood rigid until "Jimmy" got out of his seat with elephantine
deliberation, and shuffled to the edge of the platform, where he stood,
grinning defiantly.

Ruth raised the lid of her desk and took out a formidable willow branch,
which she had cut only the day before from a tree that grew beside the
Wolf near her cabin, in anticipation of the present incident.

She had known for many days that she would have to punish Jimmy
Singleton, for Jimmy had been growing daily less amenable to discipline.
But she had hoped that she would not be compelled to punish him--she had
escaped that disagreeable task so far.

But there was no alternative, and though she grew deadly white and her
legs grew weak as she drew out the willow switch, she advanced on Jimmy,
her eyes flaming with desperate resolution.

As she reached Jimmy's side, he lunged toward her. He struck viciously
at her with his fist, the blow landing on her shoulder near the neck. It
had been aimed at her face, but she had somehow dodged it. The force of
the blow brought Jimmy against her, and he seized her around the waist
and attempted to throw her. She brought the switch down sharply on
Jimmy's legs as they struggled, and the sting of the blow enraged the
boy. He deliberately wrenched himself loose; then leaped forward,
swinging his arms viciously.

He had not struck the girl fairly, but she was in a daze from the rapid
movement, and she was not aware of what was going on around her,
centering all her energy in an attempt to keep the boy from striking
her face.

But she suddenly became conscious that a big form had loomed close to
her; she heard a deep, angry voice saying:

"I'll attend to you--you young pirate!"

And then Jimmy was jerked backward, away from her; and she saw Kane
Lawler standing not more than two or three paces from her. His right
hand was twisted in Jimmy's collar; and there was an expression of cold
rage on his face--despite the smile he gave her when she looked at
him--that chilled her.

But she made no objection when Lawler walked to a chair that stood on
the platform, dragging the now protesting Jimmy after him by the scruff
of the neck. There was something of majestic deliberation in Lawler's
movements, she thought, as he seated himself in the chair and placed the
struggling Jimmy across his knees.

Ruth had never entertained a bloodthirsty thought, but her passions were
very near that point when she saw Lawler's large, capable right hand
begin to descend upon Jimmy's anatomy. She gasped at first, at Lawler's
temerity; and then she stepped back and watched him, her heart singing
with approval.

Lawler's capable right hand descended many times with a force that
brought dismal howls from the unlucky culprit--so many times and with
such force that the girl began to fear that Jimmy would be fatally
injured. Jimmy likewise entertained that fear, for his howls grew more
shrill, laden with mingled terror and pain, until the piercing appeal
of them sent the other pupils out of their seats and into the open
shouting that Jimmy was being "killed."

Then, just when Ruth decided to protest, Lawler swung Jimmy around and
placed him upright upon the platform. What Lawler said to Jimmy, Ruth
did not hear, so low was his voice. But she heard Jimmy's reply, as did
some of the children who still lingered outside the door:

"You've walloped me, damn you; you've walloped me!"

Jimmy ran frenziedly to the door, plainly in fear that he would be
"walloped" again if he did not make his escape; and when he reached the
door he shrieked through unmanly tears:

"My paw will wallop you; you locoed maverick--you see if he don't!"

Jimmy vanished. There was no doubt in Lawler's mind, nor in Ruth's, that
he had gone to relate his trouble to his "paw;" and that "paw" would
presently appear to exact the lurid punishment Jimmy desired.

But thoughts of imminent punishment were not in Lawler's mind as he
faced Ruth. There was nothing but humorous concern in his eyes and
voice.

"Did he hurt you, Ruth?"

"I--I think not," she smiled; "but I have no doubt that he would have
thrashed me soundly if you hadn't come when you did. I am sorry it
happened, but I just _had_ to discipline him. He was setting a bad
example for the other pupils."

"Teaching school isn't the best job in the world, is it?"

"Decidedly not!" She looked quickly at Lawler, for something in his
voice hinted of subtlety; and when she saw his eyes agleam with the
whimsical humor that was always in them when he spoke of his hope of
winning her, she knew that he had attacked her obliquely.

Her cheeks flushed, and she drooped her shining eyes from his, murmuring
low:

"But I am going to keep at it for the present, Kane."

"I was hoping--" he began. But he paused when she shook her head.

"Is that what you rode to town for?" she asked.

"That's the big reason," he returned. "The other is that I'm here to
sell Gary Warden my cattle."

"I don't like Gary Warden!" she declared.

His eyes twinkled. "I've heard that before--two or three times. By the
time I see him I'll be disliking, him, myself."

The class, Ruth now noted, had departed--undoubtedly to follow Jimmy
Singleton; or perhaps seizing the opportunity so suddenly presented to
play truant. At all events the school was deserted except for
themselves.

But Ruth did not seem to mind, nor did Lawler express any regret for the
absence of an audience. He grinned widely at Ruth.

"You'll not get them back today, I reckon. If you're riding back home
I'd be pleased to----"

"But you have business with Gary Warden!" she reminded him.

"That can wait. Blackburn won't have the herd here until tomorrow."

Her eyes were glowing with pleasure, and the faint flush on her face
betrayed her still more. But she looked at him resolutely.

"I shall stay the day out, whether the children come back or not," she
said. "And you must not permit me to interfere with business."

It cost her something to tell him that, for the lure of him had seized
her long ago--during the first days of their acquaintance, in fact--and
she was deliberately refusing the happiness that was offered
her--because she could not confess her father's crimes to this man, and
because she would not marry him unless he knew.

And not even then, perhaps. For she knew something of Lawler's high
ideals, the rugged honesty of him, his straightforwardness and his
hatred for the thieves who stole cattle--thieves like her father. She
couldn't marry him, feeling that each time he looked at her she must
feel that he would be thinking of the misdeeds of her parent. That would
be unbearable.

He took a step, and stood beside her, looking down at her gravely. He
took one of her hands, she permitting it, lifting her eyes to his as he
drew the hand toward him. The hand lay inertly in his left; he covered
it with his right and held it thus in a warm, firm grip. Then he met her
eyes, his own swimming with a gentleness that made her draw a slow, deep
breath of wonder.

This minute had been anticipated by both of them; for many months, when
they had stood close together, they had felt the imminence of surrender
to the longing that dwelt in both of them.

But the girl resisted, as she had resisted many times. Her breath came
rapidly, and the captive hand trembled as she tried to withdraw it.

"No; not now, Kane!" she protested; "not now--please!"

Lawler laughed lowly, and held the hand for an instant longer, while he
compelled the girl's eyes to meet his.

"All right," he said; "not now. But the time will come. Something is
worrying you, Ruth. But you don't trust me enough to tell me what it is.
Some day--when you discover that nothing but your love means anything to
me; when you realize that I love you enough to take you in spite of the
thing that worries you--you'll tell me. And then we'll forget it."

He stepped back, releasing her hand, for he had heard a commotion
outside--Jimmy's voice, high-pitched, carrying a note of savage triumph;
and the voices of the other pupils in a shrill murmur, coming closer.

Ruth started, clenched her hands and backed to the desk, where she
stood, her eyes wide, her breath coming fast, a picture of apprehension
and dismay.

Her big eyes went to Lawler, who grinned faintly at her.

"I reckon Jimmy's coming with his 'paw,'" he said.

A big man, massive, muscular, with heavy shoulders that seemed to droop
with the weight of his great, long arms, stepped into the room.

The man's head was big, like the rest of him, and covered with shaggy,
tawny hair which seemed to bristle with truculence. His chin was huge,
square, and sagging a little, his lips were in a hideous pout; and his
eyes, small, black, with heavy brows that made them seem deep-set, were
glittering with passion.

He paused just inside the door, seemingly to accustom his eyes to the
subdued light of the room. His long arms were hanging at his sides, the
fingers clenching and unclenching close to the heavy pistols he
wore--one at each hip. As he stood there, blinking his eyes at Ruth and
Lawler, Lawler spoke.

"Come in, Singleton," he said.

Ruth was still standing at the desk. Her arms were now outstretched
along it, her hands gripping its edge. She started at the sound of
Lawler's voice, amazed at the change that had come in it--wondering
how--when it had been so gentle a few minutes before--it could now have
in it a quality that made her shudder.

She saw the big man's eyes widen, noted that his shoulders sagged a
little when he heard Lawler's voice; observed that there seemed to come
an appreciable lessening of the tension of his taut muscles. She
marveled that the sound of one man's voice could have so calming an
effect upon another--that it could, at a stroke, seemingly, cool the
white-hot rage that had seized the man.

But there was no doubt that a change had come over the big man. His
shoulders sagged further. A suggestion of a mirthless smile began to tug
at the corners of his mouth; he unclenched the fingers of his hands.

"It's you, eh?" he said, gruffly. "My kid was sayin' someone in the
schoolhouse had walloped him, an' I was aimin' to find out who it was. I
reckon he's gone."

"I walloped him, Singleton."

Lawler's voice was gentle. In it was still a trace of that quality that
Ruth had sensed, softened now slightly by the knowledge that Singleton's
rage had slightly cooled.

"There isn't a heap to be said, I reckon," Lawler resumed as Singleton
stood rigid again. "Your boy was trying to 'wallop' his teacher. I
happened to look in, and I had to take a hand in it, just to keep things
even. He had it coming to him, Singleton."

Lawler's manner was conciliatory, even mildly placative. "I figured on
saving you a job, Singleton."

Singleton's face reddened.

"Lawler, I figger to lick my own kid."

"Singleton, I reckon it can't be undone, and you'll have to make the
best of it. You and I have never got along well, but I want you to know
I didn't know it was your boy I punished."

"Hell's fire!" snarled Singleton; "what you interferin' in the
schoolhouse for? What business you got buttin' in?" It was dear that
Singleton's rage was again rising. He must have noticed that the pupils
had crowded around the door, and that Jimmy was watching him, no doubt
disappointed that the salutary punishment for which he had hoped had
been unnecessarily delayed.

Undoubtedly the presence of the children contributed to Singleton's
anger; but at bottom was his old dislike of Lawler--a dislike that the
incident of the whipping had increased to hatred.

It was plain that Singleton meditated violence. Yet it was equally plain
that he feared Lawler. He never had seen Lawler draw a gun, but he had
heard tales of the man's ability with the weapon. There lingered in his
mind at this minute--as it had dwelt during all the days he had known
Lawler--the knowledge that Lawler's father had been a gunman of wide
reputation, and that he had taught his son the precision and swiftness
that had made him famous in the deadly art.

That knowledge had always exerted a deterring influence upon Singleton;
there had been times when he would have drawn a gun on Lawler had it not
been that he feared the son might be as swift as the father.

So Singleton had assured himself; he was not afraid of Lawler, he was
afraid of the reputation of Lawler's father. Singleton was reluctant to
admit that it was not Lawler's gun that he was afraid of, but something
that was in the man himself--in his confident manner, in the level
glance of his eyes; in the way he looked at Singleton--seeming to hint
that he knew the man's thoughts, and that when the time came--if it ever
came--he would convince Singleton that his fears were well founded.

And, singularly, Singleton knew it; he knew that if he drew his gun on
Lawler, Lawler would anticipate the movement; Singleton had become
convinced of it--the conviction had become an obsession. That was why
his rage had cooled so suddenly when he had entered the schoolroom.

But he knew, too, that Lawler never sought trouble; that within the past
few years--or since Singleton had known him--he had never drawn the gun
that reposed at his hip. And that knowledge brought the rage surging
back into Singleton's veins. He knew he could _talk_ to Lawler; that he
could say some of the things that were in his mind--that had been in his
mind all along; and that he would be safe so long as he kept his hands
away from his guns.

As he snarled his questions at Lawler he took a step toward him. His
eyes were truculent again, his lips in the pout that had been on them
when he had entered. If Lawler didn't go for his gun he need have no
fear of him. For he was bigger than Lawler, stronger. And if he could
goad Lawler into using his fists instead of the dreaded gun he had no
doubt of the outcome.

"Singleton," replied Lawler, answering the questions that had been
hurled at him; "what I am here for is my business. I don't feel a heap
like explaining it."

"Business--bah!" sneered Singleton. "I reckon the business that brought
you here could be carried on better with no kids around."

Singleton saw a pin point of fire glow in Lawler's eyes. But he noted
with venomous satisfaction that Lawler's hand did not move upward the
slightest fraction of an inch toward his gun, and he laughed
discordantly, taking another step toward Lawler, so that he would be
close enough to strike when the time came.

"Lawler," he said, sticking his face close to the other's, his eyes
glittering with the malignant triumph that had seized him over the
conviction that Lawler would not try to draw his gun; "I'm figgerin' on
wallopin' you like you walloped my kid. Understand? I'm aimin' to make
you fight--with your fists. I'm goin' to knock hell out of you!".

Lawler had not moved. Had Singleton not been so obsessed with thoughts
of an easy victory he might have noted that the pin point of fire that
had glowed in Lawler's eyes had grown larger, and that his muscles had
stiffened. Also, had Singleton been observant at this minute he must
have seen a faint grin on Lawler's lips.

"Hell's fire!" snarled Singleton; "won't anything make you fight!
There's that girl there--Ruth Hamlin. You think she's got a right to be
proud as she is. Lawler, you don't know her; you don't know what's goin'
on over there at the Two Bar--Hamlin's ranch. This here school teachin'
of hers is only a blind--a blind, I tell you! A blind for other things
that her an'----"

Ruth's sharp, protesting cry was drowned in a sodden swish as Lawler
struck. His fist had shot upward with the weight of his body behind it,
landing fairly on the point of Singleton's chin, snapping his teeth shut
with a clack.

Singleton's head went back, his body rose from the floor. He came down
with his knees unjointed, his head sagging on his chest; came down in a
heap and tumbled forward upon his face, his arms limp, the fingers
slowly spreading.

For an instant Lawler stood over him, pale, his eyes agleam. Then when
Singleton did not move he turned to Ruth, smiling faintly.

"Go home, now, Ruth, before this beast comes to life. Go out and send
the children away. I've got something to say to Singleton."

Ruth looked intently at him, saw there would be no use of pleading with
him, and walked to the door, dragging the children away from it, telling
them to go home.

Jimmy Singleton, terrorized by the thing that had happened to his
father, needed no urging. He ran, whimpering, toward town, the other
children following.

Ruth went to the shed where she kept her pony, threw saddle and bridle
on him and led him to the step, where she usually mounted.

The door of the schoolhouse was closed. Trailing the reins over the
pony's head, she ran to one of the windows--a small one in the center of
the side wall, dust-begrimed, with one pane of glass missing.

Peering within, she saw Singleton sitting up, staring dazedly around,
supporting himself with his hands, an expression of almost laughable,
bewilderment on his face.

Lawler was standing near him--big, stern, seeming to wait for Singleton
to rise before he spoke to him.

And while Ruth watched, Singleton staggered to his feet. He swayed
uncertainly as he faced Lawler; and when Lawler advanced toward him he
cringed and staggered back, raising one arm as though to ward off an
expected blow.

Ruth heard his voice; it was a whine, tremulous with fear.

"Don't hit me again, Lawler; I wasn't meanin' anything!"

And then Ruth saw that Singleton must have been struck a second time,
for high up on his left cheek was a huge gash that had suffused his chin
and neck with blood. She remembered that while saddling and bridling her
pony she had heard a sound from within the schoolhouse, but she had
thought then that it must have been Lawler moving a chair. Plainly,
Singleton had recovered from the first blow, and had received another.

Lawler's voice again reached her. It was low, vibrant with passion.

"Singleton, I ought to kill you. I will kill you if you ever tell that
girl that you know her father is a rustler. Damn your hide, she knows it
now--and it's breaking her heart!

"I'm warning you. Don't you ever go near the Two Bar again. Don't you
ever buy another steer from Hamlin. Don't even speak to him. I'll kill
you sure as hell if you do!"

Ruth reeled away from the window. She got on her pony somehow, taking
care to make no sound, for she did not want Lawler to know that she had
heard. Once on the pony she sent the little animal rapidly away, toward
the Two Bar--away from Lawler and from that happiness for which she had
hoped despite the hideous knowledge which for months had tortured her.

Inside the schoolhouse Singleton was standing, beaten by the man over
whom he had thought to triumph easily; by a man whose pallid face and
blazing eyes conveyed to Singleton something of the terrible power and
energy of him when aroused.

Singleton did not think of his guns, now; he was aware of nothing but
the great awe that had seized him. And as Lawler watched, saying nothing
more, Singleton turned from him and slunk out through the door.




CHAPTER V

A MAN'S WORD


When Lawler finally emerged from the schoolhouse door there was no one
about. Far down the street, in front of a building, he saw a group of
children. Lawler recognized the building as the Wolf Saloon--so named
because of the river that ran through the town. He had no doubt that
Singleton had entered the building--that would explain the presence of
the children in front of it.

But Lawler merely glanced toward town; he turned instantly and gazed
long into the great stretch of plain that ran eastward. He caught sight
of a dot on his right, so far away that it was dim in the haze of
distance, and he knew Ruth had followed his advice.

Lawler watched the dot until it vanished, and when he turned again--to
mount Red King--his color had returned, though something of the mighty
passion that had gripped him was still swimming in his eyes.

He sent Red King into town at a slow lope, not even looking toward the
Wolf as he passed it, but hearing subdued voices that seemed to die away
as he drew close.

He brought Red King to a halt in front of the brick building in which
Gary Warden had his office, dismounted, tied the horse to a hitching
rail and strode to an open doorway from which ran the stairs that led
to the second floor. A gilt sign on the open door advised him of the
location of Warden's office.

With one foot on the stairs, ready to ascend, Lawler heard a woman's
voice, floating downward, coming from the landing above:

"Well, good-bye Gary," said the voice; "I'll see you tonight."

Lawler heard a man's voice answering, the words unintelligible to him;
then the woman laughed, banteringly.

Then came the sound of a door closing, and the light tread of a woman's
foot on the stairs.

Lawler had halted when he heard the woman's voice; he now stepped back
in the narrow hallway, against the open door, to give the woman room to
pass him.

Turning his back to the stairs, unconcernedly waiting, subconsciously
realizing that the woman was descending, he gazed past the station
building to see the empty corrals on the other side of the railroad
track. His eyes narrowed with satisfaction--for there would be room for
the thousand head of cattle that Blackburn and the other men of the
Circle L outfit would bring to Willets in the morning. There would be no
delay, and no camp on the edge of town, awaiting the emptying of the
corral.

When he heard the woman's step on the bottom of the stairs he turned and
faced her. She was looking straight at him, and as their eyes met he saw
hers widen eloquently. She half paused as she started to pass him, and
it seemed to him that she was about to speak. He smiled gravely,
puzzled, hesitant, for her manner indicated that she knew him, or was
mistaking him for another. He paused also, and both stood for a fleeting
instant face to face, silent.

Lawler noted that the woman was beautiful, well dressed, with a manner
unmistakably eastern. He decided that she had mistaken him for someone
of her acquaintance, for he felt assured he never had seen her before.
He bowed, saying lowly:

"I beg your pardon, ma'am; I reckon it's a case of mistaken identity."

"Why," she returned, laughing; "I thought sure I knew you. Are you quite
certain that I don't?"

There was guile in her eyes; so far back that he could not see it, or so
cleverly veiled with something else that he was not aware of it. It
seemed to him that the eyes were merely engaging, and frankly curious.
He did not see the admiration in them, the elation, and the demure
coquetry.

"I reckon you'll have to be the judge of that, ma'am. You certainly have
the advantage of me."

"You are--" Her pause was eloquent.

"I am Kane Lawler, ma'am."

He looked into her eyes for the disappointment he expected to find
there, and saw only eager interrogation.

"Oh, then I don't know you. I beg your pardon."

"I reckon there's no harm done," smiled Lawler.

He bowed again, noting that she looked intently at him, her eyes still
wide and filled with something he could not fathom. And when halfway up
the stairs he looked back, curious, subtly attracted to the woman, he
saw her standing in the doorway, ready to go out, watching him over her
shoulder. He laughed and opened the door of Gary Warden's office.

Warden was sitting at his desk. He turned at the sound of the door
opening, and faced Lawler inquiringly.

Perhaps in Lawler's eyes there still remained a trace of the cold
passion that had seized him in the schoolhouse; it may have been that
what Lawler had heard of Gary Warden was reflected in his gaze--a doubt
of Warden's honorableness. Or perhaps in Lawler's face he observed signs
which told him that before him stood a man of uncommon character.

At any rate, Warden was conscious of a subtle pulse of antagonism; a
quick dislike--and jealousy.

Warden could not have told what had aroused the latter emotion, though
he was subconsciously aware that it had come when he had noted the
rugged, manly strength of Lawler's face; that the man was attractive,
and that he admired him despite his dislike.

That knowledge aroused a dull rage in him. His cheeks flushed, his eyes
glowed with it.

But Warden's smile contradicted his thoughts. He managed that so
cleverly that many men, watching him, might have been deceived.

In Lawler's keen eyes, however, glowed understanding--a knowledge of
Warden's character that vindicated the things he had heard about the
man--the tentative suggestions that Warden was not a worthy successor to
Lefingwell.

That knowledge, though, would not have bothered him, had he not seen in
Warden's eyes something that seemed to offer him a personal affront. As
quickly as Warden had veiled his eyes from Lawler, the latter had seen
the dislike in them, the antagonism, and the rage that had stained his
cheeks.

He had come to Warden's office with an open mind; now he looked at the
man with a saturnine smile in which there was amused contempt. Assuredly
the new buyer did not "measure up" to Jim Lefingwell's "size," as
Blackburn had suggested.

Therefore, aware that he could not meet this man on the basis of
friendliness that had distinguished all his relations with Jim
Lefingwell, Lawler's voice was crisp and businesslike:

"You're Gary Warden?"

At the latter's short, affirmative nod, Lawler continued:

"I'm Kane Lawler, of the Circle L. I've come to make arrangements with
you about buying my cattle. I've got eight thousand head--good clean
stock. They're above the average, but I'm keeping my word with Jim
Lefingwell, and turning them in at the market price."

"That's twenty-five dollars, delivered at the railroad company's corral,
in town here."

He looked straight at Lawler, his face expressionless except for the
slight smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth--which might have
been indicative of vindictiveness or triumph.

"Thirty," smiled Lawler. "That was the price Lefingwell agreed to pay."

Warden appeared to be blandly amused.

"Lefingwell agreed to pay thirty, you say? Well, Lefingwell always was a
little reckless. That's why my company asked for his resignation. But if
you have a written contract with Lefingwell--in which it appears that
Lefingwell acted for the company, why, of course we'll have to take your
stock at the contract price. Let me see it, if you please."

"There was no written contract; I had Jim Lefingwell's word--which was
all I ever needed."

"Lefingwell's word," smiled Warden. "Unfortunately, a man's word is not
conclusive proof."

"Meaning that Jim Lefingwell was lying when he told you he'd agreed to
pay thirty dollars for my stock this fall?"

"Oh, no. I don't insinuate against Lefingwell's veracity. But the
company requires a written agreement in a case like this--where the
former representative----"

"We won't argue that," interrupted Lawler. "Jim Lefingwell told me he'd
had a talk with you about my agreement with him, and Jim said you'd
carry it out."

"Mr. Lefingwell did not mention the matter to me."

"I'd hate to think Jim Lefingwell lied to me," said Lawler, slowly.

Warden's face grew crimson. "Meaning that I'm a liar, I suppose," he
said, his voice quavering with sudden passion.

Lawler's level gaze made him stiffen in his chair. Lawler's smile, cold
and mirthless, brought a pulse of apprehension through him, and Lawler's
voice, slow, clear, and distinct, forced the blood from his face,
leaving it pale:

"I don't let any man twist my words so that they mean something I don't
intend them to mean, Mister Man. If I intended to call you a liar, I'd
have said it to you mighty plain, so there'd be no doubt in your mind
about it. So far as I know, you are not a liar. I'm telling you this,
though: A man's word in this country has got to be backed by his
performances--and he's got to have memory enough to know when he gives
his word.

"I reckon that where you come from men give their word without knowing
it. Maybe that's what happened to you when Jim Lefingwell spoke to you
about his agreement with me. Anyway, I feel that charitable enough
toward you to advance that explanation. You can take that for what it
seems worth to you. And I won't be bothered any, no matter which way you
take it."

Lawler turned toward the door. On the threshold he paused, for Warden's
voice reached him.

"You'd better sell at twenty-five, Mr. Lawler."

Warden's voice was low and smooth; he seemed to have decided to accept
the "charity" offered him by Lawler. But there was mockery in his voice,
and his eyes were alight with cunning. In the atmosphere about him was
complacency which suggested that Warden knew exactly what he was doing;
that he had knowledge unsuspected by Lawler, and that he had no doubt
that, ultimately, Lawler would accept his offer.

"Not a steer at twenty-five," returned Lawler.

"That price means immediate shipment," pursued Warden. "The railroads
are having some trouble with their rolling stock--it is hard to get
cars. Some shippers are not getting them at all. And the shortage will
grow."

"Perhaps it will. I don't blame you for buying as low as you can. That's
business, Warden. I heard through Lew Brainard, of the Two Diamond, that
owners in the South Basin, over at Shotwell, were offered forty just
before the round-up. I was kicking myself for making that agreement with
Lefingwell at thirty. But I intended to keep my word with him. But I
feel mighty free, now, to sell where I can get the market price."

"Twenty-five is the market price," said Warden. "Just before the
round-up there was some nervousness, it is true; and some buyers were
offering forty--and they contracted for some at that price. But that was
before we made--" He hesitated, reddened, and then went on quickly,
plainly embarrassed, endeavoring to conceal his embarrassment by
lighting a cigar.

"It was before the market broke," he went on. "The market is glutted.
The West raised more cattle this season than ever before. There is no
demand and the price had to tumble. A good many cattle owners will be
glad to take twenty, and even fifteen, before long."

"But if there are no cars?" smiled Lawler.

Again he saw Warden's face redden.

"A shortage of cars would mean a shortage of cattle in the East, I
reckon," went on Lawler. "And a shortage of cattle would mean higher
prices for those that got through. But I'm not arguing--nor am I
accepting twenty-five for my cattle. I reckon I'll have to ship my stock
East."

"Well, I wish you luck," said Warden.

He turned his back to Lawler, bending over his desk.

Something in his voice--a hint of mockery tempered with rage--brought
Lawler to a pause as he crossed the threshold of the doorway. He turned
and looked back at Warden, puzzled, for it seemed to him that Warden was
defying him; and he seemed to feel the atmosphere of complacence that
surrounded the man. His manner hinted of secret knowledge--strongly; it
gave Lawler an impression of something stealthy, clandestine. Warden's
business methods were not like Lefingwell's. Lefingwell had been bluff,
frank, and sincere; there was something in Warden's manner that seemed
to exude craft and guile. The contrast between the two men was sharp,
acute, startling; and Lawler descended the stairs feeling that he had
just been in contact with something that crept instead of walking
upright like a man.

A recollection of the woman he had met at the foot of the stairs came to
Lawler as he descended, and thought of her did much to erase the
impression he had gained of Warden. He grinned, thinking of how he had
caught her watching him as he had mounted the stairs. And then he
reddened as he realized that he would not have known she was watching
him had he not turned to look back at her.

He found himself wondering about her--why she had been in Warden's
office, and who she could be. And then he remembered his conversation
with Blackburn, about "chapper-owns," and he decided she must be that
woman to whom Blackburn had referred as "a woman at Lefingwell's old
place, keepin' Warden company." He frowned, and crossed the street,
going toward the railroad station building, in which he would find the
freight agent.

And as he walked he was considering another contrast--that afforded by
his glimpse of the strange woman and Ruth Hamlin. And presently he found
himself smiling with pleasure, with a mental picture of Ruth's face
before him--her clear, direct-looking, honest eyes, with no guile in
them like that which had glowed in the eyes that had gazed into his at
the foot of the stairs.

Over in Corwin's store, where "Aunt Hannah," had gone to make some small
purchases, the woman who had encountered Lawler in the hall was talking
with the proprietor. Aunt Hannah was watching a clerk.

"Della," she called; "do you want anything?"

"Nothing, Aunty," returned the woman. Then she lowered her voice,
speaking to Corwin:

"So he owns the Circle L? Is that a large ranch?"

"One of the biggest in the Wolf River section," declared Corwin.

"Then Lawler must be wealthy."

"I reckon he's got wads of dust, ma'am."

The woman's eyes glowed with satisfaction.

"Well," she said; "I was just curious about him. He is a remarkably
striking-looking man, isn't he?"

"You've hit it, ma'am," grinned Corwin. "I've been years tryin' to think
up a word that would fit him. You've hit it. He's different. Looks like
one of them statesmen with cowpuncher duds on--like a governor or
somethin', which is out of place here."

The woman smiled affirmation. "So he does," she said, reflectively. "He
is big, and imposing, and strikingly handsome. And he is educated, too,
isn't he?"

"I reckon he is," said Corwin. "Privately, that is. His maw was a
scholar of some kind back East, before she married Luke Lawler an' come
out here to live with him. Luke's dead, now--died five years ago. Luke
was a wolf, ma'am, with a gun. He could shoot the buttons off your coat
with his eyes shut. An' he was so allfired fast with his gun that he'd
make a streak of lightnin' look like it was loafin'. Luke had a heap of
man in him, ma'am, an' Kane is just as much of a man as his dad was, I
reckon. Luke was----"

"About Kane Lawler," interrupted the woman. "You say he is well
educated?"

"That's about the only thing I've got ag'in' him, ma'am. I hold that no
cattleman has got a right to know so durned much. It's mighty
dangerous--to his folks--if he ever gets any. Now take Kane Lawler. If
he was to marry a girl that wasn't educated like him, an' he'd begin to
get fool notions about hisself--why, it'd make it pretty hard for the
girl to get along with him." He grinned. "But accordin' to what I hear,
Kane ain't goin' to marry no ignoramus exactly, for he's took a shine to
Ruth Hamlin, Willets' school teacher. She's got a heap of brains, that
girl, an' I reckon she'd lope alongside of Kane, wherever he went."

The woman frowned. "Is Mr. Lawler going to marry Ruth Hamlin?"

Corwin looked sharply at her. "What do you suppose he's fannin' up to
her for?" he demanded. "Neither of them is a heap flighty, I reckon. An'
Kane will marry her if she'll have him--accordin' to the way things
generally go."

The woman smiled as she left Corwin and joined the older woman at the
front of the store. She smiled as she talked with the other woman, and
she smiled as they both walked out of the store and climbed into a
buckboard. The smile was one that would have puzzled Corwin, for it was
inscrutable, baffling. Only one thing Corwin might have seen in
it--determination. And that might have puzzled him, also.




CHAPTER VI

THE INVISIBLE POWER


Jay Simmons, the freight agent, was tilted comfortably in a chair near a
window looking out upon the railroad platform when Lawler stepped into
the office. The office was on the second floor, and from a side window
the agent had seen Lawler coming toward the station from Warden's
office. He had been sitting near the side window, but when he saw Lawler
approaching the station he had drawn his chair to one of the front
windows. And now, apparently, he was surprised to see Lawler, for when
the latter opened the door of the office Simmons exclaimed, with assumed
heartiness:

"Well, if it ain't Kane Lawler!"

Simmons was a rotund man, bald, with red hair that had a faded,
washed-out appearance. His eyes were large, pale blue in color, with a
singularly ingratiating expression which was made almost yearning by
light, colorless lashes.

Simmons' eyes, however, were unreliable as an index to his character.
One could not examine very far into them. They seemed to be shallow,
baffling. Simmons did not permit his eyes to betray his thoughts. He
used them as masks to hide from prying eyes the things that he did not
wish others to see.

"Come a-visitin', Lawler?" asked Simmons as Lawler halted midway in the
room and smiled faintly at the greeting he received.

"Not exactly, Simmons."

"Not exactly, eh? I reckon that means you've got some business. I'll be
glad to help you out--if I can."

"I'm going to ship my stock East, Simmons, and I'm wanting cars for
them--eight thousand head."

Simmons still sat in the chair beside the window. He now pursed his
lips, drew his brows together and surveyed Lawler attentively.

"Eight thousand head, eh? Sort of whooped 'em up this season, didn't
you. I reckon Gary Warden took 'em all?"

"Warden and I couldn't get together. I'm shipping them East, myself."

"Consignin' 'em to who?"

"They'll go to Legget and Mellert."

"H'm; they're an independent concern, ain't they?"

"Yes; that's the firm my father shipped to before Jim Lefingwell opened
an office here."

Simmons locked his fingers together and squinted his eyes at Lawler.

"H'm," he said. Then he was silent, seemingly meditating. Then he shook
his head slowly from side to side. Apparently he was gravely considering
a problem and could find no solution for it.

He cleared his throat, looked at Lawler, then away from him.

"I reckon it's goin' to be a lot bothersome to ship that bunch of stock,
Lawler--a heap bothersome. There's been half a dozen other owners in to
see me within the last week or so, an' I couldn't give them no
encouragement. There ain't an empty car in the state."

Lawler was watching him intently, and the expression in his eyes
embarrassed Simmons. He flushed, cleared his throat again, and then shot
a belligerent glance at Lawler.

"It ain't my fault--not a bit of it, Lawler. I've been losin' sleep over
this thing--losin' sleep, I tell you! I've telegraphed every damned
point on the line. This road is swept clean as a whistle. 'No cars' they
wire back to me--'no cars!' I've read that answer until there ain't no
room for anything else in my brain.

"The worst of it is, I'm gettin' blamed for it. You'd think I was
runnin' the damned railroad--that I was givin' orders to the president.
Lem Caldwell, of the Star, over to Keegles, was in here yesterday,
threatenin' to herd ride me if I didn't have a hundred cars here this
day, week. He'd been to see Gary Warden--the same as you have--an' he
was figgerin' on playin' her independent. An' some more owners have been
in. I don't know what in hell the company is thinkin' of--no cars, an'
the round-up just over."

Simmons had worked himself into a near frenzy. His face had become
bloated with passion, he was breathing fast. But Lawler noted that his
eyes were shifty, that he turned them everywhere except upon Lawler.

Simmons now paused, seemingly having exhausted his breath.

"I've just left Gary Warden," said Lawler, slowly. "He offered his price
for my stock. He told me if I accepted, it meant there would be no
delay, that they would be shipped immediately. Warden seems to know
where he can get cars."

Simmons' face reddened deeply, the flush suffusing his neck and ears. He
shot one swift glance at Lawler, and then looked down. In that swift
glance, however, Lawler had seen a fleeting gleam of guilt, of
insincerity.

Lawler laughed shortly--a sound that made Simmons shoot another swift
glance at him.

"How is it that Gary Warden figures on getting cars, Simmons?" said
Lawler.

Simmons got up, his face flaming with rage.

"You're accusin' me of holdin' somethin' back, eh? You're callin' me a
liar! You're thinkin' I'm----"

"Easy, there, Simmons."

There was a chill in Lawler's voice that brought Simmons rigid with a
snap--as though he had suddenly been drenched with cold water. The flush
left his face; he drew a deep, quick breath; then stood with open mouth,
watching Lawler.

"Simmons," said the latter; "it has been my experience that whenever a
man is touchy about his veracity, he will bear watching. You and Gary
Warden have both flared up from the same spark. I don't know whether
this thing has been framed up or not. But it looks mighty suspicious. It
is the first time there has been a lack of cars after a round-up.
Curiously, the lack of cars is coincident with Gary Warden's first
season as a buyer of cattle.

"I don't say that you've got anything to do with it, but it's mighty
plain you know something about it. I'm not asking you to tell what you
know, because if there is a frame-up, it's a mighty big thing, and you
are about as important a figure in it as a yellow coyote in a desert. I
reckon that's all, Simmons. You can tell your boss that Kane Lawler says
he can go to hell."

He wheeled, crossed the floor, went out of the room and left the door
open behind him. Simmons could hear his step on the stairs. Then Simmons
sat down again, drew a big red bandanna handkerchief from a hip pocket
and wiped some big beads of perspiration from his forehead. He was
breathing fast, and his face was mottled with purple spots. He got up,
ran to a side window, and watched Lawler until the latter vanished
behind a building opposite Gary Warden's office.

Again Simmons mopped his brow. And now he drew a breath of relief.

"Whew!" he said, aloud; "I'm glad that's over. I've been dreadin' it.
He's the only one in the whole bunch that I was afraid of. An' he's
wise. There'll be hell in this section, now--pure, unadulterated hell,
an' no mistake!"




CHAPTER VII

THE COALITION


When Lawler reached Willets' one street he saw a buckboard drawn by two
gray horses. The vehicle was headed west, away from him, and the horses
were walking. The distance between himself and the buckboard was not
great, and he saw that it was occupied by two women--one of them the
woman whom he had met at the foot of the stairs leading to Warden's
office. The other was elderly, and was looking straight ahead, but the
young woman's head was turned toward Lawler at the instant Lawler caught
sight of the buckboard. It seemed to him that the young woman must have
been watching him, before he became aware of the buckboard, for there
was a smile on her face as she looked at him; and when she seemed sure
that he was looking she gayly waved a white handkerchief.

Lawler did not answer the signal. He looked around, thinking that
perhaps the woman might have waved the handkerchief at some friend she
had just left, and when he turned she had her back to him.

Lawler was conscious of a pulse of amusement over the woman's action,
though he experienced no fatuous thrill. The woman was frivolous, and
had made no appeal to his imagination.

Besides, Lawler was in no mood for frivolous thought. He was having his
first experience with the invisible and subtle power that ruled the
commerce of the nation, and his thoughts were serious--almost vicious.

Somewhere a mighty hand had halted activity in the Wolf River section; a
power, stealthy, sinister, had interfered with the business in which he
was vitally interested, interrupting it, disturbing it.

Lawler had kept himself well informed. In the big library at the Circle
L were various volumes relating to economics that had been well thumbed
by him. He had been privately educated, by his mother. And among the
books that lined the shelves of the library were the philosophers,
ancient and modern; the masters of art, science, and letters, and a
miscellany of authorities on kindred subjects.

When his father had insisted that he be educated he had studied the
political history of his state; he had kept a serious eye upon the
activities of all the politicians of note; he had kept his mind open and
free from party prejudice. He knew that the present governor of the
state was incapable, or swayed by invisible and malign influences. He
was aware that the state railroad commissioner lacked aggressiveness, or
that he had been directed to keep in the background. And he was also
aware that for a year or more the people of the state had regretted
electing the present governor; the dissatisfaction manifesting itself in
various ways, though chiefly in the tone of the editorials published by
the newspapers in the towns.

As the average newspaper editor endeavors to anticipate public opinion
he invariably keeps himself well informed concerning the activities of
an office-holder, that he may be prepared to campaign against him at the
instant he detects dissatisfaction among his subscribers. And the
present governor was being scathingly arraigned by the newspapers of the
state, while he sat in smug complacence in his office at the capital. He
had made no effort to correct some of the evils of government about
which he had raged just before the election.

Lawler smiled with grim amusement as he walked toward the Willets
Hotel--where he meant to stay overnight. For he was convinced that the
car shortage could not exist if the state officials--especially the
railroad commissioner--would exert authority to end it. It seemed to
Lawler that there must exist a secret understanding between the railroad
commissioner and the invisible power represented by Gary Warden. And he
wondered at the temerity of the governor--the sheer, brazen disregard
for the public welfare that permitted him to become leagued with the
invisible power in an effort to rob the cattle owners of the state. He
must certainly know that he had been elected by the cattle owners--that
their votes and the votes of their employees had made it possible for
him to gain the office he had sought.

But perhaps--and Lawler's lips curved with bitterness--the governor
wanted only one term. For two years of complete and absolute control of
the cattle industry of the state would make him wealthy enough to hold
public opinion in contempt.

From a window of his office Gary Warden had watched Lawler go into the
station building. And from the same window Warden saw Lawler emerge. He
watched Lawler, noting the gravity of his face, exulting, smiling
mockingly. Warden also noted the little drama of the fluttering
handkerchief, and the smile went out and a black, jealous rage seized
him.

However, Gary Warden and Jay Simmons were not the only persons in town
who watched Lawler. When he had entered town the school children who had
preceded him had watched him from in front of the Wolf; and half a dozen
lean-faced, rugged, and prosperous-looking men had watched him from the
lounging-room of the Willets Hotel.

The men in the lounging-room were watching Lawler now, as he walked
toward the building, for they seemed to divine that he would enter.

When Lawler stepped over the threshold his lips were set in stern,
serious lines and his brows were drawn together in a frown. For his
thoughts were dwelling upon the sinister power that threatened to create
confusion in the section.

He did not see the men in the lounging-room until he had taken several
steps toward the desk; and then he glanced carelessly toward them.
Instantly his eyes glowed with recognition; he walked toward them.

"Howdy, Lawler," greeted one, extending a hand. And, "howdy," was the
word that passed the lips of the others as Lawler shook hands with them.
He called them all by name; but it was to the first man that he spoke,
after the amenities had been concluded.

"I heard you were in town, Caldwell," he said.

Caldwell--a big man with a black beard, probing, intelligent eyes, and
an aggressive chin, grinned grimly.

"Gary Warden tell you?" he asked.

"No. Warden didn't mention you."

"Then it was Jay Simmons. You ain't been anywhere else."

"How do you know?"

Caldwell exchanged glances with his companions. "I reckon we've been
watchin' you, Lawler. We seen you ride into town on Red King, an' we
seen you go over to the station from Warden's office."

"Watching me?" queried Lawler; "what for?"

"Wall, I reckon we wanted to see how you took it."

"Took what?"

"What Warden an' Simmons had to say to you. We got ours--me yesterday;
Barthman an' Littlefield this mornin'; an' Corts, Sigmund, an' Lester
the day before yesterday. I reckon the whole section will get it before
long. Looks like they're tryin' to squeeze us. How many steers did you
sell to Warden at twenty-five?"

Lawler grinned.

"An' Simmons?" said Caldwell, gleefully.

"No cars."

"Seems Simmons ain't makin' no exceptions. We've all heard the same
story. We knowed you'd be in, an' we sort of waited around, wonderin'
what you'd do about it. We didn't bring no cattle over, for we hadn't
made no arrangement with Jim Lefingwell--like you done--an' we didn't
want to stampede Warden."

Lawler told them what had occurred in his interview with Warden.

"I reckon Warden's the liar, all right," declared Caldwell; "Jim
Lefingwell's word was the only contract anyone ever needed with him." He
looked keenly at Lawler. "What you aimin' to do?" he questioned.

"I've been thinking it over," said Lawler.

"You ain't figgerin' to lay down to the cusses?" Caldwell's voice was
low and cold.

Lawler looked straight at him, smiling. Caldwell laughed, and the others
grinned.

"Lawler, we knowed you wouldn't," declared Caldwell; "but a man's got a
right to ask. Right here an' now somethin' has got to be done. Looks to
me as if we've got to play this game to a showdown, an' we might as well
start right now. They're ain't none of us men goin' to let Gary Warden
an' the railroad company run our business; but there's a few owners
around here that ain't got no stomach for a fight, an' they'd sell to
Warden for ten dollars rather than have any trouble. Them's the guys
we've got to talk mighty plain to. For if they go to sellin' for what
they can get, they'll make it allfired uncomfortable for us."

"This is a free country, Caldwell. So far as I'm concerned every man
runs his own ranch and sells for what he thinks is a fair price. If we
go to interfering with them, we'd be as bad as Warden and the railroad
company."

"Lawler, you're right," agreed Caldwell, after reflecting a moment. "I
didn't realize that, at first. A man don't think, when he's mad clear
through. But it's mighty plain--we've got to stand on our own feet, if
we stand at all."

Barthman, a tall, lean-faced man, cleared his throat.

"Lawler, you're the man to handle this thing. You've got the most money,
the most brains, an' you're known all over the state--on account of them
slick Herefords you've been raisin', an' on account of headin' the
delegation to the state convention last fall, from this county. You can
talk, for you mighty near stampeded that convention last fall. If you'd
said the word you'd have been governor today instead of that dumb coyote
which is holdin' down the office now. You've got the reputation an' the
backbone--an' they've got to listen to you. I've heard that cattle
owners all over the state are gettin' the same deal." Barthman's eyes
gleamed with passion. "I propose that you be elected chairman of this
meetin', an' that you be instructed to hop on the mornin' train an' go
to the railroad commissioner at the capital an' tell him that if he
don't give orders to bust up this thievin' combination the cattle owners
of this county will come down there an' yank off his hide!"




CHAPTER VIII

A WOMAN'S MERCY


Gary Warden did not stand at the office window many minutes after he saw
Lawler on the street. He drew on his coat, took his hat from a hook, on
the wall and descended the stairs. At the street door he glanced swiftly
around, saw Red King standing at the hitching rail in front of the
building, and several other horses farther up the street. There were
several men on the sidewalks, but he did not see Lawler.

Grinning crookedly, Warden crossed the street and made his way to the
station building, where a few minutes later he was talking with Simmons.
Simmons was visibly excited. There was curiosity in Warden's gaze.

"He's wise," said Simmons. He was still wiping perspiration from his
forehead, and he mechanically repeated to Warden the words he had
uttered to himself immediately after Lawler left his office: "I'm glad
it's over. I've been dreadin' it. He's the only one in the whole bunch
that I was afraid of. There'll be hell to pay in this section,
now--pure, unadulterated hell, an' no mistake!" And then he added
something that had occurred to him afterward: "If the big guys back of
this thing knowed Kane Lawler as well as I know him, they'd have thought
a heap before they started this thing!"

"Bah!" sneered Warden; "you're raving! We know what we are doing. You
do as you're told--that's all. And keep your mouth shut. Just keep on
telling them there are no cars. That's the truth, isn't it?" He grinned
gleefully at Simmons.

"So he's wise, eh?" he added. "Well, I'm damned glad of it--the
sagebrush rummie! We'll make him hump before we get through with him!"

Hatred of Lawler had seized Warden--a passion that ran through his veins
with the virulence of a strong poison. It had been the incident of the
fluttering handkerchief that had aroused him. Until then he had merely
disliked Lawler, aware of the latent strength of him, his rugged
manliness, and his quiet confidence. All those evidences of character
had irritated him, for they had brought an inevitable contrast between
himself and the man, and he knew he lacked those things which would have
made him Lawler's equal. He felt inferior, and the malevolence that
accompanied the conviction was reflected in his face as he faced
Simmons.

"No cars, now--damn them! Not a single car! Understand, Simmons? No
cars--you can't get them! No matter what happens, you can't get
cars--for anybody!"

He left Simmons and descended to the street. As he passed the front of
the Willets Hotel he saw Lawler and his friends inside; but Lawler had
his back turned, and the others were interestedly watching him,
gesturing and talking.

Warden entered the front door of the Wolf. He stopped at the bar for a
drink, and the barkeeper told him, in reply to his question, that
Singleton was in a rear room.

Singleton was alone. He was sitting in a chair at a table, with a glass
in front of him, and he was staring abstractedly at the floor when
Warden entered, closing the door behind him.

Warden drew a chair up to the table and dropped into it. And then for
the first time he looked closely at Singleton's face and saw the gash on
his left cheek. The wound had been treated, but beneath the cloth at one
end Warden could see the open flesh.

"What in blazes has happened to you?" inquired Warden.

"Lawler," growled Singleton; "he walloped my kid down at the
schoolhouse, an' when I went down there to take the kid's part, he
walloped me, too." He grinned lugubriously. "I didn't know the cuss
could hit so hard," he muttered. "Warden, he salivated me--hit me so
durned hard I thought the roof had dropped on me."

Warden stiffened; then leaned forward, his lips loose, his eyes
malignant. "What do you carry those two guns for, Singleton? I thought
you knew how to use them. Men have told me you know."

"Bah!" exclaimed Singleton. His gaze met Warden's, his eyes gleaming
with resentment. "What do you know about Kane Lawler?"

"I hate him, Singleton."

"Well, I reckon you ain't the only one. I ain't exactly in love with the
cuss, myself. I was thinkin' of my guns when I was with him in the
schoolhouse, but somehow I didn't feel like takin' a chance on slingin'
'em. I ain't tryin' to explain nothin'--I just couldn't make my hands go
for 'em, that's all. Hell! I reckon the man who can draw a gun on Kane
Lawler when he's lookin' at him ain't been born yet. But I'm gettin'
square with him for wallopin' me--I'm lettin' you know that, right
enough!"

"You'll have your chance, Singleton. Lawler will have to trail his
cattle--as far as Red Rock, anyway."

Singleton's eyes glowed with venomous satisfaction. He grinned evilly at
Warden.

"So he wouldn't do business with you, eh? I knowed it, an' I've been
gettin' ready. Ha, ha! He'll wish he had. Blondy Antrim rode in as far
as Kinney's cañon last night. I met him an' had a long talk with him.
He's keen for it--says he admires any guy which can plan a thing that
big. Grinned like a hyena when I told him the big guys back of it
wouldn't let any law interfere. He's got seventy men, he
says--dare-devil gun-fighters from down south a piece which will do
anything he tells 'em an' howl for more."

Warden moistened his lips as he grinned his satisfaction.

"There's only one trail, Singleton--you are sure of that?"

"One trail--the Tom Long trail. The devil himself couldn't find another
through that country."

Warden leaned back in his chair, laughing lowly. Into his manner as he
sat there came a confidence that had not been there before--bold,
arrogant. His laugh had a sinister quality in it; in his eyes was the
light of greed.

And as he watched Singleton something else came into his eyes--something
abysmal, causing them to narrow and glow with a bestial light.

"Singleton," he said, his voice thick and throaty; "when I stepped into
Jim Lefingwell's boots the county board of education appointed me to
succeed Lefingwell as school commissioner for Willets. It strikes me
that something ought to be done about the teacher punishing your boy. I
think I had better have a talk with her."

"Shucks," growled Singleton; "I reckon the kid deserved what he got. He
was tryin' to wallop her when Lawler come in. I ain't admirin' Ruth
Hamlin none, but I reckon she wasn't to blame for that. If you was
figgerin' to see Lawler, now, why that would be more to the point." He
grinned crookedly at Warden, slight mockery in his gaze.

Warden scowled. "That's your job, Singleton. If he tries to 'wallop' me
as he walloped you, I'll have something to say to him."

"It's safer to telegraph to the cuss," grinned Singleton, sourly.

Warden apparently did not hear Singleton's last words, for he was gazing
meditatively past him. He took leave of Singleton and walked to the
front of the saloon, where he stood for many minutes leaning on the bar,
thoughtfully looking out into the street.

The shadows of the buildings across the street from him had grown long,
and the light from the sun was mellowing when Warden walked to the
front door and stood for an instant on the threshold.

Down the street in front of his office stood Red King. Other horses were
hitched here and there, but there was no human being in sight. The quiet
peace of the waning afternoon had settled over town; it was the period
when human activity slackens.

Warden stepped down upon the sidewalk. There was a furtive gleam in his
eyes, his face was flushed; he was in the grip of a passion that
thoughts of Ruth Hamlin had brought to him. He had seen the girl a
number of times; he had talked with her twice. Each time when he had
talked with her he had felt the heat of a great desire seize him. And
during his talk with Singleton he had yielded to the impulse that was
now driving him.

Just why the impulse had come to him at that instant he could not have
told. He knew Kane Lawler's name had been mentioned in connection with
the girl's; and it might have been that his hatred of Lawler, and the
sudden jealousy that had developed in him over the incident of the
fluttering handkerchief, had gripped him. But he was aware that just at
this time he was risking much--risking his life and jeopardizing the
business venture in which he was engaged. Yet the impulse which was
driving him had made him reckless; it had dulled his sense of
responsibility; had swept away all considerations of caution. When he
saw there was no one on the street he walked eastward to the livery
stable where he kept his horse, saddled and bridled it, mounted and rode
away.

His ranch, the Two Diamond, was fifteen miles southwestward. Warden rode
directly east, bearing a little south after he had traveled some
distance from town, striking a narrow trail that wound a sinuous course
over the plains.

The passion that had seized Warden still held him. He told himself that
he really intended merely to call upon Ruth professionally, in his rôle
of school commissioner; he assured himself that she must be made to
understand that the forcible disciplining of her pupils would not be
tolerated. Yet as he rode he kept glancing backward apprehensively,
though he knew that if he made his visit merely official he need have
nothing to fear from anyone.

Twice, as Warden rode, he halted his horse and debated the wisdom of
returning. And twice he rode on again telling himself he had a right to
visit the girl, and that he meant no harm.

At most he desired merely to see the girl again, to experience the
thrills that he had felt upon the other occasions he had talked with
her. And when at dusk he came in sight of the Hamlin cabin he felt that
he had really come on an official visit.

He saw Ruth's pony saddled and bridled, standing at a corner of the
corral, where she had left him when she had returned from the
schoolhouse some hours before.

She had found the house unoccupied when she arrived; there was evidence
that her father had left shortly after breakfast--for the dishes were
unwashed and the floor unswept--two duties that he always had
performed, knowing that in the morning she had a ten-mile ride before
her.

Table and floor had been attended to by the girl. But she had done
little else. For hours she had sat in a chair near the front door,
thinking of what had happened in the schoolhouse--of what she had
heard--the evidence that Kane Lawler knew what her father had been
doing, and that he was trying to protect her.

She believed it was the latter knowledge that made her feel so small, so
insignificant, so utterly miserable. For while she was convinced that he
would think no less of her, no matter what her father had done, the fact
that Lawler was trying to keep the knowledge of her father's guilt from
her told her that he appreciated the keen disgrace that threatened her.

When Warden dismounted near the cabin door she thought it was her father
returning, and she got up and went to the stove, where she stood,
lifting the iron lids, preparatory to starting a fire.

She felt that she could not look at her father, after what had happened;
and so she laid some wood in the stove, deliberately keeping her back to
the door, trying to think of something to say to her father--for she had
determined to tell him about the incident of the morning.

She was forced to go to a shelf for matches, however, and when she
turned, her eyes flashing with accusation, she saw Warden standing in
the open doorway, watching her. She stood very still, and spoke no word.

When Warden noted the swift change of expression that came over her
face--the astonishment that instantly dominated all else, he grinned
smoothly.

"Surprised to see me, Miss Hamlin? You shouldn't be, after what happened
at the schoolhouse today. I have called to have a talk with you about
it."

The girl's quick smile was cold and indifferent. What happened to her
now was of little importance. She supposed Warden had come to tell her
she had been discharged; but that made little difference to her. She
felt that she had done right in attempting to chastize Jimmy Singleton;
and she would do it again under the same circumstances.

"Is it necessary to talk?" she questioned, coldly. "I am not sorry for
what I did. I suppose you have come to notify me of my dismissal."

"On the contrary, I have come to assure you that you did what was
right--exactly what I would have done," smiled Warden. "The only
criticism I have is that you should not have dismissed school; you
should have stayed right there and had it out."

Warden stepped inside and walked close to Ruth.

"I want to shake hands with you, Miss Hamlin; you have the necessary
spirit."

Some color surged into Ruth's face. She realized now, that she did not
want to lose the position--that it meant much to her. It meant at least
her independence from her father, that she could support herself without
depending upon the money he gained from his guilty practices. It meant,
too, that the additional disgrace of being summarily dismissed would not
descend upon her.

Impulsively, she took Warden's hand. She looked inquiringly at him
though, when he gripped it tightly, and the color that had come into her
face fled, leaving it pale, when Warden continued to hold the hand,
gripping it so hard that she could not withdraw it. She looked intently
at him, over the few feet of space that was between them, noting the
queer light in his eyes--a glow of passion; watching the crimson tide
that rose above his collar, staining his face darkly.

For the driving desire that had seized Warden had conquered him.
Physical contact with the girl had brought his passions to life again.
They had overwhelmed him, had sent his grain skittering back into those
dead and gone periods when man's desires surmounted laws.

Warden no longer considered the risks whose ghosts had haunted him on
his ride to the Hamlin cabin; his fears had been swallowed by the
oblivion of mental irresponsibility. He had only the vivid knowledge
that he was alone in the cabin with the girl.

"But there are people in Willets who are determined that you shall go,"
he said. "I can keep you on the job in spite of them, my dear--and I'll
do it. But there are certain conditions--certain----"

She struck him, then, bringing her free hand around with a wide, full
sweep. The open hand landed on the side of his face with a smack that
resounded through the cabin, staggering him, causing him to release the
other hand.

A great, red welt appeared on his cheek where the hand had struck; and
he felt of his cheek with his fingers, amazed, incredulous. For an
instant only, however, he stood, trying to wipe the sting of the blow
away. Then he laughed throatily and started after her--she having
retreated behind the table, where she stood, watching him, her eyes
wide, her face dead white.

Warden, leaning far over the table, saw her eyes close as she stood
there; saw her fingers grip the edge of the table; noted that her chin
had dropped and that she seemed to be on the point of fainting.

Warden's back was toward the front door; he had to slip sideways to get
around the table, and as he did so his profile was brought toward the
door. He saw a shadow at his feet--a shadow cast by the last effulgent
glow of the setting sun--a shadow made by a man standing in the doorway.

Warden halted and held hard to the table edge. Reason, cold, remorseless
reason surged back into his brain, accompanied by a paralyzing fear.
Some prescience told him that the man in the doorway was Kane Lawler.
And though he was convinced of it, he was a long time lifting his head
and in turning it the merest trifle toward the door. And when he saw
that the dread apparition was indeed Lawler, and that Lawler's heavy
pistol was extending from his side, the hand and arm behind it rigid, he
stiffened, flung himself around and faced Lawler, his mouth open, his
eyes bulging with the terrible dread of death and the awful certainty
that death was imminent.

For an instant there was a silence--breathless, strained, pregnant with
the promise of tragedy. Then the silence was rent by Lawler's voice,
dry, light, and vibrant:

"Warden, if you move a quarter of an inch I'll blow you to hell!"

Lawler walked slowly to Ruth, took her by the shoulders and steadied
her.

"It's Lawler, Ruth," he said reassuringly. "I want you to tell me what's
wrong here." He shook her, gently, and she opened her eyes and looked at
him dazedly. Then, as she seemed to recognize him, to become convinced
that it was really Lawler whom she had seen in the doorway, she smiled
and rested her head on his shoulder, her hands patting his arms and his
back as though to convince herself beyond doubt.

For an instant she stood there, holding tightly to him; and then she
released herself, stepping back with flushed cheeks and shamed eyes.

"Kane, I am so glad you came!" she said. "Why, Kane! that man--" She
shuddered and covered her face with her hands.

"I reckon that's all!" said Lawler. There was a cold, bitter grin on his
lips as he stepped around the table and stood in front of Warden.

"Warden, I'm going back to town with you. We're going right now. Go out
and get on your horse!"

Lawler's voice, the cold flame in his eyes and his icy deliberation,
told Ruth of a thing that, plainly, Warden had already seen--that though
both men would begin the ride to "town," only Lawler would reach there.

Ruth watched, fascinated, her senses dulled by what she saw in Lawler's
manner and in the ghastly white of Warden's face. Warden understood. He
understood, and his breath was labored, his flesh palsied--and still he
was going to obey. For Ruth saw him move; saw him sway toward the door;
saw Lawler watching him as though he was fighting to hold his passions
in check, fighting back a lust to kill the man where he stood.

Warden had reached the door; he was crossing the threshold--his head
bowed, his shoulders sagging, his legs bending at the knees--when Ruth
moved. She ran around the table and got between Lawler and Warden,
stretching her arms in the open doorway, barring Lawler's way. Her eyes
were wild with terror.

"Don't, Kane!" she begged; "don't do that! Oh, I know what you mean to
do. Please, Kane; let him go--alone. He didn't do--what--what--" She
paused, shuddering.

Lawler's eyes softened as he looked at her; he smiled faintly, and she
knew she had won. She did not resist when he drew her gently away from
the door. Standing just inside, she saw him go out to where Warden
stood, pale and shaking, looking at both of them. Then she heard
Lawler's voice as he spoke to Warden:

"Warden, I'm letting you off. Miss Ruth is going to teach school where
she's been teaching it. The schoolhouse is your deadline--the same as
this cabin. Whenever you step into one or the other, your friends are
going to mourn for you. Get going!"

It was a long time before Lawler moved. And when he did re-enter the
cabin Ruth was nowhere to be seen.

Lawler paused near the center of the big room and gazed about him. The
door leading to one of the rooms that ran from the big room was open.
The other was closed. He walked to the closed door and stood before it,
his lips set in grim lines, his eyes somber.

"Ruth!" he called, lowly.

There was no answer; and again he called. This time a smothered voice
reached him, quavering, tearful:

"Please go away, Kane; I don't want to see you. I'm so upset."

"I reckon I'll go, Ruth." But still he lingered, watching the door, now
smiling faintly, understandingly. Beyond the door were the sounds of
sobbing.

Lawler folded his arms over his chest and with the fingers of one hand
caressing his chin, watched the door.

"Ruth," he said, finally; "where is your father?"

"I--I d-don't know. And I don't c-care."

Lawler started, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion as he looked at the
door--it seemed that he was trying to peer through it.

"Ruth," he said slowly; "I saw you looking into the schoolhouse through
the broken window, after I hit Singleton the second time, and while I
was talking to him. What did you hear?"

"Everything, Kane--everything." The sobs were furious, now.

Lawler frowned through a silence during which his eyes glowed savagely.
Then, after a while, he spoke again.

"I've known it for a long time, Ruth."

"Oh!" she sobbed.

"It was Singleton's fault. He won't do it any more."

There was no answer; a brooding silence came from beyond the door.

Then Lawler said gently: "Ruth, I'm asking you again: Will you marry
me?"

"I'll never marry you, now, Kane--never, never, never!"

The sobs had ceased now; but the voice was choked with emotion.

"All right, Ruth," said Lawler; "I'll ask you again, sometime. And the
next time you won't refuse."

He crossed the floor and stepped outside. Leaping into the saddle he
sent Red King thundering away from the cabin into the dusk that swathed
the southern distance.

A yellow moon was rising above the peaks of the hills at the far edge of
the Wolf River valley when Lawler dismounted from Red King and strode to
the big Circle L bunkhouse. Inside a kerosene lamp burned on a table
around which were several men.

The men looked up in astonishment as Lawler entered; then got to their
feet, looking at Lawler wonderingly, for on his face was an expression
that none of them ever had seen there before.

"Have any of you seen Joe Hamlin?" said Lawler.

A yellow-haired giant among them grinned widely and pointed eloquently
toward a bunk, where a man's body, swathed in blankets, could be seen.

"That's him," said the yellow-haired giant. "He hit here this mornin',
sayin' you'd hired him, an' that he was standin' straight up on his legs
like a man, hereafter. We took him on under them conditions."

Lawler strode to the bunk. He deliberately unrolled the blankets, seized
Hamlin by the middle and lifted him, setting him down on the floor
ungently.

By the time Lawler released him, Hamlin had his eyes open, and he
blinked in bewilderment at the faces of the men, opening his mouth with
a snap when he saw Lawler.

"Lawler, what in blazes is the matter--I ain't done nothin'!"

"You're going to do something!" declared Lawler. He waited until Hamlin
dressed, then he led him outside. At an end of the corral fence, where
no one could hear, Lawler talked long and earnestly to Hamlin. And when
Hamlin left, riding a Circle L horse, he was grinning.

"It's a straight trail, Hamlin," said Lawler gravely, as Hamlin rode
away; "a straight trail, and not a word to Ruth!"

"Straight it is, Lawler," answered Hamlin. "I'm testifyin' to that!"




CHAPTER IX

THE ARM OF POWER


Lawler stayed long enough at the Circle L to speak a word with his
mother. His sister Mary had gone to bed when he stepped into the front
door of the ranchhouse, to be greeted by Mrs. Lawler, who had heard him
cross the porch, recognized his step and had come to meet him.

He smiled at her, but there was a stiffness about his lips, and a cold,
whimsical light in his eyes, that told her much.

She drew a deep breath, and smiled faintly.

"You have disagreed with Gary Warden," she said. "He will not keep
Lefingwell's agreement."

"Said he never heard of any agreement," said Lawler. "I rode in to tell
the boys to hold the herd here until I got back from the capital. I'm
going to see the railroad commissioner--about cars. Simmons says there
isn't a car in the state. If we can't get cars, we'll drive to Red
Rock." He took her face in his hands and patted her cheeks gently.
"Blackburn will probably bed the trail herd down on the Rabbit Ear. I'm
joining him there, and then I'm going to the capital in the morning."

Mrs. Lawler was standing on the porch when he mounted Red King; she was
still standing there when Lawler looked back after he had ridden half a
mile.

Lawler found Blackburn and the herd on the Rabbit Ear, as he had
anticipated. The Rabbit Ear was an insignificant creek that intersected
the Wolf at a distance of about fifteen miles from the Circle L; and the
outfit had selected for a camp a section of plain that ran to the
water's edge. It was a spot that had been used before by the men of the
outfit, and when Lawler rode up the men were stretched out in their
blankets around a small fire.

Blackburn grinned wickedly when informed of Gary Warden's refusal to
keep Lefingwell's agreement.

"Didn't I hit him right," he sneered. "I aim to be able to tell a coyote
first pop, whether he's sneakin' in the sagebrush or settin' in a
office. They ain't no difference. No cars, eh? Bah! If you say the word,
me an' the boys'll hit the breeze to town an' run Warden and Simmons
out!

"You're wastin' your time, goin' to see Morgan Hatfield, the
commissioner. Don't I know him? He tin-horned over at Laskar for two or
three years before he got into politics; an' now he's tin-hornin' the
cattle owners of the state. He'll grin that chessie-cat grin of his an'
tell you he can't do nothin'. An' he'll do it! Bah! This country is
goin' plumb to hell. Any country will, when there's too much law hangin'
around loose!"

He scowled and looked hard at Lawler. "We'll hold 'em at Willets, all
right an' regular, until you give us the word to hit the Tom Long trail.
But while you're gone I'm gettin' ready to travel--for there won't be
any cars, Lawler, an' don't you forget it!"

Lawler said nothing in reply to Blackburn's vitriolic speech. So
unperturbed did he seem that Blackburn remarked to one of the men--after
Lawler wrapped himself in a blanket and stretched out near the
fire--that, "the more Lawler's got on his mind the less he talks."

Long before dawn Lawler saddled up and departed. When Blackburn awoke
and rubbed his eyes, he cast an eloquent glance at the spot where Lawler
had lain, grinned crookedly and remarked to the world at large: "Anyway,
we're backin' his play to the limit--an' don't you forget it!"

Lawler left Red King at the stable from which, the day before, Gary
Warden had ridden on his way to the Hamlin cabin; and when the
west-bound train steamed in he got aboard, waving a hand to the friends
who, the day before in the Willets Hotel had selected him as their
spokesman.

It was afternoon when Lawler stepped from the train in the capital. He
strode across the paved floor of the train shed, through a wide iron
gate and into a barber-shop that adjoined the waiting-room.

There he gave himself to the care of a barber who addressed him as Mr.
Lawler in a voice of respect.

"I've shaved you before, Mr. Lawler," said the man. "I think it was when
you was down here last year, to the convention. I heard the speech you
made that time, nominating York Falkner for governor. Too bad you didn't
run yourself. You'd have made it, saving the state from the tree-toad
which is hanging to it now."

During his short stay at the Circle L the night before, Lawler had
changed from his cowboy rigging to a black suit of civilian cut, with
tight trousers that were stuffed into the tops of soft boots of dull
leather. The coat was long, after the fashion of the period, cut square
at the bottom, and the silk lapels matched the flowing tie that was
carelessly bowed at the collar of a shirt of some soft, white material.
He wore a black, felt hat; and out of consideration for the custom and
laws of the capital, he had shoved his six-shooter around so that it was
out of sight on his right hip. However, the cartridge-studded belt was
around his waist; he kept the black coat buttoned over it, hiding it.

He had been in the capital often, and had no difficulty in finding his
way to the capitol building. It was at the intersection of two wide
streets--a broad, spacious structure of white stone, standing in the
center of a well-kept grass plot. It was imposing, hinting of the
greatness of the state that had erected it, suggesting broadness of
vision and simple majesty.

The state was not at fault, Lawler reflected as he mounted the broad
stone stairs that led upward to the interior of the building; the state
was founded upon principles that were fundamentally just; and the wisdom
of the people, their resources, their lives, were back of it all. This
building was an expression of the desire of the people; it represented
them; it was the citadel of government from which came the laws to which
they bowed; it was the visible arm of power.

Lawler crossed the big rotunda, where the light was subdued; and walked
down a wide corridor, pausing before a door on which was the legend:
"State Railroad Commissioner." A few minutes later, after having given
his name to an attendant, he was standing in a big, well-lighted and
luxuriously furnished room--hat in hand, looking at a tall, slender man
who was seated in a swivel chair at a big, flat-top desk.

The man was older than Lawler, much older. The hair at his temples was
almost white, but heavy and coarse. An iron-gray wisp straggled over his
brow, where he had run a hand through it, apparently; his eyes were
gray, keen, with a light in them that hinted of a cold composure equal
to that which gleamed in Lawler's. The long, hooked nose, though, gave
the eyes an appearance of craftiness, and the slightly downward droop at
the corners of his mouth suggested cynicism.

He smiled, veiling an ironic flash in his eyes by drooping the lids, as
he spoke to his visitor.

"Hello, Lawler," he said, smiling faintly, "take a chair." He waved a
hand toward one, on the side of the desk opposite him. "It's been a long
time since you struck town, hasn't it--since the last state
convention--eh?"

There was a hint of laughter in his voice, a suggestion of mockery in
the unspoken inference that he remembered the defeat of Lawler's
candidate.

Lawler smiled. "Well, you did beat us, that's a fact, Hatfield. There's
no use denying that. But we took our medicine, Hatfield."

"You had to," grinned the other. "Whenever the people of a state----"

"Hatfield," interrupted Lawler, gravely, "it seems to me that the people
of this state are always taking medicine--political medicine. That's
what I have come to talk with you about."

Hatfield's smile faded. His eyes gleamed coldly.

"What's wrong, Lawler?"

"It's cars, Hatfield--or rather no cars," he added, grimly. "Usually, at
this season of the year, there will be a hundred or two empty cars on
the siding at Willets--with other hundreds on the way. This year the
siding is empty, and Jay Simmons says there are no cars to be had. He
tells me there isn't an empty car in the state. Caldwell, of the Star,
and Barthman, Littlefield, Corts, Sigmund, and Lester--who are ranch
owners near Willets--told me to come down here and ask you what can be
done. I'm asking you."

Hatfield eyed Lawler steadily as the latter talked; his gaze did not
waver as Lawler concluded. But a slight stain appeared in his cheeks,
which instantly receded, leaving them normal again. But that slight
flush betrayed Hatfield to Lawler; it told Lawler that Hatfield knew why
there were no cars. And Lawler's eyes chilled as his gaze met
Hatfield's.

"I've talked that matter over with the railroad people several times,"
said Hatfield, in an impersonal, snapping voice. "They tell me that you
cattle owners are to blame. You seem to think that it is the business of
the railroad company to guess how many cars you will want. You wait
until the round-up is over before you begin to think about cars, and
then you want them all in a bunch."

"You are mistaken, Hatfield. Along about the middle of the season every
prudent cattle owner arranges with a buyer or with the railroad company
for the necessary cars. In my case, I made arrangements with Jim
Lefingwell, the buyer at Willets, as long ago as last spring. But
Lefingwell isn't buyer any more, and Gary Warden, the present buyer,
refuses to recognize my agreement with Lefingwell."

"A written agreement?"

"Unfortunately not. Lefingwell's word was always good."

Hatfield's smile was very near a sneer. "If you neglect the rudiments of
business it seems to me that you have only yourselves to blame. In your
case, Lawler, it is rather astonishing. You have quite a reputation for
intelligence; you own one of the biggest ranches in the state; you are
wealthy; and last year you tried to tell the people of the state how to
run it. You even went so far as to make a speech in the convention,
naming the man you preferred for governor."

Lawler smiled, though his gaze was level.

"Don't be unpleasant, Hatfield. You understand I am not here as a
politician, but as a mere citizen petitioning you to act in this
railroad case. What I have done or said has no bearing on the matter at
all. The railroad company will not provide cars in which to ship our
stock East, and I am here to ask you to do something about it."

Hatfield appeared to meditate.

"Warden offered to buy your cattle, you say?"

Lawler nodded. But he had not mentioned to Hatfield that Warden had
offered to buy the cattle--Hatfield had either surmised that, or had
received information through other sources. Lawler suspected that the
railroad commissioner had been informed through the various mediums at
his command, and this was evidence of collusion.

"And Simmons says there are no cars," mused Hatfield. "Well, that seems
to leave you shippers in a bad predicament, doesn't it? Can't you drive
to some other point--where you can arrange to get cars?"

"Five hundred miles, to Red Rock, over the Tom Long trail--the worst
trail in the country."

"What price could you get at Red Rock?"

"The market price--about thirty dollars."

"And what did Warden offer?"

"Twenty-five."

"H'm. It seems to me, considering the inconvenience of driving over the
Tom Long trail, you'd be better off taking Warden's offer. It's
remarkable to what lengths you cattle owners will go for a few dollars."

"Five dollars a head on a herd of eight thousand amounts to forty
thousand dollars, Hatfield," Lawler reminded him.

"Hatfield, this isn't a question of dollars, it's a question of
principle. This situation is a result of a scheme to hold up the cattle
owners of the state. It's mighty plain. The railroad company refuses
cars to the cattle owners, but will supply them to buyers like Warden.
The buyers must have some assurance of getting cars, or they wouldn't
buy a single hoof. What we want is to force the railroad to supply
cattle owners with cars."

"Why not hold your stock over the winter?" suggested Hatfield, with a
faint, half-smile.

"Hatfield, you know that can't be done. There isn't a cattle owner in
the country who is prepared to winter his stock. Had we known this
situation was to develop we might have laid in some feed--though that is
an expensive method. Nothing has been done, for we expected to ship by
rail as usual. Almost every owner has a stock of feed on hand, but that
is for breeders, and for other stock that doesn't grade up. If we are
forced to winter our stock on the ranges half of them would die of
starvation and exposure before spring."

Hatfield narrowed his eyes and studied Lawler's face. He half pursed his
lips for a smile, but something in the grave, level eyes that looked
into his dissuaded him, and he frowned and cleared his throat.

"It looks mighty bad, for a fact," he said. "The buyers seem to have you
owners in something of a pocket. The worst of it is, that the thing is
general. I have complaints from all over the state. The railroad people
say there is nothing they can do. I've taken it up with them. The
explanation they offer is that during the summer they sent most of their
rolling stock East, to take care of an unprecedented demand there. For
some reason or other--which they don't attempt to explain--the cars
haven't been coming back as they should. It looks to me, Lawler, like
you owners are in for a bad winter."

"What about the law, Hatfield; can't we force them to supply cars?"

Hatfield's smile came out--it was sarcastic.

"The wise law-makers of the state, who gave the railroad company a
franchise, neglected to provide a punitive clause. There isn't a tooth
in the law--I've looked it over from one end to the other, and so has
the attorney-general. This office is helpless, Lawler. I would advise
you to accept the offer of your resident buyer. It may be that those
fellows have an agreement with the railroad company, but we haven't any
evidence, and without evidence we couldn't do anything, even if there
were teeth in the law."

Lawler smiled and went out. As the door closed behind him Hatfield sank
back into his chair and chuckled gleefully.

"Swallowed it!" he said in an undertone; "swallowed it whole. And that's
the guy I was most afraid of!"

Lawler walked down the big corridor, across the rotunda, and into
another corridor to the door of the governor's office. As he passed
through the rotunda he was aware that several persons congregated there
watched him curiously; and he heard one of them say, guardedly:

"That's Kane Lawler, of Wolf River. He'd have been governor, right now,
if he'd said the word last fall. Biggest man in the state!"

There was truth in the man's words, though Lawler reddened when he heard
them. Three times in the days preceding the convention which had
nominated Perry Haughton, the present governor, delegations from
various sections of the state had visited Lawler at the Circle L,
endeavoring to prevail upon him to accept the nomination; and one day
the editor of the most important newspaper in the capital had journeyed
to the Circle L, to add his voice to the argument advanced by the
delegations.

But Lawler had refused, because previously to their visits he had given
his word to York Falkner. And he had championed Falkner's candidacy with
such energy and enthusiasm that in the end--on the day of the
convention--his name was better known than that of his candidate. And at
the last minute the convention was in danger of stampeding to him,
threatening to nominate him despite his protests. He had been forced to
tell them plainly that he would not serve, if nominated and elected,
because he had pledged his support to Falkner. And Falkner, at home in a
distant county while the convention was in session, remained silent,
refusing to answer the frantic requests that he withdraw in favor of
Lawler. That attitude had defeated Falkner, as his loyalty to his friend
had increased his popularity.

Now, pausing before the door of the governor's office, Lawler was aware
of the completeness of the sacrifice he had made for Falkner. His face
paled, his eyes glowed, and a thrill ran over him. At this moment--if he
had not made the sacrifice--he might have been sitting in the governor's
office, listening to Caldwell, or Sigmund, or others from his own
section,--perhaps from other sections of the state--advising them,
seeking to help them. For one thing, Morgan Hatfield would not have been
his railroad commissioner!

As it was, he was going to enter the governor's office as a mere
petitioner, not sure of his reception--for Perry Haughton had beaten
Falkner, and owed Lawler nothing. Indeed, after his election, Haughton
had referred sarcastically to Lawler.

When Lawler found himself in the presence of the governor he was in a
grimly humorous mood. For despite the sarcastic flings he had directed
at Lawler, the governor ponderously arose from a big chair at his desk
and advanced to meet him, a hand outstretched.

"Hello, Lawler!" he said; "glad to see you. Where have you been keeping
yourself?"

Lawler shook the governor's hand, not replying to the effusive greeting.
Lawler smiled, though, and perhaps the governor saw in the smile an
answer to his question. He led Lawler to a chair, and returned to his
own, where he sat, leaning back, watching his visitor with a speculative
gaze.

Perry Haughton was a big, florid man with sleek, smooth manners, a bland
smile and an engaging eye, which held a deep gleam of insincerity. The
governor posed as a genial, generous, broad-minded public official--and
it had been upon that reputation that he had been nominated and
elected--but the geniality had been adopted for political reasons. The
real man was an arrogant autocrat, lusting for power and wealth.

He disliked Lawler--feared him. Also, since the convention he had felt
vindictive toward Lawler, for Lawler had offended him by his tenacious
championship of Falkner. He had almost lost the nomination through
Lawler's efforts.

"Been in town long?" he queried.

"Just long enough to have a talk with Hatfield."

The governor smiled wanly. "Hatfield has been having his troubles,
Lawler. An unprecedented situation has developed in the state. The
railroad company seems to be unable to supply cars for cattle shipments.
We have investigated, and so far we have been unable to discover whether
the shortage is intentional or accidental. Whatever the cause, it is a
bad situation--very bad. We've got to take some action!"

"Whatever action you take ought to be immediate, Governor," said Lawler.
"The round-up is over and cattle must move. That is why I am here--to
ask you what can be done."

"I have taken the matter up with the attorney-general, Lawler. The law
is vague and indefinite. We can't proceed under it. However, we are
going to pass new laws at the next session of the legislature."

"That will be in January," said Lawler. "Half the cattle in the state
will starve before that time."

The governor flushed. "That's the best we can do, Lawler."

"Why not call a special session, Governor?"

Haughton laughed. "Do you keep yourself informed, Lawler?" he said, a
suspicion of mockery in his voice. "If you do, you will remember that
the legislature has just adjourned, after acting upon some important
matters."

"This matter is important enough to demand another session immediately!"
declared Lawler.

The governor cleared his throat and gazed steadily at Lawler, his eyes
gleaming with a vindictive light that he tried to make judicial.

"As a matter of fact, Lawler, this question of shipping cattle is not as
important as you might think--to the state at large, that is. If you
take all the packing out of the case you will find at the bottom that it
is merely a disagreement between cattle owners and cattle buyers. It
seems to me that it is not a matter for state interference. As I
understand, the cattle buyers have offered a certain price. The owners
ask another; and the owners want the state to force the buyers to pay
their price. I can't see that the state has any business to meddle with
the affair at all. The state can't become a clearing-house for the
cattle industry!"

"We are not asking the state to act in that capacity, Haughton. We want
the state to force the railroad company to provide cars."

"It can't be done, Lawler! There is no provision in the law under which
we can force the railroad company to provide cars."

Lawler laughed mirthlessly and got to his feet, crossing his arms over
his chest and looking down at the governor. For a time there was silence
in the big room, during which the governor changed color several times,
and drooped his eyes under Lawler's grimly humorous gaze. Then Lawler
spoke:

"All right, Haughton," he said; "I'll carry your message back to my
friends at Willets. I'll also carry it to Lafe Renwick, of the _News_,
here in the capital. We'll make it all plain enough, so that your
position won't be misunderstood. The railroad company is not even a
resident corporation, and yet you, as governor, refuse to act in the
interests of the state cattle owners, against it--merely to force it to
play fair. This will all make interesting conversation--and more
interesting reading. My visit here has proved very interesting, and
instructive. Good-day, sir."

He strode out, leaving Haughton to glare after him. Ten minutes later he
was in the editorial office of the _News_, detailing his conversation
with Hatfield and the governor to a keen-eyed man of thirty-five, named
Metcalf, who watched him intently as he spoke. At the conclusion of the
visit the keen-eyed man grinned.

"You've started something, Lawler," he said. "We've heard something of
this, but we've been waiting to see just how general it was. You'll
understand, now, why I was so eager to have you run last fall. You'll
not escape so easily next time!"

Late that night Lawler got off the train at Willets; and a few minutes
later he was talking with Caldwell and the others in the Willets Hotel.

"It's a frame-up, men," he told them. "Hatfield and the governor both
subscribe to the same sentiments, which are to the effect that this is a
free country--meaning that if you don't care to accept what the buyers
offer you can drive your cattle out of the state or let them starve to
death on the open range."

The big hanging-lamp swinging from the ceiling of the lounging-room
flickered a dull light into the faces of the men, revealing lines that
had not been in them some hours before. Somehow, it had seemed to them,
Lawler would straighten things out for them; they had faith in Lawler;
they had trusted in his energy and in his mental keenness. And when they
had sent him to the capital they had thought that the governor would not
dare to refuse his request. He was too great a man to be trifled with.

It was plain to them, now, that the invisible power which they had
challenged was a gigantic thing--for it had not been impressed by their
champion.

Their faces betrayed their disappointment; in their downcast eyes and in
their furtive glances at one another--and at Lawler--one might have read
evidence of doubt and uncertainty. They might fight the powerful forces
opposed to them--and there was no doubt that futile rage against the
power surged in the veins of every man in the group about Lawler. But
there seemed to be no way to fight; there seemed to be nothing tangible
upon which to build a hope, and no way to attack the secret, subtle
force which had so arrogantly thwarted them.

There was an uneasy light in Caldwell's eyes when he finally looked up
at Lawler. He frowned, reddened, and spoke haltingly, as though ashamed:

"Lawler, I reckon they've got us foul. It's late--today's the
twenty-eighth of October. Not anticipatin' this deal, we delayed the
round-up too long. It's a month's drive to Red Rock, over the worst
trail in the country. We all know that. If we'd happen to run into a
storm on the Tom Long trail we wouldn't get no cattle to Red Rock at
all. An' if we winter them on the open range there wouldn't be a sound
hoof left by spring, for we've got no feed put by. It's too certain,
men; an' a bad year would bust me wide open. I reckon I'll sell my stock
to Gary Warden. I hate it like poison, but I reckon it's the only thing
we can do."

The others nodded, plainly having determined to follow Caldwell's
example. But they kept their eyes lowered, not looking at Lawler, for
they felt that this surrender was not relished by him. Caldwell almost
jumped with astonishment when he felt Lawler's hands on his shoulders;
and he looked hard at the other, wondering, vastly relieved when Lawler
laughed.

"I reckon I don't blame you," said Lawler. "It's a mighty blue outlook.
Winter is close, and they've got things pretty well blocked. They
figured on the late round-up, I reckon. Sell to Warden and wind the
thing up--that's the easiest way."

Caldwell grasped Lawler's hand and shook it vigorously.

"I thought you'd show right disappointed over us givin' in, after what
you tried to do, Lawler. You're sure a square man." He laughed. "You'll
be the first to sell to Warden, though," he added, with a faint attempt
at humor; "for I seen Blackburn an' some more of your outfit trailin'
about a thousand head in tonight. They've got them bedded down about a
mile from town. I reckon you'll be runnin' them into the company corral
in the mornin'."

"Not a hoof goes into the company corral, Caldwell," smiled Lawler.

"No?" Caldwell's amazement bulged his eyes. "What then? What you aimin'
to do with them?"

"They're going to Red Rock, Caldwell," declared Lawler, quietly. "The
thousand Blackburn drove over, and the seven thousand the other boys are
holding at the Circle L. I wouldn't sell them to Warden if he offered
fifty dollars a head."

It was late when Caldwell and the others rode out of town, heading into
the darkness toward their ranches to prepare their herds for the drive
to the company corral at Willets. But before they left, Caldwell visited
Warden's office, in which, all evening, a light had glowed. Warden's
expression indicated he had expected the cattlemen to surrender.

With shamed face Caldwell carried to Warden the news of the surrender;
speaking gruffly to Simmons, whom he found in the office with Warden.

"I reckon there'll be cars--now?" he said.

Simmons smiled smoothly. "Them that contracted for cars last spring will
probably get them," he said. "I reckon the cause of all this mix-up was
that the company wasn't aimin' to play no hit-an'-miss game."

"There'll be a day comin' when the cattlemen in this country will jump
on you guys with both feet!" threatened Caldwell. "It's a mighty rotten
deal, an' you know it!"

"Is Lawler accepting my price, Caldwell?" interrupted Warden, quietly;
"I saw a Circle L trail herd headed toward town this evening."

"Hell!" declared Caldwell; "Lawler ain't so weak-kneed as the rest of us
critters. He just got through tellin' me that he wouldn't sell a hoof
to you at fifty! He's drivin' to Red Rock--eight thousand head!"

When Caldwell went out, breathing fast, Warden smiled broadly at
Simmons.

"Wire for cars tonight, Simmons," he said. "But don't get them to coming
too fast. We'll make them hold their cattle here, we'll keep them
guessing as to whether you were telling them the truth about cars. Cars
and fools are plentiful, eh, Simmons?"

He got up, donned coat and hat and put out the light. At the foot of the
stairs he parted from Simmons, walked down the street to the Wolf and
entered.

He found Singleton in the barroom and drew him into a corner.

"He's driving his cattle to Red Rock, Singleton. And he's the only one.
The others are selling to me. We've got him now, damn him! We've got
him!" he said, his eyes glowing with malignant triumph.




CHAPTER X

THE SECOND OBSTACLE


Lawler went outside with Caldwell and the others--after Caldwell
returned from his visit to Gary Warden--and, standing in the flickering
glare of light from inside the hotel, he watched the men ride away.

There was a smile on his lips as he saw them fade into the yawning gulf
of moonlit distance,--going in different directions toward their
ranches--an ironic smile, softened by understanding and friendship.

For he bore the men no ill will because their decision had not agreed
with his. He had not expected them to do as he was determined to do. And
he had not asked them.

Had it not been for the agreement he had made with Jim Lefingwell the
previous spring, Lawler might also have accepted Gary Warden's price
rather than face the hazards of the long drive to Red Rock.

Warden's attitude, however, his arrogance, and the hostile dislike in
his eyes, had aroused in Lawler a cold contempt for the man. Added to
that was disgust over the knowledge that Warden, and not Jim Lefingwell,
was a liar--that Warden had no respect for the sacredness of his word,
given to Lefingwell. The man's honor must be wrapped in a bond or a
written contract.

The incident in the Hamlin cabin had contributed hatred to the other
passions that contact with Warden had aroused in Lawler; but it had been
his visit to Simmons and his talks with Hatfield and the governor that
had aroused in him the fighting lust that gripped him now.

The ironic smile had faded when he reached the stable where he had left
Red King. It had set in serious lines and his chin had taken on a
pronounced thrust when he mounted the big horse and sent him
southeastward into the glowing moonlight.

He brought Red King to a halt at a spot on the plains where the herd of
Circle L cattle were being held for the night, with some cowboys riding
monotonous circles around them.

Blackburn had seen him coming, and recognizing him, met him near the
camp fire.

The range boss listened, his lips grimming, then silently nodded.

It was past midnight when Lawler reached the Circle L. He let himself
into the house noiselessly, changed his clothes, donning the corduroy,
the woolen shirt, and the spurred boots that he had worn before
beginning his trip to the capital. Then, penning a note to his mother,
informing her that he was going to Red Rock with his men, he went out
and rode down into the valley, where the other men of the outfit were
guarding the main herd, which had been held in the valley at his orders.

Long before dawn the big herd was on the move, heading northward, toward
Willets, the twenty men of the outfit flanking them, heading them up
the great slope that led out of the valley.

The progress of the herd was slow, for there was good grazing and the
cattle moved reluctantly, requiring the continued efforts of the men to
keep them moving at all. And yet when darkness came that night they had
reached the Rabbit Ear--where two nights before Blackburn had held the
first herd.

It was late in the afternoon of the second day when Lawler and his men
came within sight of Willets. They drove the second herd to where
Blackburn and his men were holding the first. Leaving Blackburn to make
arrangements for camp, Lawler rode on into Willets. From a distance he
saw that the company corral was well filled with cattle; and when he saw
Lem Caldwell talking with some other men in front of the hotel, he knew
the cattle in the corral bore Caldwell's brand.

He waved a hand to Caldwell and the others as he rode past the hotel;
but he kept on until he reached the station, where he dismounted,
hitched Red King to a rail and crossed the railroad track.

A frame building, small, with a flat shedlike roof, stood near the
corral fence--between the tracks and the big gates--and Lawler entered
the open door, to find a portly, bald-headed man sitting at a rough,
flat-top desk. The man was busy with a pencil and a pad of papers when
Lawler entered, and he continued to labor with them, not seeming to
notice his visitor.

Lawler halted just inside the door, to await the man's leisure. And then
he saw Gary Warden lounging in a chair in a far corner. Warden did not
appear to see Lawler, either; he was facing the back of the chair,
straddling it, his elbows crossed on the back, his chin resting on his
arms, his gaze on the rough board floor.

Lawler noted, his lips straightening a little, that in the movements of
the man at the desk was a deliberation that was almost extravagant. The
man was writing, and the pencil in his hand seemed to lag. He studied
long over what he wrote, pursing his lips and scratching his head. But
not once did he look up at Lawler.

"Wrestling with a mighty problem, Jordan?" finally asked Lawler, his
patience strained, his voice in a slow drawl.

The bald man started and glanced up. Instantly, he reddened and looked
down again, leaving Lawler to wonder how it was that every official with
whom he had conversed within the past few days had exhibited
embarrassment.

"Excuse me, Lawler," said Jordan; "I didn't know you was here. I'll be
with you in a second--just as soon as I check up this tally. Caldwell
drove in here not more'n two hours ago, an' I ain't got his tally
straightened up yet."

Lawler turned his back to Warden and gazed out through the open doorway.
On the siding was a long string of empty box cars, plainly awaiting
Caldwell's cattle.

After a glance at the cars, Lawler wheeled and faced Warden, who was
still gazing meditatively downward.

"I see that cars came quickly enough when you ordered them, Warden," he
said.

Warden raised his head slowly and gazed straight at Lawler, his eyes
gleaming challengingly.

"Yes," he said: "Simmons finally unearthed enough to take care of
Caldwell's cattle. There'll be more, as soon as Simmons can find them.
And he'll have to find them pretty soon or his company will face a
lawsuit. You see, Lawler, I ordered these cars months ago--got a written
contract with the railroad company for them. They've got to take care of
me."

"I reckon you knew they'd take care of you, Warden. You were as certain
of that as you were that they _wouldn't_ take care of any owner who
wouldn't sell to you."

"What do you mean, Lawler?" demanded Warden, his face flushing.

"What I said, Warden. It takes gall to do what you and your friends are
doing. But, given the power, any bunch of cheap crooks could do it. You
understand that I'm not complimenting you any."

It was apparent to Warden, as it was apparent to Jordan--who poised his
pencil over the pad of papers and did not move a muscle--that Lawler's
wrath was struggling mightily within him. It was also apparent that
Lawler's was a cold wrath, held in check by a sanity that forbade
surrender to it--a sanity that sternly governed him.

It was the icy rage that awes with its intensity; the deliberate
bringing to the verge of deadly action the nerves and muscles that yearn
for violent expression--and then holding them there, straining tensely,
awaiting further provocation.

Both men knew what impended; both saw in the steady, unwavering gleam of
Lawler's eyes the threat, the promise of violence, should they elect to
force it.

Jordan was chastened, nerveless. The pencil dropped from his fingers and
he slacked in his chair, watching Lawler with open mouth.

Warden's face had grown dead white. The hatred he bore for this man
glared forth from his eyes, but the hatred was tempered by a fear that
gripped him.

However, Warden was instinctively aware that Lawler would not force that
trouble for which he plainly yearned; that he would not use the gun that
swung from the leather at his hip unless he or Jordan provoked him to
it.

And Warden wore no gun. He felt secure, as he sat for an interval after
considering the situation, and yet he did not speak at once. Then, with
the urge of his hatred driving him, he said, sneeringly:

"Cheap crooks, eh? Well, let me tell you something, Lawler. You can't
intimidate anybody. My business is perfectly legitimate. I am not
violating any law. If I have the foresight to contract for cars in time
to get them for shipment, that is my business. And if I offer you--or
any man--a price, and it doesn't suit you, you don't have to accept it."

He saw a glint of humor in Lawler's eyes--a sign that the man's passions
were not to be permitted to break the leash in which he held them--and
he grew bolder, his voice taking on a vindictive note.

"And I want to tell you another thing, Lawler. As long as I am resident
buyer at Willets you'll never ship a hoof through me. Understand that!
You can drive to Red Rock and be damned! If you'd been halfway decent
about this thing; if you hadn't come swaggering into my office trying to
dictate to me, and calling me a liar, I'd have kept Lefingwell's
agreement with you!"

"Then Lefingwell wasn't the liar," smiled Lawler; "you're admitting it."

Warden's face grew poisonously malevolent. He laughed, hoarsely.

"Bah!" he jeered. "We'll say I lied. What of it! I didn't want to
antagonize you, then. Only a fool is truthful at all times." He laughed
again, mockingly. "I'm truthful when I want to be."

He saw the frank disgust in Lawler's eyes, and the desire to drive it
out, to make the man betray some sign of the perturbation that must be
in him, drove Warden to an indiscretion.

"You're a wise guy, Lawler," he jeered. "A minute ago you hinted that
this thing was being engineered by a bunch of cheap crooks. Call them
what you like. They're out to break you--understand? You suspect it, and
I'm telling you. You went around last fall with a chip on your shoulder,
making trouble far Haughton and his friends. And now they're going to
bust you wide open and scatter your remains all over the country.
They're going to fix you so that you'll never shoot off your gab about
conditions in the state again. Governor--hell! you'll be a bum before
that gang gets through with you!"

He paused, breathing rapidly, his face pale with passion; his eyes
glowing with hatred, naked and bitter.

He heard Lawler's short, mirthless laugh; he saw Lawler's eyes narrow
and gleam with a cold flame as he took a step forward and stood over
him.

"Get up, Warden," came Lawler's voice, low and vibrant. "You'll
understand what I'm going to say a whole lot better if you're on your
feet, like a man."

Warden got up, defiantly, and for an instant the two men stood looking
into each other's eyes, both understanding the enmity that was between
them, and both seemingly exulting in it.

"I'm thanking you, Warden, for telling me. But I've known, since I
talked with Simmons about the cars, just what it all meant. My talks
with Hatfield and Governor Haughton convinced me beyond all reasonable
doubt. I'm the man they are after, of course. But incidentally, they're
going to mulct every other cattle owner in the state. It's a mighty big
scheme--a stupendous robbery. The man who conceived it should have been
a pirate--he has all the instincts of one.

"But get this straight. You've got to fight me. Understand? You'll drag
no woman into it. You went to the Hamlin ranch the other day. God's
grace and a woman's mercy permitted you to get away, alive. Don't let it
happen again. Just as sure as you molest a woman in this section, just
so sure will I kill you no matter who your friends are! Do you
understand that, Warden?"

Warden did not move a muscle. He tried to look steadily into Lawler's
eyes, found that he could not endure the terrible intensity of them--and
drooped his own, cursing himself for the surrender.

He heard Lawler laugh again, a sound that sent a cold shiver over him;
and then he saw Lawler standing beside the desk at which Jordan sat.

"Jordan," said Lawler, shortly; "I want you to vent my cattle. There's
eight thousand head, approximately. They're being held just out of
town--about a mile. I'd like to have you give me a certificate of
ownership tonight, so we can start to drive before daylight."

Jordan's face whitened, and then grew crimson. He essayed to look up, to
meet Lawler's eyes, raising his head and then lowering it again without
achieving his desire. He cleared his throat, shifted his body and
scuffed his feet on the floor. At last, after clearing his throat again,
he spoke, huskily:

"We ain't ventin' any trail herds this fall, Lawler."

Lawler stiffened, looked from Jordan to Warden, and then back again at
Jordan, who had taken up the pencil again and was nervously tapping with
it upon the desk top.

"Not venting trail herds, eh?" said Lawler. "Whose orders?"

"The state inspector--headquarters," replied Jordan, hesitatingly.

"Would you mind letting me see the order, Jordan?" asked Lawler, calmly.

Jordan succeeded in looking up at Lawler now, and there was rage in his
eyes--rage and offended dignity.

Both were artificial--Lawler knew it. And his smile as he looked into
Jordan's eyes told the other of the knowledge.

Jordan got up, stung by the mockery in Lawler's eyes.

"Hell's fire, Lawler!" cursed Jordan; "can't you take a man's word?" He
stepped back, viciously pulled open a drawer in the desk, drew out a
paper--a yellow telegraph form, and slapped it venomously down on the
desk in front of Lawler.

"It's ag'in' orders, but I'm lettin' you see it. Mebbe you'll take a
man's word after this!" he sneered.

Lawler read the order. Then he calmly placed it on the desk. He looked
at Jordan, whose gaze fell from his; he turned to Warden, who smiled
jeeringly.

"There is nothing like thoroughness, whenever you do anything on a big
scale, Warden," he said. "This order forces cattle owners in this
section to drive cattle over a trail without proof of ownership. We
fought for that vent law for a good many years, as a weapon against
rustlers. This order leaves a cattle owner without protection against
the horde of rustlers who infest the state. And the order is dated
yesterday. This thing begins to look interesting."

He turned and walked out, not glancing back at the two men inside, who
stood for a long time looking at each other, smiling.




CHAPTER XI

THE LONG TRAIL


After leaving Jordan and Warden, Lawler walked across the railroad
tracks and entered the station, where he sent a telegram to Keppler, the
buyer at Red Rock. Then he drew a chair over near the door and sat down
to await an answer. At the end of an hour the agent walked over to
Lawler and gave him the reply. It was from Keppler, saying that he would
be glad to buy all of the Circle L cattle at thirty dollars a head.

Lawler stuck the telegram in a pocket and went out, mounting Red King
and riding through Willets. Darkness had come, and there were few
persons on the street, and Lawler did not stop. A little later he was
talking with Blackburn at the camp fire, his voice low and earnest.

Blackburn's face was seamed with wrath over the news Lawler had
communicated.

"So that's the polecat scheme they're runnin'!" he said, hoarsely. "I
reckon they know that between here an' Red Rock there's a dozen big
gangs of buzzards which make a business of grabbin' cattle from every
herd that hits the Tom Long trail!"

"Blackburn," said Lawler gravely; "do you know of any other trail?"

"No; nor you don't neither!" declared the range boss. "What you
meanin'?" he added, peering intently at Lawler.

"It's mighty plain," said Lawler; "if we travel at all, we'll have to
take the Tom Long trail. It's been used before, Blackburn, by all the
cattle owners in the section--before the railroad came. It hasn't been
used much lately, though, and so I reckon it isn't worn out."

"You're startin' at daybreak, I reckon?"

"Yes." Lawler looked straight at the range boss. "Some of the boys who
are with us don't know the Tom Long trail, Blackburn. You'd better tell
them there are prospects for trouble. No man goes on that trail with my
cattle under regular working orders. It's volunteer work. But you might
mention to them that if we get through the difference between what
Warden offered me and what I get from Keppler, will be divided among the
men of the outfit. That will be in addition to regular trail herd
wages."

"That's mighty white of you, Boss. But I reckon there'd be no
back-slidin'. The boys ain't admirin' the deal you're gettin'. I'm
tellin' them."

He took a step away from Lawler, and then halted, uncertainly.

"Lawler," he said; "you've been over the Tom Long trail--you know what
it is. There's places where we'll find eight thousand head to be a
mighty big herd. A herd that big will be powerful hard to handle in some
of them long passes. An' if they'd get in some of that timber we'd never
get them out. We've got twenty-eight men. If we'd have an open winter
we'd likely be able to take care of about three thousand head by
watchin' them close. Now, if we'd leave about three thousand head at the
Circle L--with four or five of the boys to keep an eye on them, that
would leave us about twenty-three or twenty-four men for trail herd
work. That won't be any too many for five thousand head of cattle on the
Tom Long trail. Unless you're figgerin' to hire some hands from another
outfit?"

"We're asking no favors," said Lawler. "We're driving five thousand, as
you suggest. I'm leaving the selecting of the trail crew to you--you
know your men."

At dawn the following morning the big herd was divided into about the
proportions suggested by Blackburn. The smaller section, escorted by
five disgruntled Circle L cowboys, moved slowly southward, while the
main herd headed eastward, flanked at the sides by grim-faced Circle L
riders; at the rear by a number of others and by Lawler, Blackburn; the
"chuck-wagon" driven by the cook--a portly, solemn-visaged man of forty
with a thin, complaining voice; the "hoodlum" wagon, equipped with
bedding and a meager stock of medicines and supplies for
emergencies--driven by a slender, fiercely mustached man jocosely
referred to as "Doc;" and a dozen horses of the _remuda_, in charge of
the horse-wrangler and an assistant.

It was the first trail herd that had been started eastward since the
coming of the railroad. To some of the Circle L men it was a novel
experience--for they had begun range work since the railroad had
appeared. There were several others, rugged, hardy range riders of the
days when the driving of a trail herd was an annual experience, it was a
harking back to the elemental and the crude, with the attendant
hardships and ceaseless, trying work. The younger men were exultant,
betraying their exuberance in various ways--shouting, laughing, singing,
gayly bantering one another as they capered beside the cattle; but the
older men rode grimly on, grinning tolerantly, knowing that the time
would come when the faces of the younger men would grow stern and set
from the ceaseless activity, the long night watches, the deadly monotony
and the thousand inconveniences of the long drive.

Many of Willets' men were watching the departure of the herd. They stood
on the street, in doorways; and in some windows were women. For rumor
had been whispering during the past few days, and it was known that Kane
Lawler had defied the powerful forces which were attempting to control
the mediums of trade in the section; and there were many of the watchers
who sent silent applause after the departing herd. They were aware of
the hazards that confronted Lawler and his men--hazards enough without
the additional menace of the invisible power, of which most of the
inhabitants of Willets knew nothing.

However, Caldwell knew. He was standing in the doorway of the Willets
Hotel; and his face was drawn and seamed with gravity as he watched.

Gary Warden knew. For he stood in the street in front of the Wolf,
watching, his eyes glowing with malice.

Singleton knew. He was standing near Warden, in the grip of a malign
anticipation. His lips were bestially pouted.

"Showed yellow at the last minute," he whispered to Warden; "only
drivin' about half of them. Well, we'll take care of them he's leavin'
before the winter's over."




CHAPTER XII

THE NIGHT WIND'S MYSTERY


After the departure of Lawler on the night of Gary Warden's visit to the
Hamlin cabin, silence, vast and deep reigned inside. The last golden
shadows from the sinking sun were turning somber shades of twilight as
Ruth came to the door and peered outward, to see Lawler riding away.

For a long time the girl watched Lawler, her face burning with shame
over what had happened, her senses revolting from the realization of the
things Lawler knew concerning her father. Then she seated herself on the
threshold of the doorway, watching the long shadows steal over the
plains.

She loved Lawler; she never had attempted to deny it, not even to
herself. And she had found it hard to restrain herself when he had stood
outside the door of her room gravely pleading with her. Only pride had
kept her from yielding--the humiliating conviction that she was not good
enough for him--or rather that her father's crimes had made it
impossible for her to accept him upon a basis of equality.

She felt that Lawler would take her upon any terms--indeed, his manner
while in the cabin shortly before convinced her of that; but she did not
want to go to him under those conditions. She would have felt, always,
as though pity for her had influenced him. She felt that she would
always be searching his eyes, looking for signs which would indicate
that he was thinking of her father. And he was certain to think of
him--those thoughts would come in spite of his efforts to forget; they
would be back of every glance he threw at her; they would be lurking
always near, to humiliate her. The conviction sent a shudder over her.

The girl's mental processes were not involved; they went directly,
unwaveringly, to the truth--the truth as her heart revealed it, as she
knew it must be. If there was any subconscious emotion in her heart or
mind from which might spring chaotic impulses that would cloud her
mental vision, she was not aware of it. Her thoughts ran straight and
true to the one outstanding, vivid, and overwhelming fact that she could
not marry Kane Lawler because to marry him would mean added humiliation.

Greatness, Ruth knew, was hedged about by simplicity. Lawler was as
direct in his attitude toward life--and to herself--as she. There was
about him no wavering, no indecision, no mulling over in his mind the
tangled threads of thought that would bring confusion. The steel fiber
of his being was unelastic. He met the big questions of life with an
eagerness to solve them instantly.

He wanted her--she knew. But she assured herself that she could not
bring upon him the shame and ignominy of a relationship with a cattle
thief, no matter how intensely he wanted her. That would be doing him an
injustice, and she would never agree to it.

But it hurt, this knowledge that she could not marry Lawler; that she
must put away from her the happiness that might be hers for the taking;
that she must crush the eager impulses that surged through her; that she
must repulse the one man who could make her heart beat faster; the man
for whom she longed with an intensity that sometimes appalled her.

She got up after a while and lighted an oil-lamp, placing it upon the
table in the big room. She closed the door and then dropped listlessly
into a chair beside the table, her eyes glistening, her lips quivering.

The future was somber in aspect, almost hopeless, it seemed. And yet
into her mind as she sat there crept a determination--a resolution to
tell her father what she knew; to tell him that she could no longer
endure the disgrace of his crimes.

That meant of course that she would have to leave him, for she knew he
was weak, and that he had been drawn into crime and had not the moral
strength to redeem himself.

When about midnight she heard the beating of hoofs near the cabin she
sat very quiet, rigid, still determined, her eyes flashing with
resolution.

She was standing near the door of her room when her father entered, and
as he stood for an instant blinking at the light, trying to accustom his
eyes to it after riding for some time through the darkness; she watched
him, noting--as she had noted many times before--the weakness of his
mouth and the furtive gleam of his eyes.

He had not always been like that. Before the death of her mother she had
always admired him, aware of the sturdiness of his character, of his
rugged manliness, and of his devotion to her mother.

Adversity had changed him, had weakened him. And now, watching him,
noting the glow in his eyes when he saw her--the pathetic worship in
them--her heart protested the decision that her cold judgment had made,
and she ran to him with a little, quavering, pitying cry and buried her
face on his shoulder, shuddering, murmuring sobbingly:

"O Daddy; O Daddy, what have you done!"

He stood rigid, his eyes wide with astonishment, looking down at her as
she clung to him as though wondering over a sudden miracle. For he knew
she was not an emotional girl, and this evidence of emotion almost
stunned him.

"Why, Honey!" He patted her hair and her cheeks and hugged her tightly
to him. And presently he gently disengaged himself and held her at arm's
length, peering into her face.

And then, when her clear eyes met his--her gaze direct and searching
even though her cheeks had paled, his eyes drooped, and his arms fell to
his sides.

"I've done enough, Ruth," he said, soberly.

"Why, Daddy--why did you do it? Oh, you have made it so hard for me!"

"There, there, Honey," he consoled, reaching out and patting her
shoulders again. "I've been a heap ornery, but it ain't goin' to happen
again." His eyes shone through a mist that had come into them.

"I've been talkin' with Kane Lawler, an' he opened my eyes. I've been
blind, Ruth--blind to what it all meant to you. An' from now on I'm
goin' straight--straight as a die!"

"Ruth," he went on, when he saw incredulity in her gaze; "I wasn't to
tell you. I reckon Lawler would half kill me if he know'd I was tellin'
you. But there ain't no use, I've got----"

"Did you give your word to Lawler, Daddy?"

"I sure did. But I've got to tell you, Ruth. Mebbe you knowin' will sort
of help me to go through with it.

"Kane Lawler was here this mornin'--he come here to see me about a
Circle L cow that I was runnin' my brand on the night before. He talked
mighty plain to me--an' earnest. He offered me a job over to the Circle
L, an' I took it. I rode over there this afternoon an' Lawler's straw
boss put me to work. Then tonight Lawler rode in an' took me out by the
corral. He gave it to me straight there. He's goin' to restock my place
an' give me a chance to get on my feet. He's goin' to put his shoulder
behind me, he says, an' make me run a straight trail--takin' a mortgage
on the place to secure him. He give me a letter to his mother, sayin' I
was to have what stock I wanted. An' I'm to repay him when I get around
to it. Honey, I've got a chance, an' I'm never goin' to slip again!"

Ruth walked to the door and threw it open, standing on the threshold and
gazing out into the dull moonlight, across the vast sweep of plain from
which came the low moaning of the night wind, laden with mystery.

For a long time, as she stood there, pride fought a savage battle with
duty. Her face was pallid, her lips tight-clenched, and shame
unutterable gripped her. To be sure, Lawler had enjoined her father to
silence, and it was evident that she was not to know. Still, she did
know; and Lawler had added an obligation, a debt, to the already high
barrier that was between them. Yet she dared not evade the obligation,
for that would be robbing her father of a chance over which he seemed to
exult, a chance which promised the reformation, for which she had
prayed.

Her heart was like lead within her--a dull weight that threatened to
drag her down. And yet she felt a pulse of thankfulness. For if her
father really meant to try--if he should succeed in redeeming himself in
Lawler's eyes and in her own, she might one day be able to go to Lawler
with no shame in her eyes, with the comforting assurance that her father
had earned the right to hold his head up among men. To be sure, there
always would be the shadow of the past mistake lurking behind; but it
would be the shadow of a mistake corrected, of a black gulf bridged.

Her father was waiting when she finally turned to him--waiting, his chin
on his chest, his face crimson with shame.

"Ruth, girl--you ain't goin' to judge me too harsh, are you?" he begged.
Once more she yielded to the pathetic appeal in his eyes. She ran to him
again, holding him tightly to her. A cool gust swept in through the open
doorway--the night wind, laden with mystery. But the girl laughed and
snuggled closer to the man; and the man laughed hoarsely, vibrantly, in
a voice that threatened to break.




CHAPTER XIII

THE INVISIBLE MENACE


At the close of the second day the big trail herd halted at the edge of
the vast level over which it had come. The herd had been driven forty
miles. Cattle, men, and horses had passed through a country which was
familiar to them; a country featured by long grama grass, greasewood,
and cactus plants.

There was no timber on the plains. The gray of the grama grass and the
bare stretches of alkali shone white in the glare of a sun that swam in
a cloudless sky of deepest azure. Except for the men, the cattle, the
horses, and the two slow-moving, awkward-looking canvas-covered wagons,
there had been no evidence of life on the great plain. In a silence
unbroken save by the clashing of horns, the bleating and bawling of the
cattle, the ceaseless creaking of the wagons, and the low voices of the
men, the cavalcade moved eastward.

The wind that swept over the plains was chill. It carried a tang that
penetrated; that caused the men, especially in the early morning, to
turn up the collars of their woolen shirts as they rode; a chill that
brought a profane protest from the tawny-haired giant who had disclosed
to Lawler the whereabouts of Joe Hamlin that night in the Circle L
bunkhouse.

The first camp had been made on the Wolf--at a shallow about five miles
north of the Two Bar, Hamlin's ranch. And with the clear, sparkling,
icy water of the river on his face, and glistening beads of it on his
colorless eyelashes, the giant had growled to several of his brother
cowboys, who were likewise performing their ablutions at the river:

"This damn wind is worse'n a Kansas regular. You lean ag'in' it an' it
freezes you; you turn your back to it an' you've got to go to clawin'
icicles out of your back. Why in hell can't they have a wind that's got
some sense to it?"

"It ain't c-cold, Shorty," jibed a slender puncher with a saturnine eye
and a large, mobile mouth.

"Kells," grinned the giant; "your voice is froze, right now!"

And yet the men enjoyed the cold air. It had a tonic effect upon them;
they were energetic, eager, and always ravenously hungry. The cook
offered testimony on that subject, unsolicited.

"I never seen a bunch of mavericks that gobbled more grub than this here
outfit!" he stated on the second morning. "Or that swilled more coffee,"
he added. "Seems like all they come on this drive for is to eat!"

Toward the close of the second day corrugations began to appear in the
level. Little ridges and valleys broke the monotony of travel; rocks
began to dot the earth; the gray grass disappeared, the barren stretches
grew larger and more frequent, and the yucca and the lancelike octilla
began to appear here and there. The trend of the trail had been upward
all afternoon--gradual at first, hardly noticeable. But as the day drew
to a close the cattle mounted a slope, progressing more slowly, and the
horses hitched to the wagons began to strain in the harness.

The rise seemed to be endless--to have no visible terminus. For it went
up and up until it melted into the horizon; like the brow of a hill
against the sky. But when, after hours of difficult travel, herd and men
gained the summit, a broad, green-brown mesa lay before them.

The mesa was miles wide, and ran an interminable distance eastward.
Looking back over the way they had come, the men could see that the
level over which they had ridden for the past two days was in reality
the floor of a mighty valley. Far away into the west they could see a
break in the mesa--where it sloped down to merge into the plains near
Willets. The men knew that beyond that break ran the steel rails that
connected the town with Red Rock, their destination. But it was plain to
them that the rails must make a gigantic curve somewhere in the
invisible distance, or that they ran straight into a range of low
mountains that fringed the northern edge of the mesa.

Lawler enlightened the men at the camp fire that night.

"The railroad runs almost straight from Willets," he said. "There's a
tunnel through one of the mountains, and other tunnels east of it. And
there's a mountain gorge with plenty of water in it, where the railroad
runs on a shelving level blasted out of the wall. The mountains form a
barrier that keeps Willets and the Wolf River section blocked in that
direction. It's the same south of here, the only difference being that
in the south there is no railroad until you strike the Southern Pacific.
And that's a long distance to drive cattle."

When the herd began to move the following morning, Blackburn sent them
over the mesa for several miles, and then began to head them down a
gradual slope, leaving the mesa behind. There was a faint trail, narrow,
over which in other days cattle had been driven. For the grass had been
trampled and cut to pieces; and in some places there were still prints
of hoofs in the baked soil.

The slope grew sharper, narrowing as it descended, and the cattle moved
down it in a sinuous, living line, until the leaders were out of sight
far around a bend at least a mile distant.

Blackburn was at the head of the herd with three men, riding some little
distance in front of the cattle, inspecting the trail. Lawler and the
others were holding the stragglers at the top of the mesa, endeavoring
to prevent the crowding and confusion which always results when massed
cattle are being held at an outlet. It was like a crowd of eager humans
attempting to gain entrance through a doorway at the same instant. The
cattle were plunging, jostling. The concerted impulse brought the
inevitable confusion--a jam that threatened frenzy.

By Lawler's orders the men drew off, and the cattle, relieved of the
menace which always drives them to panic in such a situation, began to
filter through and to follow their leaders down the narrow trail.

Down, always down, the trail led, growing narrower gradually, until at
last cattle and men were moving slowly on a rocky floor with the sheer
wall of the mesa on one side and towering mountains on the other.

The clatter of hoofs, the clashing of horns, the bellowing, the rumble
of the wagons over the rocks and the ring of iron-shod hoofs, created a
bedlam of sound, which echoed and re-echoed from the towering walls
until the uproar was deafening.

Shorty, the tawny-haired giant, was riding close to Lawler.

He never had ridden the trail, though he had heard of it. He leaned over
and shouted to Lawler:

"Kinney's cañon, ain't it?"

Lawler nodded.

"Well," shouted Shorty; "it's a lulu, ain't it?"

For a short time the trail led downward. Then there came a level
stretch, smooth, damp. The day was hours old, and the sun was directly
overhead. But down in the depths of the cañon it was cool; and a strong
wind blew into the faces of the men.

The herd was perhaps an hour passing through the cañon; and when Lawler
and Shorty, riding side by side, emerged from the cool gloom, they saw
the cattle descending a shallow gorge, going toward a wide slope which
dipped into a basin of mammoth size.

Lawler knew the place; he had ridden this trail many times in the years
before the coming of the railroad; and when he reached the crest of the
slope and looked out into the hazy, slumbering distance, he was not
surprised, though his eyes quickened with appreciation for its beauty.

Thirty miles of virgin land lay before him, basking in the white
sunlight--a green-brown bowl through which flowed a river that shimmered
like silver. The dark bases of mountains loomed above the basin at the
eastern edge--a serrated range with lofty peaks that glowed white in the
blue of the sky. South and north were other mountains--somber, purple
giants with pine-clad slopes and gleaming peaks--majestic, immutable.

Looking down from where he sat on Red King, Lawler could see the head of
the herd far down the ever-broadening trail. The leaders were so far
away that they seemed to be mere dots--black dots moving in an emerald
lake.

The cattle, too, had glimpsed the alluring green that spread before
them; and at a little distance from Lawler and several of the other men
they were running, eager for the descent.

"She's a whopper, ain't she?" said Shorty's voice at Lawler's side.
"I've seen a heap of this man's country, but never nothin' like that. I
reckon if the Lord had spread her out a little mite further she'd have
took in mighty near the whole earth. It's mighty plain he wasn't
skimpin' things none, anyway, when he made this here little hollow."

He grinned as he rode, and then waved a sarcastic hand toward the
cattle.

"Look at 'em runnin'! You'd think, havin' projected around this here
country for a year or so, they'd be better judges. They're thinkin'
they'll be buryin' their mugs in that right pretty grass in about
fifteen seconds, judgin' from the way they're hittin' the breeze toward
it. An' it'll take them half a day to get down there."

Shorty was a better judge of distance than the cattle. For it was
afternoon when the last of the herd reached the level floor of the
basin. They spread out, to graze industriously; the men not caring,
knowing they would not stray far from such a wealth of grass.

By the time the chuck-wagon had come to a halt and the cook had
clambered stiffly from his seat to prepare the noonday meal, Lawler and
the others saw the horse-wrangler and his assistant descending the long
slope with the _remuda_. The horses had fallen far behind, and Lawler
rode to meet them, curious to know what had happened.

When he rode up, the horse-wrangler, a man named Garvin--a stocky
individual with keen, inquiring eyes--advanced to meet him.

"Boss," he said, shortly; "there's somethin' mighty wrong goin' on
behind us. Me an' Ed--my helper--has been kind of hangin' back, bein'
sort of curious. They's a bunch of ornery-lookin' guys trailin' us. I
first saw 'em after we'd struck the bottom of that cañon. They was just
comin' around that big bend, an' I saw 'em. They lit out, turnin'
tail--mebbe figurin' I hadn't seen 'em; but pretty soon I seen 'em
again, sort of sneakin' behind us. I reckon if they was square guys they
wouldn't be sneakin' like that--eh?"




CHAPTER XIV

LAWLER'S "NERVE"


When Lawler spoke to Blackburn regarding the news that had been
communicated to him by the horse-wrangler, Blackburn suggested that
himself and several of the Circle L men ride back to ascertain the
object of the trailers.

"We'll ride back an' make 'em talk!" he declared, heatedly.

Lawler, however, would not agree, telling Blackburn that the trail was
free, and that, until the men made some hostile move, there was no
reason why they should be approached.

So the men ate, selected new mounts from their "strings" in the
_remuda_, and again started the big herd forward.

Lawler rode for a time with Garvin, keeping an alert eye on the back
trail. But though he could see far up the cañon, where the trail--white
with dust from the passing of the herd--wound its sinuous way upward
into the dark recesses between the towering mesa walls, he could see no
sign of life or movement.

The nonappearance of the mysterious riders was suspicious, for if their
intentions were friendly they would have come boldly on. In fact, if
they were abroad upon an honest errand, they must have found the
slowness of the herd ahead of them irksome; and they would have passed
it as soon as possible, merely to escape the dust cloud raised by the
cattle.

When the afternoon began to wane the herd was far out in the basin,
traveling steadily toward a point where the little river doubled, where
Blackburn intended to camp for the night. And though both Blackburn and
Lawler scanned the back trail intently at intervals, there was still no
sign of the riders Garvin had mentioned.

Nor did the riders pass the herd in the night. Blackburn threw an extra
guard around the cattle, making the shifts shorter and more frequent;
and when daylight came a short conference among the Circle L men
disclosed the news that no riders had passed. If any riders had passed
the cowboys must have seen them, for there had been a moon, and the
basin afforded in the vicinity of the herd, was clear and unobstructed.

Enraged at the suspicious nature of the incident, Blackburn took half a
dozen cowboys and rode back, while the remainder of the trail crew sent
the herd eastward. It was late in the afternoon when Blackburn returned,
disappointed, grim, and wrathful.

"There's a bunch trailin' us, all right," he told Lawler; "about a
dozen. We seen where they'd stopped back in the cañon a ways--where
Garvin said he'd seen 'em sneakin' back. We lost their tracks there, for
they merged with ours an' we couldn't make nothin' of 'em. But at the
foot of the slope we picked 'em up again. Looks like they separated.
Some of them went north an' some went south. I reckon that durin' the
night they sneaked around the edge of the basin. It's likely they're
hidin' in the timber somewhere, watchin' us. If you say the word I'll
take some of the boys an' rout 'em out. We'll find what they're up to,
damn 'em!"

"As long as they don't bother us we won't bother them," said Lawler.
"It's likely they won't bother us."

Again that night the men worked in extra shifts; and the following
morning the herd climbed out of the basin and straggled up a narrow
trail through some foothills. At noon they passed through a defile
between two mighty mountains; and when twilight came they had descended
some low hills on the other side and went to camp for the night on a big
grass level near the river they had followed for three days.

The level upon which they camped was much lower than the floor of the
big basin, for the water from the river came tumbling out of a narrow
gorge between the hills through which the herd had passed.

They were in a wild section, picturesque, rugged. There was plenty of
water; and Blackburn and Lawler both knew that there would be water
enough for the herd all the way to Red Rock. There was a section of
desert before them, which they would strike before many days; but they
would cross the desert in one day, barring delay; and there seemed to be
no reason why the long drive should not prove successful despite the
mountain trails--most of them hazardous--through which they must still
pass.

And yet the men were restless. The continued presence of an invisible
menace near them, disturbed the men. They had not seen the mysterious
riders again, but there was not a man in the outfit who did not feel
them--not a man but was convinced that the riders were still trailing
them, watching them.

Long ago the younger men had ceased to laugh and joke. During the day
they kept gazing steadily into the gulf of space that surrounded them,
carefully scrutinizing the timber and the virgin brush which might form
a covert; and at night they were sullen, expectant; every man wearing
his gun when he rolled himself in his blanket.

It was not fear that had seized them. They were rugged, hardy,
courageous men who had looked death in the face many times, defying it,
mocking it; and no visible danger could have disturbed them.

But this danger was not visible; it was stealthy, secret, lurking near
them, always threatening, always expected. It might stalk behind them;
it might be flanking them as they rode; or it might creep upon them in
the night.

Blackburn had fallen into a vicious mood. His eyes glowed with the
terrible, futile rage that surged in his veins, it was a reflection of a
wrath that grew more and more intolerant as the days passed and the
danger that portended did not materialize.

"Boss," he said to Lawler on the tenth day following that on which
Garvin had reported the presence of the riders behind them; "the boys is
gettin' jumpy. They're givin' one another short answers, an' they're
growlin' about things they never noticed before.

"I'm gettin' fed up on this thing, too. It's a cinch them riders is
following us. I seen 'em dustin' north of us this mornin'. I ain't said
anything to the boys, but it's likely they've seen 'em, too--for they've
got their eyes peeled. It's gettin' under my skin, an' if they don't
come out into the open pretty soon and give us an idee of what game
they're playin', me an' some of the boys is goin' to drag 'em out!"

Yet Blackburn did not carry out his threat. He knew pursuit of the
riders would be futile, for there were no further signs of them for
several days, and Blackburn knew the riders would have no trouble in
eluding them in the vast wilderness through which the herd had been
passing for a week. They went on, continuing to watch, though there were
no further signs of the men.

They had been on the trail twenty days when at dusk one day they moved
slowly down a wide, gradual slope toward a desert. At the foot of the
slope was a water hole filled with a dark, brackish fluid, with a green
scum fringing its edges. The slope merged gently into the floor of the
desert, like an ocean beach stretching out into the water, and for a
distance out into the floor of the desert there was bunch grass,
mesquite, and greasewood, where the cattle might find grazing for the
night. Beyond the stretch of grass spread the dead, gray dust, of the
desert, desolate in the filmy, mystic haze that was slowly descending.

The cattle came down eagerly, for they had grazed little during the day
in the mountainous region through which they had passed. They were
showing the effects of the drive. They had been sleek and fat when they
started from the Circle L; they were growing lean, wild, and they were
always ravenously hungry.

But where they could feed they required little attention; and the
cowboys, after halting them, helped Garvin establish the lines of a rope
corral into which they drove the _remuda_. Then they built a fire and
squatted wearily around it--at a respectful distance--to watch the
cook--and to listen to him as he complainingly prepared supper.

The men had finished, and the long shadows of the dusk were stealing out
over the desert, when Lawler--sitting on the chuck-box--heard Blackburn
exclaim sharply:

"_Hell's fire! Here they come!_"

Blackburn had sprung to his feet, his eyes blazing with the pent-up
wrath that had been in them for many days. He was tense, his muscles
straining; and his fingers were moving restlessly near the butt of the
huge pistol that swung at his hip. The fingers were closing and
unclosing, betraying the man's passion.

Lawler got to his feet. Following the direction of Blackburn's flaming
eyes, he saw, perhaps a mile away, a large body of horsemen. They were
descending the long slope over which the herd had been driven.

Lawler counted them--thirty-nine. But the menace was no longer
invisible; it was now a material thing which could be met on such terms
as might be, with the law of chance to govern the outcome.

Lawler did not doubt that the on-coming riders were hostile. He had felt
that when he first had been made aware of their presence behind the
herd. He saw, too, that the men of his outfit felt as he did; for they
were all on their feet, their faces grim, their eyes glowing with the
rage that had gripped them over the presence of the unseen menace; their
muscles were tensed and their lips were in the sullen pout which
presages the imminence of action.

Shorty, the tawny giant, was a terrible figure. He seemed to be
outwardly cool, and there was not a sign of passion in his manner. His
hands swung limply at his sides, not a muscle in his body seeming to
move. Unlike the other men, he was calm, seemingly unperturbed. So
striking was the contrast between him and the other men that Lawler
looked twice at him. And the second time he saw Shorty's eyes--they were
gleaming pools of passion, cold, repressed.

"Easy, boys!" Lawler called to the men. "Don't let them suspect you know
they've been trailing us. They've got us two to one, almost--if they
mean trouble we'll have to work easy!"

He saw the men relax; and several of them resumed their former positions
at the fire.

The strange riders were coming steadily onward; they were not more than
a hundred yards distant when Blackburn exclaimed, hoarsely:

"Lawler; it's Blondy Antrim an' his gang! Damn his hide! We're in for
it!"

For the first time since Garvin had told him of the presence of the men
on the trail behind the herd, Lawler's face betrayed passion--the glow
in his eyes rivaled that in the giant's.

During the past year or so word had reached him--rumor unfounded, but
insistent--that more than once Singleton and Blondy Antrim, the outlaw,
had been seen together. He had placed no credence in the rumors,
ascribing them to the imaginations of mischievous brains, prejudiced
against Singleton because of his bluff, dominant manner. He first had
suspected there might be truth in them when Joe Hamlin had told him that
he had rustled cattle for Singleton. He now believed that Singleton had
disposed of the stolen cattle through Antrim and the conviction that
Singleton was behind the action of the outlaw in trailing the herd
through the country seized him.

In an instant--following Blackburn's exclamation--he was aroused to the
danger that confronted himself and his men. As though by previous
arrangement, the men looked at him, noted the tenseness that had come
over him, listened attentively when he spoke.

"Boys; don't offer to throw a gun. I know Antrim. He's a killer, and his
men are like him. Take it easy--keep cool. The man who loses his temper
will be guilty of the wholesale murder that will follow. When Antrim
rides up, send him after me!"

He had not unsaddled Red King. He strode to the horse, swung into the
saddle, and rode eastward, away from the advancing riders.

Blank astonishment, puzzled bewilderment shone in the eyes of the Circle
L men as they watched him, and into the hearts of some of them crept the
conviction that Lawler had deserted them; that he was afraid of the
outlaw chief.

Blackburn saw what they thought, and his burning eyes bored into them
with sarcasm unutterable. He laughed, hoarsely, with a grim mirth that
startled them.

"Don't you worry about Lawler's nerve, boys; he's got more of it than
the bunch of us put together! He's got some scheme in mind. You guys
just set tight until you find out what it is. Do as he told you. Don't
let that scurvy gang know that you're flabbergasted!"

When Lawler rode away there was a noticeable commotion in the group of
advancing horsemen. One of them left the group, spurring his horse in
the direction taken by Lawler. He must have been called back, for he
wheeled his horse after he had ridden a dozen paces or so, and rejoined
the group, which came on as before.

When the horsemen came to a halt near the fire, they were spread in a
semi-circle about the Circle L men, and in their bronzed immobile faces
was no answer to the question that agitated Blackburn and the other men.
They had halted at a little distance from the fire, and one of them, a
tall, slender, keen-eyed, thin-lipped man, urged his horse out of the
circle and insolently inspected Blackburn and his cowboys. He lounged
loosely in the saddle.

There was a sinister light in his eyes, a lurking threat in his manner.

"What outfit is this?" he demanded.

"Circle L, from Wolf River," answered Blackburn.

"Where you headin'?"

"To Red Rock."

"Railroad out of business?" jeered the outlaw.

"Far as the Circle L is concerned, it is, Antrim," smiled Blackburn. "We
had a fuss, an' quit 'em."

The outlaw peered intently at the other. Then he grinned.

"It's Andy Blackburn!" he said. "Glad to meet you, Blackburn. This seems
like old times--before the railroad went through; when old Luke Lawler
used to jam 'em to Red Rock--sometimes--when he didn't pick up too many
strays on the way." He laughed as though pleased over the recollection.
"Got this stock vented, Blackburn?"

"Nary a vent, Antrim; the inspector wasn't feelin' in the humor."

"Ha!" exclaimed Antrim; "so you didn't get no vent. Well, we're aimin'
to look through your herd. We've been missin' cattle all summer--from my
ranch, the Circle Bar. About three thousand head. We've traced 'em as
far as Kinney's cañon, an' lost 'em. But we've been thinkin', Blackburn,
that it ain't no hard job to make a passable Circle L out of a Circle
Bar. That's why we aim to look your cattle over."

He grinned slightly at Blackburn's scowl, aware of the impotent rage the
latter felt over the worst insult that could be offered an honest
cattleman. For an instant he watched Blackburn keenly, his lips
sneering; and then when he saw that Blackburn had mastered his rage, he
said, sharply:

"Who was that guy that rode away as we come up?"

"Lawler," said Blackburn. "He's figurin' on seein' you alone, looks
like. He left word that when you come I was to tell you he wanted to see
you."

The outlaw's eyes glowed with swift suspicion.

"He knowed me, eh?" he said. He glanced keenly over the level floor of
the desert. Dimly, in the dusk, he could see Lawler riding near the
herd. For an instant Antrim hesitated, plainly debating the wisdom of
leaving his men; then he smiled with whimsical recklessness. And his
movements became rapid, jerky.

"Slade," he said, addressing a rider near him; "you're runnin' things
till I get back."

He wheeled his horse and sent him into the dusk toward the herd, riding
cautiously, evidently not entirely convinced of the peaceableness of
Lawler's intentions.

He rode a quarter of a mile before he came upon Lawler; and though the
light was fading he could plainly see Lawler's face, set,
expressionless.

The outlaw brought his horse to a halt within three or four paces of Red
King. Antrim's manner exuded the insolent tolerance of the master, who
has the confidence that comes from thoughts of an overwhelming
advantage.

He knew Lawler; knew him as perhaps no other man in the section knew
him. For he had seen Lawler using his gun. It had been some years
before, when Lawler had been proving himself--proving that he had a
right to the respect and consideration of his fellow-men; proving that
no man could trifle with him.

Antrim had been a witness to the shooting. He had marked Lawler's
coolness, the evenness of his temper; and had noted the deadly swiftness
and precision of his movements when he had drawn his pistol. Lawler had
not been the aggressor--a dozen other men had testified to that.

Antrim had not seen Lawler since, until now. And as he looked at him he
saw that the years had brought a change in the man. He had been a tall,
bold, reckless-looking youth then, with a certain wild waywardness in
his manner that might have destroyed him, had he yielded to it. Now he
was cold, calm, deliberate, imperturbable. The recklessness had
disappeared from his eyes; they were now aglow with quiet determination.
The waywardness had gone--ironlike resolution marked his manner.

And yet behind it all, Antrim could see the threat of those youthful
passions; the lurking eagerness for violent action; the hint of
preparedness, of readiness.

Antrim was startled, uneasy. He saw now that he should not have left his
men; that he had made a mistake in coming alone to meet Lawler.

He was certain of it now, when he heard Lawler's voice, saw the cold,
smiling light in his eyes.

"You're wanting my cattle, Antrim. Your men have been trailing me for
two weeks. You don't get them. You've got thirty-nine men, and there are
only twenty-three Circle L men over there. I'm not getting any of them
killed. This thing is between you and myself. Get your hand away from
your gun or I'll bore you!"

He moved his hand--where it had been--seemingly--lying on Red King's
neck, under the mane; and Antrim saw the dark muzzle of a pistol showing
in the hand.

"I'm not taking any chances, Antrim--you can see that. I'm not going to
take any. If you do anything to attract the attention of your men, I'll
kill you. Drop your guns, using your thumbs and forefingers." He
waited, watching keenly, until the outlaw had complied with the demand,
the two big pistols thudding dully into the sand beside his horse.

Then Lawler resumed, his voice low and even, as before:

"Now we're riding back to the fire, Antrim. Listen hard, for this means
life or death to you.

"We're going back to the fire. You're going to act as though nothing had
happened; and you are to tell your men that you have changed your mind
about the cattle--you are to tell them that you are going with me to Red
Rock; and you are sending them back to where you came from, to wait for
you."

Antrim stiffened, and his face bloated poisonously. But he did not
answer, for there was that in Lawler's eyes that convinced him of the
futility of attempting resistance.

"You're going to Red Rock with me," went on Lawler. "I'm going to be
personally responsible for you. I'm going to watch you; you're going to
ride ahead of me. If you talk, or make any motion that brings any of
your men back, you'll die so quick you won't know it happened! Do you
understand?"

"Damn you, Lawler; you'll pay for this!" muttered the outlaw. "I'll go
on your trail and I'll never let up till I get you!"

Lawler laughed, lowly. "Just be careful not to get any of that poison in
your voice when you tell your men what I told you, Antrim, or you'll
never go on anybody's trail. Get going, now; and be careful."

Antrim wheeled his horse, and Lawler spurred Red King beside him.

"I'll be watching you, Antrim," he warned. "If your men show they
suspect anything wrong you go down, mighty rapid. You don't get off your
horse until your men go. And there is to be no playing for time. You
talk fast and earnest, and carefully. Go ahead."

Riding slightly in Antrim's rear, Lawler followed the outlaw to the
fire. There had come no change in the positions of the outlaws or of the
Circle L men. And when Antrim and Lawler rode up there was a silence
during which the men of both factions looked interrogatively at their
leaders.

Antrim's face was pale, and his voice was vibrant with emotion. But he
did not hesitate.

"Slade," he said to the man he had left in charge; "I've changed my mind
about those cattle. Lawler has given me proof that none of our stock is
with them. I'm hittin' the trail to Red Rock with Lawler. You take the
boys back to the ranch an' wait for me."

Slade's eyes widened; he flushed and peered keenly at Antrim. "You--why,
hell's fire, Antrim; we----"

"Slade, do as I tell you!" said Antrim, coldly. "Are you runnin' my
affairs? You hit the breeze, right now--you hear me!"

Slade grinned venomously, and waved a violent hand around the circle.
"You hear your boss, boys!" he said; "Slope!"

The men hesitated an instant, sending sharp, incredulous glances at
their leader. But Antrim, pale, knowing that if he betrayed the
slightest sign of insincerity his men would suspect, met their looks
steadily. The men wheeled their horses, muttering profanely, and rode
slowly westward into the growing darkness.

When they had disappeared, Lawler smiled faintly at the outlaw chief.

"You can get down, now, Antrim." He drew the pistol from Red King's
mane, where it had been concealed during Antrim's talk with his men, and
sheathed it. And then Blackburn, who had been a silent, amazed witness
to what had occurred, whistled softly, covertly poking Shorty in the
ribs.

"There's one thing that's as good as a vent, ain't there, Shorty?" he
said. "That's a gun in the hand of a man who's got plenty of nerve!"




CHAPTER XV

CONCERNING AN OUTLAW


Early in the afternoon of the first day of December the sky darkened,
and a cold, raw wind began to shriek through Willets. The company corral
was empty; and again, as on the day before Kane Lawler had visited him,
Gary Warden stood at one of the windows of his office smiling. Warden
was almost satisfied.

Only one disturbing thought persistently recurred; Lawler had got his
cattle through to Red Rock.

A crimson stain appeared in Warden's cheeks as his thoughts reverted to
Lawler's return to Willets, after disposing of his cattle to the Red
Rock buyer. And Warden's shoulders sagged a little, the smile faded and
he glared malignantly at the bleak, gray clouds that sailed over town on
the chill, bitter wind.

Oddly, at the instant Warden's memory was dwelling upon the incident of
Lawler's return to Willets, Lafe Corwin, the storekeeper, was mentally
reviewing the incident.

Willets was a cow-town, and for the winter its activity was over. All
the beef cattle in the section, with the exception of three thousand
head still held by Lawler, at the Circle L, had been shipped eastward,
and Willets would now descend to supine indifference to considerations
of gain.

Lafe Corwin was tilted back in a big wooden chair near the big,
roaring-hot stove in the lounging-room of the Willets Hotel. His clerk
could attend to the store. Until spring came, Corwin would spend much of
his leisure near the big stove in the hotel, talking politics and
cattle--two subjects of paramount importance.

But just at this instant Corwin was thinking of Lawler's return to
Willets. Little wrinkles gathered around his eyes--which were twinkling;
and he chuckled lowly as his gaze roved from one to the other of the men
who, like himself, were enjoying the warmth of the stove and listening,
between words, to the howling and moaning of the wind.

Three or four times, during silences, Corwin chuckled. And when at last
he saw Dave Rankin, the blacksmith, watching him curiously, he guffawed
aloud, rubbing his hands gleefully.

"I don't reckon I ever seen no mournfuller sight than that!" he
declared.

"Meanin' which?" asked the blacksmith, his eyes alight with truculent
inquiry. The others sat erect, attentive.

"Meanin' that mornin' when Kane Lawler hopped off the train with his
bunch of cowhands--an' Blondy Antrim," snickered Corwin. "Dave Singleton
an' Gary Warden an' Jordan an' Simmons an' that pony-built girl which is
stayin' over to the Two Diamond with that ossified woman she calls 'Aunt
Hannah,' was on the platform waitin' for the six o'clock train from the
east. It appears that pony-built--Della Wharton, her name is--was
expectin' some gimcracks, an' Warden an' her was waitin' for them.
Anyways, they was there. It sure was medium mournful!" declared Corwin.

He appeared to hesitate; and Rankin grinned.

"We've heard it before; but I reckon we can stand listenin' ag'in. Tell
it, Corwin."

"As I was sayin' when you interrupted me--it was medium mournful,"
resumed Corwin. "Shorty--who was with Lawler on the drive--has told me
since; but at that time I didn't know--that Jordan had refused to vent
Lawler's cattle.

"Well, I'd come down to see the train come in, too. We was all standin'
there when she come a-steamin' up, an' stopped. An' who clumb off but
Lawler an' his trail crew--twenty-three of 'em. An' Blondy Antrim in the
midst of 'em, lookin' like a sheep-killin' dog.

"Well, gentlemen, they was a scene. Warden got his face all screwed up
an' couldn't get it unscrewed ag'in. He looked like he'd swallered a hot
brandin' iron an' it didn't lay easy on his stummick. Singleton was
a-standin' there with his mouth open an' his eyes a-poppin' out; an'
Jordan was plumb flabbergasted. Simmons was leanin' ag'in' the side of
the station buildin', lookin' like he was expectin' to be shot the next
minute.

"That Della Wharton girl was the only one that seemed to have any wits
a-tall. I seen her grin eloquent at Lawler, an' look him straight in the
eye like she was tellin' him somethin' intimate.

"Well, as I was sayin', Lawler an' his boys got off with Blondy Antrim.
Antrim looks wild an' flighty--like you've seen a locoed steer on the
prod. His eyes was a-glarin' an' he was mutterin' cusses by the
mouthful. All of which didn't seem to faze Lawler none.

"Lawler was as cool as an iceberg which had just arrove from the North
Pole--an' then some. An' he got a mean, mild grin on his face when he
saw the reception committee that had come to meet him. They was a
twinkle in his eyes when he looked at Della Wharton; but when Warden
blows into his line of vision he looked mighty wicked.

"Lawler an' his gang had brought their hosses from Red Rock in two
cars--they'd sold some of the _remuda_ in Red Rock, not carin' to ship
'em home. Anyways, the gang didn't appear in no hurry to unload the
hosses; an' a trainman yells to them, sayin' they'd have to hurry.

"But the boys was too interested just then. 'Unload 'em yourself, you
sufferin' yap!' yells Shorty. 'If you pull out of here with them hosses
I'll blow your damned railroad over into the next county!' Shorty sure
does love the railroad!

"As I was sayin' when you interrupted me: Lawler looked mighty wicked.
But he's cold an' polite--an' ca'm. An' he escorts Antrim over to where
Warden was standin', an' says, quiet an' low:

"Warden, I have brought back my vent. He sure was a heap of trouble, an'
he got himself attached to us right close. But as we haven't got no
further use for him we're turnin' him over to you. I reckon he's lookin'
to you an' Singleton to pay him for the trouble of trailin' us for two
weeks, an' for keepin' me company as far as Red Rock, to see that my
herd got there right an' proper. 'Antrim,' he says; 'go to your boss!'
And he gives him a little shove toward Warden.

"Warden didn't say nothin'--he'd lost his voice, I reckon. But Antrim
goes off the handle complete.

"'The damned sneak lifted my guns!' he yells.

"'You wantin' a gun?' says Lawler, cold an' ca'm. He backs up an' lifts
one of Shorty's. Then he walks close to Antrim an' shoves it into his
right hand.

"'There's a gun, you polecat,' he says. 'Fan it. I'd admire to blow the
gizzard outen you!'

"But Antrim didn't seem to be none tickled, now that he'd got the gun.
He stood, lookin' at it, like it was somethin' strange an' unusual, an'
he was wonderin' whether he ought to hang onto it or drop it. Finally he
grins sorta sheepishlike, an' hands it back to Lawler, butt first.

"'I ain't aimin' to fight you today, Lawler,' he says, his face bloomin'
like a cactus.

"Lawler laughs, an' gives Shorty his gun back. Shorty grins like a
tiger. 'Mebbe Singleton wouldn't mind acceptin' your kind offer, Boss?'
he says.

"But Singleton don't break his neck reachin' for _his_ gun, neither. He
stands there, lookin' like a calf that's lost its mother. An' then
Lawler laughs again, an' says:

"'Well, boys, seein' that the reception committee has received us, an'
the honors has all been done, I reckon we'd better get the hosses off
the cars an' hit the breeze for home!'

"An' they done so. But before they went they smoked up the town
considerable--as you all seen. Them boys had divided twenty-five
thousand dollars between them, which Lawler give 'em for makin' the
drive. An' they sure did celebrate. Except Lawler. He went right home,
an' I ain't seen him since. But I reckon Warden an' the rest of them
ain't had no regrets. I ain't never seen no mournfuller sight than them
folks sneakin' away from the station. All but Della Wharton. She was
a-grinnin' sorta slylike, as though somethin' pleased her."




CHAPTER XVI

A "NORTHER"


When Lawler returned to the Circle L ranchhouse he found that Mary had
gone East, to school. She had left for Willets on the second day
following Lawler's departure; and Mrs. Lawler had already received two
letters from her. Mrs. Lawler watched her son keenly when she told him
that Joe Hamlin had brought a letter stating that Hamlin was to be
permitted to take a number of mixed cattle from the Circle L--and that
he had driven away one hundred. She smiled gently when she told Lawler
that on the day before her departure Mary had visited Ruth Hamlin--had
spent the whole day with her, and had come home, mysteriously delighted.
Ruth had given up the school.

"Mary loves her, Kane," said Mrs. Lawler. And she smiled again when she
saw a flush reach Lawler's face.

Lawler intended to ride to the Hamlin cabin this morning. It was the
third day following his arrival at the ranch; and until now he had had
no time for anything except to attend to the many details of work that
had been neglected during his absence.

There were still three thousand head of cattle on the Circle L
range--the men had held them in the valley for a time during his absence
on the trail, but the grass had grown sparse, and the herd was now
grazing on the big plain beyond the northern slope of the valley.

During the time he had been home the outfit had been busy. The Circle L
had a dozen line camps--little adobe cabins scattered over the range,
occupied during the winter by Circle L cowboys whose duty it was to
guard the cattle against the aggressions of timber wolves, rustlers,
cold, and starvation.

For two days the chuck-wagon had been sent rattling to the various line
camps, stocking them with supplies against the winter. As the weather
was threatening the hoodlum wagon had been pressed into service this
morning; and all the men, with the exception of the blacksmith--who was
working diligently in his shop near the corral; and two punchers--Davies
and Harris, who had been assigned to Number One camp--were away with the
two wagons.

Davies and Harris had not been able to resist the lure of "town." The
prosperity that had descended upon them had made them restless, and the
night before they had importuned Lawler to permit them to spend "one
more night in town before holin' up for the winter."

Lawler had consented; and now he was wishing that he hadn't. For when he
emerged from the ranchhouse this morning he saw a dark cloud bank far in
the north, moving southward on the chill wind.

The herd, he knew, was somewhere on the big level beyond the slope of
the valley, in the vicinity of Number One line camp. It was an isolated
section, off the trail that led to town--a section of featureless level
near a big break in the valley. The break opened upon another big level
that stretched southward for a hundred miles. In other days Luke Lawler
had lost many cattle here; they had drifted through the break by
hundreds, with a blizzard behind them; and had been swallowed by the
great waste.

Two years before--aware of the previous losses--Lawler had erected a
wire fence across the big break, extending from a craggy mountain wall
on the western end, to a sheer butte that marked the end of the break,
eastward.

Lawler had sent Red King to the crest of the valley on his way to the
Hamlin cabin, when he noted that the cloud bank in the north had grown
denser, nearer. The wind had increased in velocity, and he had to lean
against it as he rode; and it was so cold and raw that he drew his heavy
cap down over his eyes to shield them, and drew over his mouth the heavy
woolen scarf he wore around his neck.

He rode on a short distance, casting troubled glances into the north. He
found himself wondering if Davies and Harris had gone to the line camp.
If they hadn't, and a storm broke, the herd on the big level was in
danger.

He brought Red King to a halt. The big horse pranced, whistling eagerly.
He champed on the bit, tossed his head, raising it finally and staring
straight into the north.

"You see it too, eh, King?" said Lawler. "Well, we can't take that
chance; we'll have to go to the camp."

He headed Red King down into the valley again, where the bitter wind did
not strike them, riding westward rapidly.

It was noon before Lawler and Red King had traveled half the distance to
the line camp. A dull, gray haze was sweeping southward. It mingled with
the southern light and threw a ghostly glare into the valley, making
distance deceptive, giving a strange appearance to the landmarks with
which Lawler and the horse were familiar.

Lawler increased Red King's pace. He saw that the storm was nearer than
he had thought, and he would have to work fast to get the cattle headed
into the valley before it broke.

The distance from the Circle L ranchhouse to the big plain near the line
cabin was about fifteen miles, and the trail led upward in a long,
tiresome rise. Yet Red King struck the level with a reserve strength
that was betrayed by the way he fought for his head as he saw the level
stretch before him. He was warmed up--he wanted to run.

But Lawler drew him down in an effort to locate the herd before he
started toward it.

Man and horse made a mere blot on the yawning expanse of land that
stretched away from them in all directions. A lone eagle in the sky or a
mariner adrift on a deserted sea could not have seemed more isolated
than Lawler and Red King. In this limitless expanse of waste land horse
and rider were dwarfed to the proportion of atoms. The yawning, aching,
stretching miles of level seemed to have no end.

Several miles into the north Lawler saw the herd. Directly westward, at
a distance of about a mile, he saw the line cabin. No smoke was issuing
from the chimney; and so far as he could discern, there were no men with
the cattle.

Harris and Davies had overstayed. That knowledge might have been
responsible for the grim humor in Lawler's eyes; but the rigidness of
his body and the aggressive thrust to his chin were caused by knowledge
of a different character. The storm was about to break.

The sun was casting a dull red glow through the gray haze. It was
blotted out as he looked. Southward from the horizon ends extended a
broad sea of shimmering, glittering sky that contrasted brilliantly to
the black, wind-whipped clouds that had gathered in the north. Fleecy
gray wisps, detached from the heavy, spreading mass northward, were
scurrying southward, streaking the shimmering brilliance and telling of
the force of the wind that drove them.

A wailing note came from the north, a sighing vague with a portent of
force; a whisper of unrest, a promise of fury. Far in the north, its
blackness deepening with distance, stretched the menace, arousing awe
with its magnitude.

Nature seemed to know what impended, for on the vast level where the
storm would have a clear sweep the dried grass, bronzed by the searing
autumn sun, was rustling as it bent far southward; the hardy sage bowed
reluctantly to the fitful blasts, and the scraggly, ugly yucca
resentfully yielded to the unseen force.

A wide, shallow gully ran northwestward from a point near Red King,
almost in a straight line toward the herd. Lawler urged the big horse
into the gully and rode hard. The distance was several miles, but when
Red King came to the gully end he flashed out of it like a streak of red
flame. He was drawn down, instantly, however, snorting and pawing
impatiently, while Lawler shielded his eyes with his hands and again
scanned the country.

He saw the herd; and as he watched it began to move. There were no men
near the cattle.

They started slowly, seemingly reluctant to leave the level. They moved
sullenly, closely massed, their heads lowered, their tails drooping. The
wind, now beginning to carry a vicious note with its whine, drove a
heavy dust cloud against them, warning them. The wind was icy, giving
the cattle a foretaste of what was to come. And mingling with the dust
were fine, flinty snow particles that came almost horizontally against
their rumps, stinging them, worrying them. They increased their pace,
and soon were running with a swinging, awkward stride, straight toward
the wire fence, several miles distant.

If they saw Lawler they gave no sign, for they went lumbering on,
snorting and bawling their apprehension.

Lawler was about to start Red King toward them, when he noted movement
on the level a little northwestward from the cattle. Peering intently,
he saw two horsemen racing southward, a little distance ahead of the
cattle, parallel with them.

At first Lawler was certain the men were Davies and Harris, and he
smiled, appreciating their devotion to duty. But when he saw them race
past the cattle, not even halting to head them in the right
direction--which would have been slightly eastward, so that they would
enter the valley before reaching the fence--he frowned, wheeled Red King
sharply, and sent him back into the gully from which he had emerged.

"They're strangers, King," he said, shortly to the horse as the latter
fled headlong down the gully toward the point from which he had started;
"Davies and Harris wouldn't leave the herd with that norther coming on."

The big horse made fast time down the gully. He brought Lawler to a
point near the fence where it crossed the gully at about the instant the
two riders were dismounting some distance away.

Lawler rode out of the gully and brought Red King to a halt. There was
no danger that the two men would discover him, for all objects in the
vicinity were rapidly being blotted out by the dancing smother of dust
that was riding the north wind. Lawler was to the north of the men,
slightly eastward, and they could not have faced the smother of dust to
look toward him.

Lawler could dimly see the herd moving toward the fence; he could see
the men plainly; and as he watched them his eyes narrowed. The big horse
leaped with the word he caught from his rider's lips, racing lightly
with the wind toward the fence where the men were working.

Lawler's approach was noiseless, for all sound was engulfed in the
steady, roaring whine of the storm. Neither of the two men, working at
the fence, heard Lawler as he brought the big horse to a halt within
half a dozen paces of them.

The taller of the two, plying a pair of wire-nippers, completed his work
at a fence post and turned to leap toward another. The movement brought
him against the muzzle of Lawler's horse. He halted jerkily, retreated a
step, and looked up, to see Lawler looking at him from behind the muzzle
of the big pistol that had leaped into his hand.

There was no word spoken--none could be heard at the moment. What
followed was grim pantomime, with tragedy lurking near.

The tall man held his position. He had tentatively extended his right
hand, the fingers spread, clawlike. Now the hand was going upward,
accompanied by the other. When the man had stepped backward to escape a
collision with Lawler's horse, the wind had whipped his hat from his
head. He now stood there, his hair waving to the vicious whims of the
gale, veiling his eyes and he not daring to lower his hands to brush it
away.

The shorter man, too, had assumed a statuesque pose. He had turned when
he had noted his companion's startled movement, and he, too, had seen an
apparition that had sent his hands swiftly upward.

The big horse stood motionless, his back to the wind. He did not move as
Lawler leaped from his back--smoothly, quickly, his eyes alert, his
muscles tensed for violent action.

The men stood rigid while Lawler jerked their pistols from their
holsters and tossed them into the dust waves that danced and swirled
around them. The short man was catapulted against the tall one with a
viciousness that staggered both; and then they heard Lawler's voice,
sharp and penetrating, above the shrieking of the wind:

"Those cattle will be here in five minutes! If you don't have that fence
repaired before then, you drift with them, hoofing it!"

In the allotted time they repaired the fence, working with breathless
energy, while Lawler stood near, the menacing gun in hand, a saturnine
smile wreathing his face.

When the herd reached the fence there was no break in it. More--where
the break had been were three men on horses who took instant charge,
easing the cattle down along the fence, heading them eastward toward the
shelter they were sure to find if they kept going.

The three men followed the cattle for a mile--until they were going
straight and fast toward the home ranch. Then Lawler, smiling with
bitter humor, motioned the men toward the back trail.

They seemed to know what was demanded of them. They wheeled their
horses, sending them into the billowy white smother that was now coming
in a gigantic wave toward them.

The southern light had gone. A dense blackness, out of which roared a
gale that robbed them of their breath, struck them. The snow was hurled
against them like a sand blast, biting deep, blinding them.

It took them more than an hour to travel the distance that lay between
the point at which they had cut the fence, and the line cabin. And when
they reached a windbreak near the structure the two men rode behind it,
silent, thankful.

Lawler had ridden forth, prepared for bad weather. His face was now
muffled in a huge scarf that encircled his neck, and his eyes were
shielded by the peak of the fur cap he wore. He dismounted, waved the
men toward a dugout, and watched them as they dismounted and led their
horses through a narrow door. When the men emerged Lawler led the big
red horse in, leaving the men to stand in the white gale that enveloped
them.

The wind was now roaring steadily, and with such force that no man could
have faced it with uncovered face. It came over the vast emptiness of
the northern spaces with a fury that sent into one the consciousness
that here was an element with which man could not cope.

Lawler emerged from the dugout and closed the door behind him. He barred
it, turned and motioned the two men toward the cabin. He followed them
as they opened the door and entered. Then, after closing the door and
barring it, he lifted the peak of his cap, removed the scarf from his
neck, glanced around the interior of the cabin and looked coldly at the
men.

"Well," he said; "there's a heap of explaining to be done. You can begin
now--one at a time!"




CHAPTER XVII

THE LINE CABIN


The two men had walked to a point near the big fireplace that occupied
the greater part of one end of the cabin. The hatless one, big,
assertive, belligerent, grinned defiantly, saying nothing in answer to
Lawler's words.

The other man, slighter, and plainly apprehensive, glanced swiftly at
his companion; then dropped his gaze to the floor.

"You skunks bunked here last night!" charged Lawler, sharply. "When I
was here, yesterday, these bunks were made up. Look at them now! Talk
fast. Were you here last night?"

The smaller man nodded.

"Why didn't you cut the fence last night?"

The smaller man grinned. "We wasn't aimin' to get caught."

"Expected there'd be line riders here, eh?"

The other did not answer. Lawler watched both men derisively.

"Then, when you saw no one was here, and that it was likely the norther
would keep anyone from coming, you cut the fence. That's it, eh?"

The two men did not answer, regarding him sullenly.

Lawler smiled. This time there was a cold mirth in his smile that caused
the two men to look quickly at each other. They paled and scowled at
what they saw in Lawler's eyes.

Half a dozen bunks ranged the side walls of the cabin, four on one side,
two on the other, arranged in tiers, upper and lower. A rough, square
table stood near the center of the room, with a low bench on one side of
it and several low chairs on the other. A big chuck-box stood in a
corner near the fireplace, its top half open, revealing the supplies
with which the receptacle was filled; some shelves on the other side of
the fireplace were piled high with canned foods and bulging packages.
The bunks were filled with bedclothing; and an oil-lamp stood on a
triangular shelf in a corner near the door. The walls were bare with the
exception of some highly colored lithographs that, evidently, had been
placed there by someone in whom the love of art still flourished.

It was cold in the cabin. A window in the north wall, with four small
panes of glass in it, was slowly whitening with the frost that was
stealing over it. In the corners of the mullions were fine snow drifts;
and through a small crevice in the roof a white spray filtered,
ballooning around the room. The temperature was rapidly falling.

During the silence which followed Lawler's words, and while the two
fence cutters watched each other, and Lawler, all caught the voice of
the storm, raging, furious, incessant.

With his free hand Lawler unbuttoned his coat, tossed his cap into a
bunk and ran a hand through his hair, shoving it back from his forehead.
His movements were deliberate. It was as though catching fence cutters
was an everyday occurrence.

Yet something in his eyes--the thing the two men had seen--gave the lie
to the atmosphere of deliberate ease that radiated from him. In his eyes
was something that warned, that hinted of passion.

As the men watched him, noting his muscular neck and shoulders; the slim
waist of him, the set of his head--which had that hint of conscious
strength, mental and physical, which marks the intelligent fighter--they
shrank a little, glowering sullenly.

Lawler stood close to the door, the pistol dangling from his right hand.
He had hooked the thumb of the left hand into his cartridge belt, and
his eyes were gleaming with feline humor.

"There's a heap to be told," he said. "I'm listening."

A silence followed his words. Both men moistened their lips; neither
spoke.

"Get going!" commanded Lawler.

"We was headin' south," said the small man. "We cut the fence to git
through."

Lawler's eyelids flickered slightly. The heavy pistol swung upward until
the dark tube gaped somberly into the small man's eyes.

"I've got loads of time, but I don't feel like wasting it," said Lawler.
"You've got one minute to come clean. Keep your traps shut for that time
and I bore you--both--and chuck you outside!"

His smile might have misled some men, but the small man had correctly
valued Lawler.

"Gary Warden hired us to cut the fence."

The man's voice was a placative whine. His furtive eyes swept Lawler's
face for signs of emotion.

There were no signs. Lawler's face might have been an expressionless
mask. Not a muscle of his body moved. The offense was a monstrous one in
the ethics of the country, and the fence cutter had a right to expect
Lawler to exhibit passion of some kind.

"Gary Warden, eh?" Lawler laughed quietly. "If you're lying----"

The man protested that he was telling the truth.

At this point the tall man sneered.

"Hell," he said; "quit your damn blabbin'!"

"Yes," grinned Lawler, speaking to the small man. "You're quitting your
talk. From now on your friend is going to do it. I'm asking questions a
heap rapid, and the answers are going to jump right onto the tails of
the questions. If they don't, I'm going to see how near I can come to
boring a hole in the place where he has his brains cached."

The man glared malignantly at Lawler; but when the first question came
it was answered instantly:

"How much did Warden pay you?"

"A hundred dollars."

"When were you to cut the fence?"

"When the norther struck."

"You saw us cache grub in the cabin?"

The man nodded.

"What if you had found a couple of line riders here? What were you told
to do if you found line riders here? I'm wanting the truth--all of it!"

The man hesitated. Lawler's pistol roared, the concussion rocking the
air of the cabin. The man staggered back, clapping a hand to his head,
where, it seemed to him, the bullet from the pistol had been aimed.

The man brought up against the rear wall of the cabin, beside the
fireplace; and he leaned against it, his face ghastly with fright, his
lips working soundlessly. The little man cowered, plainly expecting
Lawler would shoot him, too. And Lawler's gun did swing up again, but
the voice of the tall man came, blurtingly:

"Warden told us to knife any men we found here."

Lawler's lips straightened, and his eyes glowed with a passion so
intense that the men shrank, gibbering, in the grip of a mighty
paralysis.

Lawler walked to the table and sat beside it, placing the gun near his
right hand. The men watched him, fascinated; noting his swift movements
as he plunged a hand into a pocket and drew out a small pad of paper and
a pencil. He wrote rapidly upon a leaf of the pad; then got up, stepped
back and ordered the tall man to approach the table.

"Write your name below what I have written--and date it."

When both men had signed the paper, Lawler folded it, stuck it between
some leaves of the pad, and replaced pad and pencil in his pocket.

"That's all," he said. "You'll hang out here until the norther blows
itself out; then you'll hit the trail to town and tell your story to the
sheriff. I'll be doing the honors."

He sheathed his gun and flung open the door, stepping back as a white
avalanche rushed in; grinning broadly as he saw the men shrink from it.
He divined that the men thought he was going to force them out into the
storm immediately, and he grinned coldly.

"You can be tickled that I'm not sending you out into it, to drift with
the cattle you tried to kill," he said. "You'd deserve that, plenty.
You'll find wood beside the dugout. Get some of it in here and start a
fire. Move; and don't try any monkey business!"

He closed the door as the men went out. He had no fear that they would
try to escape--even a threat of death could not have forced them to
leave the cabin.

When they came in they kindled a fire in the big fireplace, hovering
close to it after the blaze sprang up, enjoying its warmth, for the
interior of the cabin had become frigid.

Lawler, however, did not permit the men to enjoy the fire. He sent them
out for more wood, and when they had piled a goodly supply in a corner,
and had filled a tin water pail from a water hole situated about a
hundred feet straight out from the door of the cabin, he sent them again
to the dugout after their ropes. With the ropes, despite the sullen
objections of the men, he bound their hands and feet tightly, afterward
picking the men up and tossing them ungently into upper bunks on
opposite sides of the room.

He stood, after watching them for a time, his face expressionless.

"That's just so you won't get to thinking you are company," he said.
"We're holed up for a long time, maybe, and I don't want you to bother
me, a heap. If you get to bothering me--disturbing my sleep trying to
untangle yourselves from those ropes, why----"

He significantly tapped his pistol. Then he pulled a chair close to the
fire, dropped into it, rolled a cigarette, and calmly smoked, watching
the white fleece trail up the chimney.




CHAPTER XVIII

STORM-DRIVEN


For an hour there was no sound in the cabin. Lawler smoked several
cigarettes. Once he got up and threw more wood upon the fire, standing
in front of the blaze for several minutes stretching his long legs,
watching the licking tongues as they were sucked up the chimney by the
shrieking wind.

Then, for a time, he lounged in the chair, gazing meditatively at the
north window, noting how the fine, frozen snow meal clung to the glass;
watching the light fade, listening to the howling white terror that had
seized the world in its icy grip.

At the end of an hour it grew dark in the cabin. Lawler got up, lighted
the kerosene lamp, placed it on the table, seated himself on a bench and
again meditatively watched the leaping flames in the fireplace.

Satisfaction glowed in his eyes as he thought of what would have
happened had he not decided to substitute for Davies and Harris.
Undoubtedly by this time the two men were on their way to the camp. They
would certainly have noticed the warning bleak northern sky and other
indications of the coming storm. And undoubtedly, if they had started
toward the camp, they were by this time being punished for their
dereliction. They would make the camp, though, he was sure, for they had
the wind at their backs, and they knew the trail. He expected, any
minute, to hear them at the door. He grinned, his face a trifle grim as
he anticipated their astonishment at finding him there, with the two
fence cutters occupying the bunks.

He had not followed the herd to the Circle L shelters because he had had
small hope of keeping close to the fence cutters in the storm. And he
had brought them back to the cabin to make sure of them. As he sat at
the table he drew out the paper the men had signed and read their names:

"_Lay Givens._"

"_Ben Link._"

Their confession would convict Gary Warden of a crime that--if it did
not open the doors of the penitentiary to him--would bring upon him the
condemnation of every honest man in the state. In his anxiety to inflict
damage upon Lawler, Warden had overstepped himself.

Lawler had betrayed no passion that day when he had got off the train at
Willets with his men and Blondy Antrim. He had not permitted any of them
to suspect that the incident of the attempted theft of a portion of the
trail herd had affected him. But it had affected him. It had aroused him
as he never had been aroused before; it had filled him with a passionate
hatred of Gary Warden so intense that when his thoughts dwelt upon the
man he felt a lust to destroy him. Not even Lafe Corwin, watching him
that day at Willets, knew how he had fought to overcome the driving
desire to kill Warden, Singleton, and Antrim, as they had stood there on
the platform.

His eyes chilled now, as he thought of Warden and the others. He got up,
his blood pulsing heavily, and started toward the fire. He had reached
it, and was standing before it, when he heard a sound at the door--a
faint knocking, and a voice.

Davies and Harris were coming now. They were cold, he supposed, had seen
the light in the window--perhaps had tried the door; the wind drowning
the noise so that he had not heard it before. They were in a hurry to
get in, to the warmth the cabin afforded.

He was in no hurry to let them in, and he walked deliberately to the
table and stood beside it, his back to the fire, smiling ironically.

He heard no further sound, and he supposed the men had gone to the
dugout to turn their horses into its shelter before again trying the
door.

He was in a grimly humorous mood now, and he stooped, blew out the light
and stepped toward the door, standing back of it, where it would swing
against him when the men opened it.

He loosened the fastenings, stealthily. He wanted them to come in and
find the two fence cutters there.

He stood for a long time at the door, listening, waiting. No sound
reached his ears, and he scowled, puzzled. Then, above the wailing voice
of the storm, came the shrill, piercing neigh of a horse.

Several times in his life had Lawler heard that sound--once when a
cow-pony which had been bogged down in quicksand had neighed when he had
been drawn under; and again when a horse which he had been riding had
stepped into a gopher hole and had broken a leg. He had been forced to
shoot the animal, for which he had formed a sincere attachment; and it
had seemed to him that when he drew the pistol the horse knew what
impended--for its shrill neigh had been almost human in its terrible
appeal.

It was such a sound that now reached his ears above the roar of the
storm.

Davies and Harris were in trouble.

With a bound Lawler tore the door open and stood, leaning against the
terrific wind, trying to peer out into the white smother that shrieked
around him. When he made out the outlines of a horse not more than half
a dozen feet from the open doorway--the animal so encrusted with snow
that he looked like a pallid ghost--and a shapeless bundle on his back
that seemingly was ready to pitch into a huge drift that had formed in
front of the cabin--he leaped outward, a groan of sympathy breaking from
him.

In an instant he was inside again, carrying the shapeless bundle, his
lips stiff and white as he peered close at it as he tenderly laid it on
the floor of the cabin.

With swift movements he lighted the lamp again, and then returning to
the bundle, leaned over it, pulling away a scarf that covered its head
and disclosing a white, drawn face--the face of the woman he had met, in
Willets, at the foot of the stairs leading to Gary Warden's office!

Lawler wheeled swiftly, leaping to first one and then to the other of
the bunks where the fence cutters lay, tearing the ropes from them.

The tall man tumbled out first, urged by what he had seen and by the
low tense voice of his captor. He seized a tin pan and dove out of the
open doorway, returning instantly, the pan heaped high with snow. The
other man, following the first quickly, dove through the snow drifts to
the dugout where he fumbled in the slicker on Lawler's saddle until he
found a flask.

By the time the little man returned the woman was in one of the lower
bunks. A pair of bare feet, small and shapely, were sticking out over
the edge of the bunk, and the tall fence cutter was vigorously rubbing
snow upon them. A pair of small, high-top riding boots of soft, pliable
leather, was lying beside the bunk near some pitiably thin stockings.

At the other end of the bunk Lawler was bathing, with ineffable
tenderness and care, a face that had been swathed in the scarf he had
previously removed. The long, glistening, black hair had been brushed
back from its owner's forehead by Lawler; and a corner of a blanket had
been modestly folded over a patch of white breast, exposed when Lawler
had ruthlessly torn away the flimsy, fluffy waist.

"It was the scarf that saved her face," said Lawler, after he had worked
over the unconscious form for a quarter of an hour. The face was
flushed, now--which was a good sign; and the feet and ankles were
beginning to show signs of restored circulation also--though more
reluctantly.

"How she ever got through it I'm not pretending to say," declared
Lawler, grimly. "But she did it, and the frost didn't get her, much.
She'll be fresh as a daisy in a couple of hours."

The tall man--Link--had ceased his labors with the woman, and was
standing near Lawler. He grinned at Lawler's words.

His face was flushed, his eyes were glowing with passion as he watched
the inert form on the bunk.

"She's a peach," he said, thickly. Lawler was not looking at him; he was
giving all his attention to the woman.

"Della Wharton," continued Link. "I've seen her at the Two
Diamond--runnin' around with Warden. Warden's took a shine to her. Don't
blame him." He muttered something else that Lawler did not hear, for
Lawler was paying no attention to him.

Lawler held the flask to the woman's half-open mouth, and smiled when
several drops of the strong spirits trickled over her tongue. Then he
walked to the wood pile and replenished the fire. Returning, he saw Link
standing close to the bunk, smiling bestially at the upturned face. When
Lawler caught sight of him he was fingering the disordered hair, lifting
it and letting it filter through his fingers.

Without a word, Lawler leaped and struck with bitter malignance. Not a
sound escaped Link as he fell. Lawler lifted him bodily, threw him upon
the pile of wood in the corner, where he lay huddled up, unconscious.

Wheeling swiftly, his eyes ablaze with the terrible passion that had
seized him, Lawler faced the bunk. The woman's head was moving slowly
from side to side, as though she were making an effort to lift it; her
eyelids were fluttering, and her hands were straying over the
bedclothing, the fingers closing and unclosing.

Lawler made a horrible grimace at Givens.

"Get out of here, damn you!" he said. "Go out and take care of her
horse--anything! If you are in here when she wakes up, I'll kill you!
And take that other skunk out of here, too--take him to the dugout, and
don't come back here for an hour!"

He watched impatiently while Givens seized his companion and dragged him
outside. Then Lawler fastened the door, and standing near it, watched
the woman.

Her eyes were open. He could see them, even though he stood slightly
behind her. She moved her head, lifted it and gazed around the room,
seemingly bewildered at what she saw. Then she twisted her body around;
saw her bare feet, and quickly drew an end of the bunk blanket over
them.

And then she saw Lawler. Her eyes opened wide, filling with
satisfaction, and she sat up, holding one hand to her throat, tight
against the flesh, covering it with the other.

"Oh!" she said, thinly; "I--I got here, didn't I? But I didn't expect to
find you here!"




CHAPTER XIX

DEATH AT A DOOR


Lawler smiled. "Then I reckon we're both surprised, ma'am," he said. "I
certainly wasn't expecting the norther to bring you. You had a mighty
narrow squeeze. You were pretty near all in when I opened the door and
saw you."

The girl drew a long, quavering breath and leaned back against the wall
of the bunk, closing her eyes.

Her hair had fallen about her shoulders, showing the white throat
through the damp, glistening folds; and when she again opened her eyes,
they were big and luminous--and brown, Lawler took note of that, for the
glare from the lamp was directly upon them.

Renewed life--animation--certainly beautified her. While Lawler had been
working with her to restore her suspended vitality he had felt no
emotion beyond an eagerness to restore her to consciousness. Now he was
vibrant with sympathy, with pity, and with wonder.

Why had she come here? It was quite evident that she had come
intentionally, for her words: "I got here, didn't I?" seemed to be proof
of that. Also, she had not anticipated finding him at the cabin, for she
had said so in as many words.

She gathered the blanket closer around her, noting that her feet were
wrapped in it and that one end of it covered her throat. Lawler saw the
blushes come and go in her face as she worked with the blanket, and he
secretly applauded her modesty.

When she had arranged the blanket she looked straight at him. She
studied his face long before she spoke, and his eyes gleamed with
satisfaction when he saw her lips form a faint, half-smile. She had
decided she was not afraid of him.

She was embarrassed, but not to the point of prudishness. Her gaze was
direct, frankly grateful. But there was something else in her eyes--a
vague uneasiness, curiosity, repressed eagerness. She glanced swiftly
around the interior of the cabin, and into the other bunks. And when she
saw Lawler watching her keenly she blushed. And now, as she dropped her
gaze, he saw her start as her eyes rested on the tangled ropes that
Lawler had torn from the two fence cutters when he had released them
after he had carried her into the cabin. The ropes were lying on the
floor where he had thrown them in his haste.

"Has--has anything happened?" she asked, looking swiftly at him,
blushing again.

"Plenty," he said; "you came."

"I--I mean--that is, has anything else happened?" she added. She seemed
to hold her breath, for his answer.

"I caught two fence cutters."

"Did they cut the fence?" She was rigid, tense.

Lawler nodded, and he saw her hands clench.

"But there wasn't any damage done. I caught them just after they cut it,
and I made them repair it before the cattle got through."

"And the two men?" she questioned, breathlessly.

"They're in the dugout--with the horses. They were in here, until you
came."

She leaned back, breathing fast. Her color was high, her eyes were
shining with satisfaction. And while Lawler watched her she laughed
quaveringly.

"Then I had that long, cold ride for nothing," she said.

Lawler looked straight at her. "You knew the fence was to be cut?"

Her color receded and she met his gaze unflinchingly, resolutely.

"Yes. I overheard Gary Warden telling two of the Two Diamond men--Link
and Givens--to cut it. Warden wanted to destroy all your cattle. It
seems he has had men watching them--and your men. And he learned the
herd was on the level near here. He told the men to wait until a storm
threatened. Gary didn't know I overheard him telling the men to cut the
fence; and I said nothing to him. But I waited until I saw an
opportunity, and then I came, to warn the men I expected would be here.
I didn't expect to find you here; and I intended to keep silent
regarding what I had heard."

"Why are you telling it, now?"

She blushed again and gazed downward. Then she looked at him with
direct, puzzled eyes.

"I--I really don't know," she said, hesitatingly. "I expect it was
because I felt guilty--or because I thought I saw something in your eyes
that made me think you knew that I hadn't ridden over here for the fun
of it. It was a very cold and disagreeable ride.

"And, somehow, I--I think you ought to know it. When I overheard Gary
telling those men to cut the fence it seemed to me that it was the
meanest scheme I ever had heard of. I was so angry I could have
horse-whipped Gary. At the time I believe I wasn't thinking of you at
all--I just kept seeing those poor cows wandering away in the storm, to
freeze to death in the open. And I determined to ride over here and
prevent it. I suppose what I have told you will make trouble for Gary. I
suppose I shouldn't have told you."

"Givens and Link told me."

"Oh! You made them tell, of course--_you_ would do that. What are you
going to do about it?"

"What would you do--Miss--" Lawler paused.

"I am Della Wharton," smiled the girl.

"Well, what would _you_ do, Miss Wharton?"

The girl flashed a quick glance at him. "Considering that the plan
didn't succeed, and that I rode clear over here to tell you about
it--don't you think you ought to keep silent, Mr. Lawler?"

Whatever Lawler intended to do later, he was silent now. He was puzzled,
amazed, over the startling frankness the girl had exhibited. He had
heard, from Blackburn--or somebody--it wasn't important whom--that this
girl was staying at the Two Diamond. He believed Blackburn had hinted at
relations more intimate. And she was at this moment betraying
Warden--delivering him into the hands of a man the latter hated.

"Miss Wharton," said Lawler gravely; "I confess I am puzzled. You accept
Warden's hospitality, and yet you come here to betray him."

She laughed. "I am not accepting Gary's hospitality. My father is a
member of the company that bought the Two Diamond, and I have as much
right to be there as Gary has. We live East--in New York. I came West
out of curiosity. I wanted to see the ranch. And now that I am here I
intend to stay. I have always been eager to live in the West."

"Then you don't like Gary Warden?"

The girl's face sobered. "I like him. That is all."

Lawler's eyes were still grave. "Miss Wharton," he said slowly; "do you
know what Gary Warden is doing--what the company with which your father
is connected, is doing?"

"Yes," said the girl, frankly; "they--all of them--are trying to control
the western cattle market." She looked straight at him, with no sign of
embarrassment.

"That is business, isn't it? It is what men are beginning to call 'big
business.' It means centralization of power, resources--and a number of
things that go with it. It is an admirable scheme--don't you think? It
eliminates uncertainty, risk of loss. It means the stabilizing of the
cattle industry; it means gigantic profits to the men who have brains
big enough to control it."

Lawler smiled. "Also, Miss Wharton, it means the complete subjection of
the cattle raiser. It means that competition will be stifled; that the
cattle owner will be compelled to take what prices the buyers offer. It
means that the incentive to raise cattle will be destroyed. It means the
end of the open market--which has always been a spur to industry. It is
evil."

The girl laughed. "How tragic!" she mocked. "One would think we were
facing a cataclysm, whereas business men are merely just beginning to
take advantage of some of the opportunities that are everywhere around
them. It is all perfectly legal, isn't it? I have heard my father say
that it is."

Lawler's smile grew slightly bitter. He saw that the girl's mind was
merely skipping over the surface of the commercial sea upon which her
father sailed a pirate craft; she had not plunged into the depths where
she might have found the basic principles of all business--fairness; she
had taken no account of the human impulse that, in just men, impels them
to grant to their fellows a fighting chance to win.

Watching her closely, Lawler saw in her the signs of frivolity and
vanity that he had failed to see that day when he had met her in
Willets. Her attitude now revealed her as plainly as though he had known
her all her days. She comprehended none of life's big problems; the
relations of men to one another had not compelled her attention; the
fine, deep impulses of sympathy had not touched her. She was selfish,
self-centered, light, inconsequential--a woman who danced from under the
burdens of life and laughed at those who were forced to bear them for
her.

And yet she was a woman, demanding respect from his sex. He smiled as
he turned from her to fix the fire, wondering at the courage that had
driven her to ride to the cabin in the storm. His smile broadened when
he remembered she had said she sympathized with the "cows"--that motive,
while not a high one, was as good as another since the pursuing of it
had meant good for him in the end.

"Do _you_ like this country?" she asked, as he turned.

"It isn't a half bad place. If it wasn't for some persons--and
northers----"

She laughed. "There are bad people everywhere. As for the 'norther'--I
enjoyed it very much until--until it got so bad that I just couldn't see
where I was going. I began to be afraid that I was lost and that I'd
freeze to death. And then I saw the light in the window--a little square
that flickered feebly in the distance, and which sometimes seemed to
disappear completely." She smiled, tremulously.

"It seemed that--after I got here--I was to freeze to death, anyway. For
I couldn't make you hear me. I rode close to the door and pounded on it.
I was afraid to get off, for fear I would fall in that big drift near
the door and not be able to get up again. I was so cold and stiff----"

She hesitated, and Lawler saw tears in her eyes.

It was the reaction, delayed by their talk. Self-accusation shone in
Lawler's eyes as he started toward her.

"I'm a box-head, Miss Wharton, for standing here, talking about nothing
at all, and you nearly freezing to death."

And then he halted, midway of the distance toward her, aware that he
could do nothing when he did reach her. And her manner warned him of
that, too, for she pulled the blanket closer around her and crowded as
far back into the bunk as she could get, looking at him with embarrassed
eyes.

"If you could get your clothes fixed," he began. "You see, Miss Wharton,
there wasn't much time, and we had to get them off mighty rapid. You can
see that we were none too gentle about it."

She blushed, and he abruptly turned his back and walked to the
fireplace. He stuck close to it until he heard her say:

"Won't you please hang my stockings up somewhere? They are so wet I
can't get them on."

The stockings, wet and limp, fell close beside him. He snatched them up,
grinning widely, though fearful that she might see the grin, and
carefully laid them over the back of a chair, pulling the chair close to
the fire.

Then he got out a frying-pan and began to prepare supper for her. When
the aroma of the sizzling bacon was wafted to her, he heard her exclaim:

"U-um, that smells good! Why, I am almost famished!"

Five minutes later, with a plate in her lap and a cup of steaming coffee
resting on the rail of the bunk, she was eating. Her eyes were bright
and her color high as she watched Lawler, who was seated at the table
with his back to her.

"You don't feel much like talking, do you?"

"No," he said. "According to the way this norther is whooping it up
we'll run out of talk before we can break trail out of here."

"Do you mean that the storm may last some days?"

"There is no telling. At this time of the year they are mighty
uncertain. I've known them to stick around for a month or more."

She sat very silent, and for a time did not even move her lips. Stealing
a swift glance at her, expecting to see a worried light in her eyes,
Lawler noted that there was a slight--a very slight smile on her lips.

He was amazed, incredulous, and he stole another glance at her to make
certain. There was no denying it--there was a smile in the eyes that
were gazing meditatively past him into the fire; a smile on her
lips--giving him proof that the prospect of remaining alone in the cabin
with him had not crushed her--had not brought the hysterical protests
that he had feared. She was plainly pleased, possibly considering the
thing an adventure which would have no damaging consequences.

With a malice in his eyes that she did not see--for he looked gravely at
her, he said, slowly:

"Listen, Miss Wharton!"

He raised a hand and looked at the north window. Following his gaze she
saw the snow whipping against the glass, rattling against the panes like
small hailstones hurled with frightful velocity. The incessant droning
whine of the wind reached their ears, deep in volume as though it would
tell them of its interrupted sweep across the vast plains; as though to
convince them of its unlimited power and ferocity. She knew as well as
he that the big drifts around the cabin had grown bigger; that other
drifts were forming around the walls. For the sounds were muffled, and a
great, weird calm had settled inside the cabin. The walls, snow-banked,
were deadening outside sound.

"A man couldn't go half a mile in that, now, Miss Wharton. And it will
be days before anybody can reach us. I am afraid we are in for a long
spell of monotony."

"Well," she said, gazing straight at him; a glow in her eyes that
puzzled him; "we can't help it, can we? And I suppose we shall have to
make the best of it."

Lawler, however, did not expect the storm to last more than a day or so.
They seldom did, at this time of the year. He had drawn the gloomy
picture merely in an attempt to force Miss Wharton to realize the
indelicacy of her position. He had thought she would have exhibited
perturbation. Instead, she was calm and plainly unworried.

Puzzled, Lawler leaned an elbow on the table and scowled into the fire.
There was no apparent reason why he should object to remaining in the
cabin with a pretty woman who did not seem eager to leave it. And yet he
was afflicted with a grave unrest.

Givens and Link were in the dugout, and presently they would return to
the cabin. They would have to remain in the cabin, for it would be
inhuman of him to compel them to stay very long in the dugout with the
horses. Thus was Miss Wharton shielded against the impropriety of
staying for any length of time in the cabin with him, alone.

But the safeguard of propriety was also a danger. Because Link had
permitted a certain light to glow in his eyes Lawler had knocked him
down. If the four of them were to remain in the cabin for any length of
time, there would be periods when he must sleep. And then Link----

Lawler's thoughts broke off here, for he heard a sound at the
door--Givens' voice, saying hoarsely:

"For God's sake, Boss, let us in! We're freezin' to death!"

Lawler got up and walked to the door. He hesitated as he lifted the bar,
telling Miss Wharton to wrap the blanket tightly around her in
anticipation of the rush of wind. When he saw that she obeyed him, he
swung the door open.

As Lawler opened the door he stepped back with it, escaping by inches
the sweep of an axe blade that caught the light from the lamp and
shimmered brightly in a half-circle as it was swung with the malignant
force of Link's arms.

The blade of the axe struck the floor, sinking deep into the boards;
while Link, hurled off balance by the viciousness of his attack, tumbled
headlong after the axe, sprawling on his hands and knees on the cabin
floor, muttering curses.




CHAPTER XX

THE "KILLING"


For an instant following the attack there was no change in the scene
inside the cabin. Surprise that Lawler had escaped his blow seemed to
retard Link's movements quite as much as the force of his fall. For he
floundered on the floor, unable to get his feet under him; while the
bitter wind, howling in through the open door, hurled a blinding
avalanche of white clear to the fireplace. On the floor in the smother
of white was Link, and near him the handle of the axe stuck rigidly
upward, its blade buried deeply in the floor.

Della Wharton had been watching Lawler as he opened the door, and she
had seen what quickly had followed. Now, though a nameless terror had
seized her, she still watched, unable to withdraw her gaze, powerless to
move or to open her lips.

She saw Lawler standing where he had halted when he had opened the
door--one hand grasping the bar that he had lifted when he had drawn the
door back; the other hanging at his side. She saw him dimly through the
driving mist that was between them, but he loomed big, gigantic, as he
stood there, motionless in the instant following the attack, watching
Link.

Then the scene changed swiftly. Link was still on the floor when Givens
leaped into the cabin. He held a heavy piece of cordwood in one hand,
and as he entered the door he paused for an instant, plainly blinded by
the light and the snow. His face was hideous with passion.

Until now, the lamp had been fluttering in the rush of wind. As Givens
stood, trying to peer around him, the light spluttered and went out,
plunging the cabin into a darkness but little relieved by the dull, red
flames in the fireplace.

It was still light enough for the girl to see, however; and she gasped
as she watched Link scramble to his feet and lunge toward the axe. Then
the semi-darkness was rent by a flame streak that started from where
Lawler stood, and the air of the cabin rocked with a deafening roar. She
saw Link go down in a heap, and before she could draw a breath another
lancelike flame darted from the point where Lawler stood. She saw Givens
stagger; heard the heavy piece of cordwood thud to the floor; saw Givens
plunge backward through the door to land in the big drift outside.

Then she huddled down into the bunk, covering her face with her hands,
shuddering, cringing from the horror she had witnessed.

When she again opened her eyes the lamp had been lighted and the door
closed. For a long time she did not move, dreading to peer from the
bunk, lest she see a thing that would remind her of the tragedy.

But when, after a while, she found courage to look, she saw Lawler
standing near the fireplace, looking down into the flames, his back to
her.

The axe, she noted, shuddering, was standing on the floor near the
woodpile; and there was no sign of Link or Givens.

For a long time she was silent, watching Lawler, a dread wonder filling
her. And at last, when the continuing silence began to affect her with
its horrible monotony, she said, quaveringly:

"Did--you--Are they _dead_?"

"Yes," said Lawler, gruffly; "I took them out back of the windbreak." He
wheeled, to look straight at her, his gaze level and somber.

"I had to do it--there was no other way. I'm sorry you had to see it."

That was all. He did not speak to her again. For a long time she watched
him, but he did not change position--standing there, tall, big, seeming
to brood into the dancing flames that cast grotesque figures over the
walls of the cabin.




CHAPTER XXI

CHANCE--AND A MAN


Della must have slept, for when she again opened her eyes the light had
been extinguished and a gray glow was coming through the north window.

Morning had come. She gathered the bedclothes around her and sat up,
glancing around the cabin for Lawler. He must have gone out, for the
heavy wooden bar had been removed from the door--it was standing in a
corner. She suspected Lawler had gone out to care for the horses, and
she hurriedly got out of the bunk, ran to the door and barred it, and
began to dress.

A fire roared in the fireplace, and it was warm in the cabin. But she
noted, with an interest that was almost calm, that the storm still raged
as furiously as the night before. There was this difference. Last night
the wind had been driven against the cabin in fitful blasts, for the
most part; now to her ears there came a ceaseless, droning hum with no
intervals of silence between--a steady, vicious, incessant rushing roar
that made her fear the cabin walls could not long resist it.

When she thought of last night's tragedy it seemed almost remote to
her--a thing that had happened long ago; an incident that time had
robbed of its gruesomeness.

For she saw, now, that it had been inevitable--that Lawler had acted in
self-defense. There had been no other way. She shuddered when she
thought of the ghastly things that were lying under the windbreak; but
her own comfort became instantly paramount, and she drew a chair close
to the fire and enjoyed its welcome warmth while dressing.

After dressing she got up from the chair and walked over to the
chuck-box, smiling as she noted the bulging sides; her eyes glowing with
satisfaction when she lifted the lid and saw the well-filled interior.
She paused before the shelf upon which reposed a supply of canned foods;
and exclaimed with delight when she saw, affixed to the wall near the
door, a piece of broken mirror. She spent some time looking into the
glass, combing her hair with a fragment of comb she found on a shelf
beside the mirror.

She had finished when she heard a knock on the door. She removed the
bar, and when Lawler stepped in, closing the door instantly to keep out
the rush of wind, she was standing in a corner, smiling demurely at him.

His face was grave, and he did not respond to her mood as he stood
there, watching her.

"Well," she said, after a silence, during which his face did not change
expression; "can't you say something complimentary?" She lifted her eyes
challengingly, as though to invite his inspection.

He saw that the tragedy had not affected her as it would have affected
some women--his mother and Ruth Hamlin, for example--though he veiled
the reproof in his eyes with a smile. The vanity she exhibited, her
self-interest, egotism disgusted him.

"You've found the mirror," he said. "Well, you look pretty well slicked
up. What happened last night seems to have affected you very little."

"Why should it?" she demanded, defiantly. "I don't intend to brood over
two men that I did not know--two men who attempted to commit murder! Of
course, it was an awful shock, and all that, but I am not going into
hysterics over it. Besides, I didn't kill them."

Lawler abruptly turned away from her and walked to the fireplace. His
face was pale and his eyes were glowing with contempt. She followed him
as far as the table, her lips in a pout--and stood there watching him,
her gaze mocking, defiant.

He finally turned and looked at her, his lips set in straight lines.

"Yes, I killed them, Miss Wharton," he said, evenly. "Do you know why?"

"Because they seemed determined to kill you--because they attacked you,
I suppose," she returned.

"You are wrong, Miss Wharton. There was nothing personal in that
killing. Those men were carrying out a principle of the unscrupulous
system you defended in our talk last night. If there had been no system
those men would not have attempted to cut my fence, I would not have
captured them, and they would not have attempted to kill me. Do you see
what I meant last night when I said the system was evil?"

She held his gaze unflinchingly. "Mr. Lawler," she said; "those men had
no orders to kill you--they attempted that because you captured them, I
suppose. And I did not, last night, attempt to defend Gary Warden's
action in sending them here. In fact--if you remember--I came over here
purposely to defeat them."

"But if there was no scheme to control cattle there would have been no
incentive to cut my fence," he said, impatiently.

"Perhaps some other persons would have cut it," she answered; "criminals
are everywhere. Please don't preach to me, Mr. Lawler," she added,
pleadingly. "I--I think you ought to be glad that I came--aren't you?"

He smiled grimly. "Well, I am not going to turn you out into the storm."

Getting out some cooking utensils he began to prepare breakfast. She
watched him for an instant, and then went to the north window, rubbed a
hole through the frost and tried to look out. She could not see more
than a few inches into the white blur that roared against the glass, and
so she turned, sought a chair near the table, and resumed watching
Lawler. And her eyes filled with a warm light as they followed his
movements--noting that he seemed handsomer now than he had appeared when
she had met him that day at the foot of the stairs. And she smiled at
his back, exulting in the continued fury of the storm. For it meant that
she would be alone with him for days--many, perhaps. And she told
herself that she loved Lawler; that she had loved him since the day she
had encountered him at the foot of the stairs leading to Warden's
office. He was wealthy, handsome; and in her code of morals it was no
crime to take advantage of every opportunity that chance presented. And
chance----

Here Gary Warden's face flashed in her mental vision. And she smiled.
For Warden had never thrilled her as this man had thrilled her. Warden
was cold, coarse, gross. This man was vibrant with life, with
energy--there was fire in him. And it had been Warden's scheming that
had sent her to Lawler. She laughed and snuggled contentedly down in the
chair.




CHAPTER XXII

THE WHITE WASTE


Warden and Singleton had been in Willets on the day the storm broke.
They had ridden into town early, and when they saw the low-flying clouds
sweeping down from the north Singleton grinned maliciously, with a
significance that Warden could not mistake.

"Warden, it's goin' to storm," he said.

Warden glanced at the other, understandingly.

"Looks a whole lot like it, Singleton. And we can be more comfortable at
the Two Diamond than in town."

"Right," grinned Singleton. "An' we'd better hit the breeze right now,
for she's comin' fast."

As they mounted their horses in front of the building that contained
Warden's office, the latter looked sharply at Singleton.

"Givens and Link ought to be busy by now. You say your men reported that
the Circle L men stocked Number One line camp yesterday?"

"She's stocked!" laughed Singleton; "Tulerosa an' Denver brought word.
An' the herd was on the big level north of the camp. They'll head
straight for that break because they'll hit it before they hit the
basin. An' Givens an' Link will send 'em through, to hell--an' then
some. An' them damn fools, Davies an' Harris, is layin' in the back
room of the Wolf, paralyzed by that forty-rod that Big Jim Lafflin has
been slippin' over the bar to 'em. They won't know they're alive until
this time tomorrow, an' then they'll be so scared that they'll just keep
right on hittin' the forty-rod for fair! I reckon we've got Lawler
goin', now, the damn maverick!"

Warden and Singleton rode fast, but the storm caught them. Midway on the
ten-mile stretch of plain between Willets and the Two Diamond they
turned their backs to the white smother and sent their horses racing
headlong away from the storm.

"She's a humdinger!" yelled Singleton to Warden as the wind shrieked and
howled about them. "If Givens an' Link git them cattle started they'll
drift clear into Mexico. Three thousand! I reckon that'll set the damn
fool back some!"

The two men had only five miles to ride when the storm struck, and
Singleton was experienced. And yet when they rode into the Two Diamond
stable and dismounted, both men were breathless and tired; their legs
and arms stiff with cold and their faces raw and blue from the bitter
wind that had swirled around them.

"Another five miles of that an' we wouldn't be as active as we are now!"
said Singleton, grimly. "She's got a worse bite than any wind I ever
seen!"

Warden's hands were so cold he could not remove the saddle from his
horse. A Two Diamond man performed that service for him, and for
Singleton. While Warden and Singleton were stamping their feet in an
effort to restore circulation, the Two Diamond man called to them from
the far end of the stable:

"You run into Miss Della?"

Warden wheeled toward the man. "What do you mean, Lefty? What about Miss
Della? Isn't she at the ranchhouse?"

"She rode away about three hours ago--on that big roan of hers. Went to
town, most likely. She didn't say. I reckoned that if she _had_ gone to
town, you'd have run into her."

Warden ran stiffly to the ranchhouse, where he came upon Aunt Hannah in
the kitchen.

"Where's Della?" he demanded, excitedly.

The woman looked at Warden in mild surprise.

"Why, didn't she come with you, Mr. Warden? She told me she intended
to." And then her face blanched at the wild excitement Warden betrayed.

"She isn't with you--you didn't meet her? Oh, she'll be frozen to death
in this terrible storm!"

"Damn you!" cursed Warden, gripping the woman's arm until she cried out
in pain; "didn't I tell you not to let her go alone--anywhere?"

He released the woman and plunged out, running blindly back to the
stable. He collided with Singleton at the stable door. His face was
ghastly, his eyes bulging.

"Della's gone, Singleton!" he gasped. "She went to town. For God's sake,
get those saddles on again! We've got to go back!"

"Warden, it can't be done," said Singleton in a low voice; "you'd freeze
to death before you went a mile. There ain't any man can face that
storm an' live. Man," he added when Warden made a violent gesture of
impatience; "use your reason. We've just come five miles, with the wind
at our backs--an' we're half froze. Lefty just told me that Miss Della
left about three hours ago. If that's the case she's likely in town,
snug an' warm, somewheres. We'd ought to have nosed around a little
before we left, but we didn't, an' mebbe she rode right by your place,
thinkin' to stop in on the way back. You left early, you know. Anyway,
Warden, if she's in town she'll stay there till the storm is over--snug
an' warm. And if she didn't go to town there wouldn't be no use lookin'
for her. Why, man, look out there! you can't see your hand before you!"

Warden raged insanely, stalking back and forth through the stable; and
finally to the ranchhouse again, where he bitterly arraigned Aunt
Hannah. But in the end he stayed in the ranchhouse, close beside a
window, out of which he watched until the night came to shut off his
view of the great, white world.

Over at the Circle L ranchhouse were other anxious watchers--men whose
steady eyes held a haunting gleam of worry, and whose rugged faces grew
grim and long as the days passed and the storm did not abate. From their
bunkhouse they watched, day and night, for the end; their horses ready,
heavy clothing at hand for a plunge into the white waste that stretched
on all sides of them. Had they known which way Lawler had gone when he
left the Circle L they would have searched for him despite the frigid
danger that gripped the world. But Lawler had gone, leaving no word;
and there was nothing the men could do.

Through a window in the Circle L ranchhouse anxious eyes peered
also--those of a gray-haired woman with a kindly, gentle face into
which, as the long days passed, came lines that had not been there
before. And yet in the watching eyes was a gleam of hope--of calm
confidence in the big son who was somewhere in the white waste--a
conviction that he was safe, that he would survive and return to her.




CHAPTER XXIII

A WOMAN'S WILES


From the ceiling of the cabin Lawler had suspended a spare blanket. It
hung between the two tiers of bunks, thus providing a certain privacy
for both Miss Wharton and Lawler.

Lawler had been scrupulously considerate, and with a delicacy that must
have earned her applause--had she been serious-minded--he had sought to
seem unaware or indifferent to the many inevitable intimacies forced
upon them by the nature of their association.

He knew, however, that the girl was secretly laughing at him. Certain
signs were convincing. On the first night of their enforced joint
occupancy of the cabin, she had silently watched him tack the blanket to
the ceiling; and though she had said nothing, he had noted a gleam in
her eyes which had made him wonder if he should not have waited until
_she_ suggested it.

At other times he felt her gaze upon him--her eyes always glowing with
the suggestion of silent mirth. She seemed to be amused over the
delicacy he exhibited--to be wondering at it. Whether she appreciated it
or not he did not know, or care. For he had noted other things that had
increased his contempt of her. She was betraying absolutely no
perturbation over her enforced stay in the cabin with him. On the
contrary, her manner gave him the impression that she was enjoying
herself and not thinking of the future. She was contented with the
present.

Moreover, he could not fail to be aware of her interest in him; for the
many signs were infallible. Glances, the intonations of her voice, a way
she had of standing close to him, of touching his hands or his
shoulders--all was evidence of the guile he had detected in her,
convincing him that she thought him desirable, and that she had decided
to win him.

But vanity in Lawler had long since been ruthlessly overwhelmed by the
serious business of life. He had never had time--in his later years--to
yield to the fatuous imaginings of youth. He had lived a rough, hard
life, in which values were computed by the rule of sheer worth--a life
that had taught him that performance, and not appearances, must be the
standard by which all men and women must ultimately be judged.

Lawler was not flattered by Della Wharton's feminine blandishments. He
was grimly amused--when he was not disgusted; though he continued to
treat her with the utmost courtesy and gentleness, trying to keep her
from divining his emotions.

Also, he had tried to lessen the dread monotony that encompassed them.
There was nothing they could do. Beyond the mechanical tasks of eating,
or of cooking and sleeping, of plunging outside to the water hole for
water, or of caring for the horses and bringing wood for the fire, there
was no diversion except that of talking. And, as the days dragged and
the storm did not abate, even talking began to irk Lawler. There would
be periods during which they would be silent, listening to the howling
and moaning of the wind--hours at a stretch when the cold outside would
seem to threaten, to tighten its constricting circle, when a great awe
oppressed them; when it seemed that the whole world was snowbound, and
that it would keep piling over and around them and all life would be
extinct.

It was on the morning of the tenth day that Lawler began to notice that
the dread monotony and the white, ever-present menace were beginning to
affect the girl. Her face was white and in her eyes was a haunting gleam
of fear. He noted how she clasped her hands; how she nervously twined
and untwined her fingers, and how she kept pushing her chair toward him,
as though for protection.

A swift sympathy seized him; he laughed, lowly, reaching out a hand and
laying it lightly on her shoulder as she started at the sound of his
voice and drew a quick, startled breath.

"Oh!" she said; "will it never end?"

"It can't last much longer, Miss Wharton," he smiled. "It has held on
longer, now, than it should at this season."

The sound of his voice reassured her--it was calm, quiet, confident.
Some color came back into her face, and she smiled.

"I believe I was beginning to get the doldrums," she said.

"That wouldn't be startling, Miss Wharton. Life in a line camp does
become monotonous. It is to be expected. It becomes tragic. Also, it has
a humorous side--viewed from a distance--chiefly afterward. In the
fall, men go into line camps fast friends. We always pair them that way.
Any other method would be fatal, for when the men come out in the spring
they invariably are deadly enemies. You can imagine what would happen if
we sent into a line cabin two men who did not think well of each other."

She shuddered and snuggled closer to him, letting her head fall to his
shoulder. A pulse of pity stirred him, and he permitted her head to stay
where she had laid it, while he gently smoothed her hair.

He would have done as much for any woman in her position; the emotion
that filled him was entirely that of pity. She was vain and
frivolous--employing every artifice, but she was a woman despite that,
and entitled, in the present circumstances, to what comfort and sympathy
he could give her.

However, to Della, the moment of victory was at hand. She _had_ been a
trifle worried just an instant before; and the white world outside _had_
seemed to threaten to rush in and crush out her life--the life she loved
so well--and she had been just a little afraid.

But she had not been too frightened to note Lawler's sympathy--the quick
glow in his eyes, and the atmosphere of tenderness that suddenly seemed
to envelop him. It was surrender, she thought, the breaking down of that
quiet, steady reserve in him which had filled her with resentment.

She caught his free hand and held it tightly, while she turned her head
so that she could look into his eyes.

"Lawler," she said then, in a low voice; "I lied to you."

"Lied?" He stiffened, dropped his hand from her head and looked straight
at her.

She laughed, lightly. "Yes; I lied, Lawler. The day we met in
Willets--you remember? Well, I loved you from that moment, Lawler. You
looked so big and fine and strong. I just couldn't help it. I did
overhear Gary Warden telling those two men to cut the fence; and I
didn't want them to set all those cattle adrift. But I didn't intend to
come here. I started out to find your ranch--the Circle L. I thought I
would find you there, and I knew I wouldn't be able to go back to the
Two Diamond right away--that you would have to keep me at your house
until the storm was over. But I got lost, and when I saw the light in
the window, here, I knew I had better go toward it. But I came because I
wanted to be near you, Lawler. And now--" She laughed and tried to draw
him toward her.

"Of course you are not in earnest, Miss Wharton," he said, slowly, his
voice grave. "Such a confession----"

"It's the truth," she declared, shamelessly, holding tightly to him. "It
is simple, isn't it? I love you--and I came to you. I came, because I
had to--I wanted to. I had been thinking of you--dreaming of you. You
were in my mind all the time.

"And you have been acting dreadfully distant. I had begun to believe
that you didn't like me--that you wished I hadn't come----"

"That would be the truth, Miss Wharton," he interrupted. He grimly
walked to the fireplace, standing with his back to it, looking at her.
He was wondering how he could tell her that she had disgraced her sex;
how he could, without being brutal, tell her how he abhorred women who
pursued men.

Despite the impulse of charity that moved him, he could not veil the
grim disgust that had seized him. It showed in the curve of his lips and
in his eyes.

And Miss Wharton saw it. She had been watching him narrowly
when he walked away from her; she was looking at him now, in resentful
inquiry, her lips tight-pressed. She was puzzled, incredulous.

Then, with their glances locked, she laughed, jeeringly.

"I really don't know how to classify you!" she said, scornfully. "Am I
ugly?"

He smiled grimly. "Far from it," he answered, frankly. "I think," he
added, his gaze still holding hers, "that mere physical beauty doesn't
intrigue my interest. There must be something back of it."

"Character, I suppose," she mocked; "nobility, virtue?"

"I think you have said it," he smiled. "At least I haven't the slightest
desire to like you."

"School teachers are more in your line, I suppose," she jibed.

There was a wanton light in her eyes. The change that had come over her
was startling; and Lawler found himself watching her, trying to
associate this new side of her character with that she had shown before
she had betrayed her real character; she represented a type that had
always been repulsive to him. And, until now, she had fooled him. He had
wasted his politeness, his gentleness, his consideration, and his
delicacy. He understood, now, why she had seemed to laugh at him when he
had endeavored to provide a certain measure of privacy for her; he knew
how she felt at this moment, when she must realize that she had betrayed
herself.

Any further talk between them would be profitless, and so Lawler did not
answer her question. He stood, looking at the north window, which was a
little to one side of her; while she sat staring past him, her lips
straight and hard.

At last she looked up. "What an odd courtship!"

His gaze dropped, met hers, and he smiled.

"Yes--odd," he returned, dryly.

"But I suppose," she said, in a tone equally dry; "that you will make up
for it, after we are married. You will learn to like me."

"Yes; after we are married," he smiled, ironically.

"That will be as soon as we can get to town, I presume," she went on,
watching him with brazen directness. "You see," she explained; "I have
been here with you for about two weeks, you know, and my friends will
ask embarrassing questions. You are so _honorable_ that you cannot
refuse to protect my reputation."

"I am sorry, of course, Miss Wharton. But you should have considered
your reputation before you decided to come here."

"You mean that you won't marry me?" she demanded. She got up and walked
toward him, halting within a pace of him and standing stiffly before
him.

"You have perception, after all, it seems," he said, gravely. "But you
don't understand human nature. No man--or woman--in this section will
see anything wrong in your staying in this cabin with me during the
storm. They will accept it as being the most natural thing in the world.
It was a simple act of humanness for me to take you in, and it entails
no offer of marriage. Perhaps it has been done, and will be done again,
where there is an inclination to marry. It has been done in books, and
in certain sections of the world where narrow-minded people are the
manufacturers of public sentiment. The mere fact that I happened to save
your life does not obligate me to marry you, Miss Wharton. And I do not
feel like playing the martyr."

For an instant it seemed that Della would become hysterical. But when
she looked into Lawler's eyes and realized that mere acting would not
deceive him, she sneered.

"I might have known _you_ wouldn't be man enough to protect me!"

Lawler smiled, but did not answer. And after an instant, during which
Della surveyed him with scorn unspeakable, she strode stiffly to a chair
in a far corner of the room and dropped into it.

Lawler had been little affected. He pitied her because of her perverted
moral sense, which sought an honorable marriage from a wild, immoral
impulse. He pitied her because she was what she was--a wanton who was
determined by scheme and wile to gain her ends. And he shrewdly
suspected that she was not so much concerned for her reputation as she
was eager to achieve what she had determined upon. Defeat to her kind is
intolerable.

"Gary Warden will never marry me if he discovers that I have been here,"
declared Della from the corner.

"You said you did not love Warden, Miss Wharton," Lawler reminded her.
"You wouldn't marry a man you merely liked, would you?"

"We have been engaged for a year. Certainly, I shall marry him. Why not?
But he won't have me, now!"

"Does Warden love you, Miss Wharton?"

"That doesn't concern you!" she snapped.

"No--not in the least. But if Warden loves you, and I went to him and
explained that your being here was accidental----"

"Bah!" she sneered; "you're a fool, Lawler! Do you expect Gary Warden
would swallow _that_! You don't know him!"

"Well," said Lawler, gently; "he need not know. If you are afraid to
face public opinion, to show by your actions that you have nothing to be
ashamed of, I'll take you to the Circle L, just as soon as we can get
through. We'll time ourselves to get there at night. No one need know,
and you can tell Warden that you were caught in the storm and drifted to
the Circle L, where you stayed with my mother. I can come back here and
no one will ever know the difference."

"I don't want to see your mother!" she sneered. "I'd be afraid she would
be something like you! Ugh! I hate you!"

"There is only one other way," smiled Lawler. "I know Keller, the owner
of the Willets Hotel, very intimately. I can take you there, at
night--after the storm breaks. No one need know. You can say you were at
the hotel all the time. And Keller will support your word."

"I presume I shall have to go to Willets--since I have to lie!" she
said, wrathfully.

"Yes," said Lawler incisively; "it takes courage to be truthful, Miss
Wharton. But if a person always tells the truth----"

"Shut up!" she said savagely; "you make me sick!" She glared malignantly
at him. "Ugh, I positively loathe you! I must have been crazy when I
thought I saw something in you!" She paused for an instant to get her
breath, and then she resumed, vindictively:

"I hope they arrest you for killing those two men--Link and Givens. I
hope they hang you. And they will hang you, because you can't prove you
acted in self-defense. You'll be sorry you didn't marry me when you
realize that I might have saved you by telling the truth about the
fight!"

"Well," he said; "you can't testify without admitting you were here, you
know."

"And I will never tell!" she declared; "I will never admit it!" she
added, exultingly. "You'll change your mind about marrying me--you'll
have to, to save your neck!"

Lawler shook his head negatively.

"You wouldn't marry me to save your life?" asked the girl,
incredulously.

"Not to save my life, Miss Wharton."

"Well," she said slowly; "you're a damned fool!"

Lawler smiled and turned away. He heard Della moving about in the cabin,
but he did not look around.

But later, after there had been a deep silence for a time, he ventured a
backward glance. During the day he had kept the dividing blanket rolled
up out of the way, fastening it with two loops that he had suspended
from the ceiling. The blanket was now down--it was the first time Della
had touched it.

Lawler smiled, pulled a chair over near the fireplace, rolled a
cigarette, and puffed slowly at it, reflecting that life in the cabin
would now be more monotonous than ever.

Della did not get out of her bunk during the day. She ate nothing, nor
did she reply to Lawler when he invited her to partake of the food he
had prepared.

Late that afternoon Lawler noted a glow of light coming through the
north window. He went to the door, opened it and looked out. The snow
had ceased and the wind had gone down. Far over in the west a cold sun,
hanging its rim on a mountain peak, bathed the world with a shimmering,
glittering, blinding light.

Lawler went outside and shielding his eyes with his hands, peered out
over the gleaming waste. He noted that the snow had drifted much, but
that there were ridges where no snow had settled, as well as vast
sections of plain where the wind had swept the snow clear. There would
be no difficulty in reaching Willets, for the wind that was coming over
the plains now was mild--almost warm.

He went inside, told Della, and began to make preparations for the ride.
And later that night, moving swiftly northward, under straggling clouds
that obscured the moon, the two journeyed--Della swathed in clothing
that assured her of warmth, and still preserving a sullen silence;
Lawler riding ahead, breaking trail.




CHAPTER XXIV

DELLA'S HANDKERCHIEF


Dawn was just breaking when Lawler dropped from Red King at the
windbreak near the line cabin. He put the big horse in the dugout,
closed the dugout door and entered the cabin. Then he breathed a sigh of
relief.

There were still some glowing embers in the fireplace, and he soon had a
roaring fire, in front of which he stood for a while, meditating.

He had got Della Wharton into the Willets Hotel without, he felt
certain, attracting attention. For when they had ridden into
town--taking the back way in order to avoid any sleepless citizens that
might be about--it was past midnight. Lawler had timed himself to reach
town at about that hour, knowing that with the exception of a brothel or
two, Willets would be dark.

He had been fortunate. At his first knock on the rear door of the hotel,
Keller had appeared; and Keller had instantly grasped the
situation--though he plainly told Della that she was "goin' to a whole
lot of unnecessary trouble." "Why, good Lord, ma'am, I reckon you had a
right to hole up with Lawler! Nobody'd be blamin' you. They's a dozen
men in this town that would make a colander out of anybody that'd hint
things about a deal like that. Lawsy, ma'am, folks has got sense, ain't
they? But if you doubt 'em, I reckon we can take care of you."

Lawler prepared and ate breakfast. It had been a tiresome ride, and
after eating, knowing that there was no occasion for haste in his return
to the Circle L--except that his mother would wonder over his
whereabouts--he stretched out in one of the lower bunks--the one he had
occupied during Della's stay in the cabin.

He had not barred the door; and when, some hours later he awoke, he saw
half a dozen men in the cabin. They were standing near the door,
watching him. Foremost among them was Gary Warden.

Lawler swung around in the bunk and sat on its edge, facing the men.
They were Two Diamond men, for he recognized some of them.

Lawler got to his feet. He saw no friendliness in the faces of the men;
and Warden was pale, scowling.

But Lawler smiled. "Looking for something, boys?" he said.

"We're looking for two men and a woman, Lawler. Have you seen anything
of them?"

"I've seen two men, Warden; but no woman."

Warden's eyes quickened. Some color surged into his face.

"How long have you been here, Lawler?"

"Since the day the storm broke. Davies and Harris went to town for a
spree, and I've been substituting for them."

He felt a savage amusement over Warden's attempt to conceal his
disappointment. He could see that the man was consumed with curiosity
over the outcome of the fence cutting, though he dared not voice it.

"Lawler," said Warden; "we've lost two men--Link and Givens; and Della
Wharton--who was staying at the Two Diamond."

"I've seen no woman, Warden. But I've seen Link and Givens. You'll find
them out by the windbreak. I had to kill them."

Lawler saw the men behind Warden grow rigid; Warden's face grew ghastly.

Lawler's smile had gone. He was coldly alert, watching the men behind
Lawler, aware that his news was a shock to them; divining they would not
hesitate to do violence if an explanation was not quickly offered.

But there was cold malice in Lawler's heart toward Warden; and he stood,
silent, watchful, until Warden recovered from his astonishment. He was
determined to compel Warden to ask the question that, plainly, was in
his mind.

And at last Warden asked it:

"What did you kill them for?"

"I caught them cutting my fence, Warden. At just about the time the
storm struck. I brought them here--after lifting their guns. I intended
to take them to Sheriff Moreton, at Willets. But during the night I sent
them out for wood, and when they re-entered the cabin they attacked
me--Link with an axe, and Givens with a piece of cordwood. You can see
where the axe landed--where it stuck in the floor, when Link missed me
as I opened the door for him."

The door opened and the men filed out, eager to ascertain the truth of
Lawler's story. Warden did not move; but his eyes, the expression of his
face, indicated that he did not doubt Lawler's story. But he sought to
discredit it.

"What would my men cut your fence for, Lawler?"

Lawler laughed. He had no intention of telling Warden about the
confession the men had signed.

"You ought to know, Warden--they were your men."

"Meaning that I sent them to cut the fence?" demanded Warden. His face
was red with a wrath that was plainly artificial, or that had been
aroused over the knowledge that Link and Givens had failed.

"Meaning whatever you choose to think I mean, Warden," said Lawler
coldly. "I'll make my explanations to the sheriff."

Warden had quickly recovered his composure. It was evident from Lawler's
manner that Link and Givens had not talked. He had been afraid they
might have told Lawler that _he_ had ordered them to cut the fence. If
they had talked, Lawler would have mentioned it before this--any man
would, for no man could have resisted the inevitable impulse to exult
over his success in thwarting the men, of bringing confusion upon the
author of the scheme. That was what Warden would have done, and he
believed any man would have done it.

He drew himself erect and walked slowly to the fireplace; where he
halted, turned, and smiled at Lawler--a smile full of malice.

"Your explanation of the killing of Link and Givens is a mighty flimsy
one, Lawler, don't you think? Moreton might want a witness,--eh?"

"There was no witness, Warden." Lawler had not turned. He was watching
the door, for he expected the Two Diamond men to enter at any instant,
and he knew they would deeply resent the killing of their companions. He
did not intend to be taken by surprise.

Warden, standing in front of the fireplace, noted the blanket suspended
from the ceiling, swinging between the two tiers of bunks. He started,
his face paled, and he looked searchingly at Lawler. And then, observing
that Lawler was paying no attention to him, he moved slowly toward one
of the bunks--the one Miss Wharton had occupied--noting the disturbed
bedclothing. A white piece of cloth, crumpled and soiled, lay on a
gray blanket. He took it up swiftly, stuck it into the front of his
heavy coat and turned again toward the fireplace. With his back to
Lawler he swiftly examined the cloth he had picked up. It was a
handkerchief--a woman's--and in one corner of it was an embroidered
monogram containing the letters "D.W." It was Della's--he had seen that
and others like it, many times, in her hands and at the Two Diamond, on
the wash line.

For a long time, with his back to Lawler, Warden fought to control the
terrible jealousy that the finding of the handkerchief had aroused in
him. His face was contorted with passion; his eyes were aflame with it.
He had hated Lawler before; now the passion was a malignant poison that
burned, through his veins like fire.

He did not trust himself to speak--his voice would have betrayed him. He
walked past Lawler, sneering silently as he reached the door, looking
back as he opened it and stood on the threshold, muttering hoarsely:

"You'll hang for this, Lawler--damn you!"

Lawler heard the Two Diamond men ride away, and he went to the door at
the sound they made and saw they were carrying the bodies of Link and
Givens--they were lashed to their horses, which the Two Diamond men had
taken from the dugout. He watched them out of sight.

It was only an hour or so later when Davies and Harris clattered to the
door of the cabin. They were red and embarrassed, and confessed they had
been intoxicated. But they were much relieved when they found that
Lawler had headed the herd into the valley; and they were filled with
rage when Lawler told them of the fence cutting and the killing of the
two men. And they were delighted when Lawler told them to go on duty at
the cabin, not even mentioning their dereliction.

Half an hour after the appearance of Davies and Harris half a dozen
Circle L men rode up, eager-eyed, overjoyed at finding their "boss".
They were covered with snow from their ride up the valley, through the
big drifts they had encountered, but the glow in their eyes when they
saw Lawler was safe indicated they had forgotten the rigors of the ride.

They told him the herd had reached the shelters and that few of the
cattle were missing; and a little later, with Lawler riding with them,
they set out for the Circle L, shouting and laughing like schoolboys.

Shorty, the tawny-haired giant, was with them.

"Cuttin' fences, eh?" he said as he rode close to Lawler. "Well, they're
sort of pickin' on us, I reckon. First there's Blondy Antrim; an' now
Link an' Givens cuttin' the fence. When you goin' to cut loose an' give
'em hell, Boss?"

"Hell is closer than you think, Shorty," said Lawler, gravely.




CHAPTER XXV

IN WHICH A MAN PLOTS


When the storm broke Warden had shown by his actions that he was more
concerned over Link and Givens than over Della Wharton. He had told
Singleton to ride the trail to Willets, to search for the girl, while
himself and several of the Two Diamond men started for the line cabin.
Singleton had left the Two Diamond in the early evening, while Warden
had delayed his departure until after midnight.

Singleton had made good time, and he reached Willets long before
midnight. He made some inquiries, discovering that Della Wharton had not
been seen; and shortly after midnight he was in the low, squatty stable
in the rear of the Wolf Saloon, saddling his horse for the return trip
to the Two Diamond. He was convinced that Della had not come to Willets.

He was about to lead the horse outside when he saw two horsemen riding
through the drifts in the rear of a building near the Willets Hotel. The
light was not good, but Singleton would have recognized Red King in any
light, and he laughed exultantly as he saw the rider dismount.

Singleton abruptly closed the stable door and darted into the shadow of
the stable. Then he crouched, ran low behind a big drift, and gained the
side of a building next to the Willets Hotel. He was close to the two
riders, and he grinned maliciously when he saw that one of them was a
woman.

He heard Lawler knock on the rear door of the hotel; and he crouched in
the shadow of the building until Lawler and the woman entered. But just
before the two entered, Singleton caught sight of the woman's face as
she turned toward him for an instant and the dull light shone upon her.

He watched until Lawler came out again and rode away; and from behind
another building on the other side of the street he saw Lawler going
directly south, which direction would take him to Number One Circle L
line camp.

Then Singleton mounted his horse and followed the trail taken by Lawler.
By the time Singleton struck Lawler's trail, Lawler was out of sight
beyond a low ridge, and Singleton leisurely examined the tracks in the
snow.

He discovered that two sets of tracks led in the direction Lawler was
taking. He followed them for several miles, until there seemed to be no
doubt that Della had been with Lawler at the line camp; then he grinned
and wheeled his horse toward the Two Diamond.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gary Warden was also following the two sets of tracks that led
northward. He had come upon them accidentally, while riding with one of
his men slightly in advance of the others as they went toward Willets,
where Warden intended to take the bodies of Link and Givens. He had said
nothing to his companion regarding the tracks, though he noted the
other saw them also, and was studying them, puzzled.

"Them tracks ain't more'n half a dozen hours old," the man said once,
tentatively. But receiving no answer from Warden he said no more.

In places there were three sets of tracks--two going northward, and one
leading back. Warden, his eyes glowing malevolently, followed them until
they took him into Willets. An hour later, his face flushed with
passion, he was in a little office with Sheriff Moreton, demanding
Lawler's arrest on a charge of murder.

Moreton, a slender man of medium height with a lean, strong face and
keen, penetrating eyes, had listened patiently to Warden's story.

"Lawler told you he killed 'em, eh? Well then, I reckon he must
have--Lawler ain't in the habit of lyin'. You got any witness that
Lawler killed 'em, malicious? You've just got done hintin' that Lawler
said he shot 'em in self-defense. But you say he didn't. One man's word
is as good as another's in law, Mr. Warden--you got to remember that!"

"Then you won't do anything?" snapped Warden.

"I reckon I'll do somethin'," said the sheriff, drawlingly. "I'll have
to see Lawler an' get his side of it. An' if you charge Lawler with
murder, I'll have to bring him in. But I'm warnin' you that if you ain't
got any witnesses to prove your charge, you ain't got no show of
convictin' him. An' Lawler's standin' is pretty high in this country,
Warden--an' don't you forget it!"

Warden smiled derisively. "Well, he seems to have a friend in you,
anyway. I'll investigate a little before I file formal charges."

"It's a good idee--I'd do a lot of it," advised the sheriff. "An' then,
when I'd done a lot of it, I'd do some more--just to be sure I wasn't
bitin' off more than I could chew!"

Warden left the sheriff's office, after turning the bodies of Link and
Givens over to the official. He sent his men to the Two Diamond, and
spent some time at a window in the rear of the Wolf Saloon, examining
hoof prints on the snow in the vicinity of the Willets Hotel, a short
distance from the Wolf. He was in a vicious mood.

He noted that the three sets of tracks he had followed led to the rear
of the hotel. They were clear and distinct, for no other tracks were
near them. His men and himself had evidently been the first to reach
town after the storm had abated--excepting the riders whose tracks he
had followed.

He was still at the window when he heard a step behind him, and saw
Singleton approaching.

Singleton's eyes were gleaming with knowledge. He was breathing fast.

"I met the boys, headin' for the Two Diamond," he said. "They tell me
Lawler downed Link an' Givens--an' that Lawler caught 'em cuttin' the
fence. An' Colter says he was ridin' with you an' that you was followin'
them tracks that led to town from that Circle L line cabin. Well, that
was a hot trail, Warden. She's there--in the hotel!"

"Who?" demanded Warden, his face paling, though he was convinced that
what Singleton would tell him would merely confirm his suspicions.

"Della Wharton!" declared Singleton. He related what he had seen the
night before from the stable in the rear of the Wolf; and he stood tense
and stiff behind Warden as the latter glared out of the window, his lips
in a bestial pout.

Warden spoke at last, his voice dry and light and vibrant with cold
fury.

"No women, Singleton; he told me he'd kill me if I dragged any of his
women into this deal. And now----"

"An' now he's drugged in the woman you've took a shine to," sympathized
Singleton. He scratched his head in puzzlement. "Hell's fire!" he added;
"I didn't think that of Lawler. I ain't never admired the cuss none--a
damned sight less since he walloped me--but I didn't think he'd drag
another man's woman into a cabin like that, an'----"

"Bah! Shut up!" commanded Warden, glaring malignantly at the other.

"Sure; I reckon you don't like to think of it," said Singleton. "It
would rile me some, too."

Aware that this was a matter which would not permit of even suggestion
on his part, Singleton soon found an excuse to take leave of Warden. And
for an hour after Singleton's departure, Warden stood at the window
fighting for his composure. Then, when he had succeeded, he walked out
of the front door of the saloon and made his way down the street to the
Willets Hotel. He told Keller, the proprietor, about Miss Wharton's
disappearance, and he succeeded in simulating an excellent counterfeit
of astonishment when Keller informed him that Miss Wharton was at that
moment up stairs in her room--that she had been at the hotel since the
storm broke. He pretended not to see the flush on Keller's face as he
told the lie; and his greeting to Della was distinguished by calm
casualness.

Later, when Warden told her that the Two Diamond had been lonely without
her, and that the trail was in condition for travel, she readily agreed
to accompany him. And, shortly after noon they rode out of town
together, Warden apparently in the best of humor over finding her safe;
Della elated over the success of the deception.

It was late when they reached the Two Diamond. Several of the men
cheered delightedly when they rode into the ranch yard; and Aunt Hannah
was tearfully grateful.

However, twice during the evening meal, as they sat opposite each other,
Della noted a look of sullen preoccupation in Warden's eyes. And then,
studying him covertly while she ate, she observed that he was paler than
usual; that his lips were straight and stiff, even when he smiled; that
he seemed to have little appetite and was restless and jerky.

Warden was suspicious--that was evident. She had thought, when he had
entered her room at the hotel, that his manner was strange and not
nearly so hearty as it should have been over finding her. He had been
too matter-of-fact and undemonstrative.

She never had loved Warden; she had not even respected him. She had
plumbed his nature and had found him narrow, selfish--even brutal. But
she had permitted him to make love to her occasionally--mildly, for what
doubtful amusement she got out of it, and she had responded merely for
the thrill it gave her to have a man pursue her.

When, after supper, Warden called her into his office and closed the
door behind her, she had steeled herself for any attack he might make.
She was calm, and unmoved by what she saw in Warden's face.

A lamp glowed on Warden's desk, and he motioned her to a chair that
stood beside it, so that when she seated herself the glare of the lamp
was on her face.

While she sat there, a little malice in her heart for Warden--because he
had dared to suspect her--he moved toward her and without saying a word
laid before her the handkerchief he had found.

She took it up deliberately, looked at it, and as deliberately stuck it
into her belt.

"It's mine, Gary," she said.

"I found it in a bunk at a Circle L line camp, occupied during the storm
by Kane Lawler. I thought perhaps you would like to explain how it got
there."

"I left it there, Gary--I forgot it."

"You admit you were there?"

"Certainly. Why should I deny it? Do you want to know why I went there,
Gary?"

"I'd like to know, of course," said Warden. He was standing, tense, his
eyes glowing with passion that he was trying to control; his face
ashen.

"I started for the Circle L. I wanted to see Lawler. You didn't know
that I had met him one day at the foot of the stairs leading from your
office, in town. Well, I did, Gary; and I fell in love with him."

She heard Warden's gasp; saw his eyes glow into hers with a jealous fury
that seemed to threaten to drive him to violence.

"Bah; don't be silly, Gary," she admonished coldly. "You know I never
have cared for you in the way you wanted. I shall have to respect the
man I marry, and I never could respect you, Gary. You are too--too much
as you are now. You'd like to punish me, physically; you'd like to hurt
me, in some way--if you could. You'll never be a lover to any woman,
Gary--you are too insincere. You never have loved me; you have merely
been flattered over having me near you. And it is only your vanity that
is hurt, now."

Warden laughed unpleasantly; though she knew from the expression of his
eyes that he knew she had spoken truthfully.

"Well--go on," he said, shortly.

"That is all, Gary," she laughed. "Except that I got lost and went to
the cabin instead of the house. Lawler was there; we were both
there--for ten days. And then, because I didn't want my reputation to
suffer, I had Lawler take me to the hotel at night, to make it appear
that I had been there all the time. Interesting, isn't it?"

"Very," said Warden. "I think I understand. But why didn't Lawler marry
you to save your reputation--if you loved him so much?"

Her smile was shallow and hard.

"I expect Lawler thought my reputation didn't need saving--or wasn't
worth it. For he refused me, point blank."

"Gallant--eh?" mocked Warden.

She laughed. "Well, I don't know that I blame him. I have thought,
since, that I went at it very crudely. I should have played the innocent
instead of doing what I did. He's wary as a serpent, Gary, and wise."

"Do you still love him?"

Her eyes flashed spitefully. "I hate him, now! I think I was merely
infatuated. I thought it was love, but I can see now that it wasn't. I
don't think I ever really have loved a man, Gary."

Warden laughed. He knew she had told him the truth--he could see truth
in her eyes.

"He killed Link and Givens," said Warden. "Did you see it?" At her nod
he went on: "Just how did it happen?"

She told him, and he evinced disappointment. Then, during a silence, he
watched her keenly, a gleam of craft in his eyes.

"How much do you hate him, Della?"

Her eyes narrowed and she regarded him steadily, noting the subtle glow
in his eyes. She smiled, with sinister understanding.

"You want me to swear that he killed those two men wantonly, Gary--is
that it?" She laughed mirthlessly; "I would do it if--if I didn't have
to risk my precious reputation."

"You won't risk your reputation," exulted Warden. "I'll fix that. We
don't want to charge him openly with the murder--and he can't be
convicted without evidence. What we want to do is to hold a threat of
exposure over him--to fix him so that he won't ever be able to run for
an office in this state--as he intends to. For they are grooming him,
right now. And the governor is back of the scheme to break him--you know
that. If you'll sign a statement to the effect that you were a witness
of the murder, and that Lawler was the aggressor, I'll hold it over him,
and we'll make him get down off his hind legs and be good. When I show
him the statement you can be sure he will never want to stand trial. And
we won't force him. We'll let the court at Willets examine him; and
they'll have to let him off."

"It would be satisfying--wouldn't it, Gary?" she said, after a time.

"You're a brick, Della!" he laughed.

She got up and stood beside him as he wrote. And Warden did not see the
designing light in her eyes as she watched him. And her smile, as she
signed her name to what he had written, was inscrutable--containing much
knowledge of Warden's motives, and concealing still more of her own.

In her room, while undressing, she laughed.




CHAPTER XXVI

A MENACE APPEARS


Sheriff Moreton waited for Warden to act, as he had promised. And the
sheriff continued to wait. For Warden did not appear with his evidence.
It seemed that the power behind Warden had called a truce; that it had
been disconcerted by its failures, and was waiting--slowly marshaling
its forces for another assault. But the power was working secretly, if
it worked at all, for during the winter there were no visible signs
which would indicate activity on the part of Lawler's enemies.

Nature seemed to wait, also. The country, between storms, lay bare and
naked, bleakly barren where the winds swept; somber in the valleys, with
desolation reigning on the coldly gleaming peaks of the hills and the
distant mountains.

Willets was somnolent, lethargic. Occasionally a canvas-covered wagon
rumbled over the frozen windrows of the town's one street, and rumbled
out again, loaded with supplies for a distant ranch; or a group of
cowboys, in search of diversion, came into town for a night. But these
visitations were so infrequent as to create no disturbance in the dull,
slumberous routine of Willets' citizens.

Warden and Della Wharton, accompanied by Aunt Hannah, had taken a
west-bound train shortly after Miss Wharton's adventure in the Circle L
line cabin. It was whispered they had gone to the capital for the
winter.

Sheriff Moreton had ridden over to the Circle L, to quiz Lawler about
the killing of Link and Givens.

"The coroner's verdict didn't incriminate no one," said Moreton. "I told
him some Two Diamond men had found the bodies down south a ways, an'
that they wasn't no evidence to show who'd done for 'em. Now, Lawler, if
you'd give me a straight story I'd be obliged to you."

Lawler gave him a "straight" story, merely omitting mention of Miss
Wharton.

"Cut your fence, eh?" muttered the sheriff, gruffly; "well, I reckon
they got what was comin' to 'em!"

Lawler had ridden over to the Hamlin cabin twice, making his visits
short, for he saw the embarrassment in Ruth's eyes, over what he had
done for Hamlin.

A change had come over Hamlin. His eyes held a straightforward gleam
that had not been in them for a long time; he held his head erect, his
step was springy and full of reliance. He seemed rejuvenated, imbued
with a new spirit. Several times Lawler saw Ruth's eyes following him
with pleasure; though she blushed when she caught Lawler watching her.

When the mild winds of spring began to sweep across the wide levels, and
the sun began to shed its welcome warmth over the land, Lawler rode
again to the Hamlin cabin. This time there was an anxious light in
Hamlin's eyes; and Ruth was pale and worried.

"There's been strange doin's around here, lately, Lawler," Hamlin said
when Lawler questioned him. "If you hadn't rode over today, I was
intendin' to sneak over to the Circle L an' tell you about it.

"The other night I was ridin' north--near Bolton's Shallow--where the
old trail crosses, leadin' to Kinney's cañon. There's some new grass
there, an' my cattle is dead set on gettin' it. I'd got 'em, an' started
back with 'em--easin' 'em down that little gully near the river--an'
bein' plumb out of sight from the shallow--when I seen a trail herd
comin'--_west_!

"Lawler, I watched 'em. I seen 'em cross the river, still headin' west,
easin' off a little to the south. They was above me, an' they was a glow
in the north, behind 'em--an' they stood out plain an' clear. An' so did
the men that was with 'em, drivin'.

"Lawler, they was more'n fifty men drivin' them cattle--mebbe five
hundred head. An' they had three wagons, an' a _remuda_ with about a
hundred head in it!

"They was takin' their time. I rode back a ways, an' then got off my
horse an' sneaked up close to the shallow. An' I seen all the men,
clear. I waited until they got a good start, an' then I trailed 'em.
They brought up at the Rabbit Ear, at that old house of Rud
Dickman's--who cashed in three or four years ago, leavin' nobody behind
him."

Lawler nodded. He knew the place. Dickman had been a nester, and since
his death no one had occupied the house, and no one had come to claim
his land.

"Well?" said Lawler, as Hamlin paused.

"Lawler," said Hamlin, gravely; "there's goin' to be hell to pay in this
section. Them men turned their cattle into the grass around there, an'
put a night guard over them. They emptied their wagons and toted the
stuff into the house. They fixed up the corral fence an' turned their
horses into it. They brought lamps an' stoves for the bunkhouse an' the
cabin--an' bunk stuff an' tables an' such. They're figurin' to stay
there. An', Lawler--they're _Blondy Antrim an' his gang of
cutthroats_!"




CHAPTER XXVII

EVIDENCE


When Gary Warden stepped off the east-bound train at Willets one evening
in April--to be met by Singleton, who had been apprised of the day of
his coming and who had been in town for two days waiting--there was an
expectant smile on his face.

A change seemed to have come over the town. The winter lethargy had been
shaken off and Willets was a throb with life and activity. There was a
warm wind blowing, bearing the breath of the new sage; doors were open;
many horses were hitched to the rails that fringed the walk in front of
saloons and stores; and there was over it all an atmosphere that seemed
to be vital, electric.

Warden drew Singleton over to a corner of the station platform, from
where, between two buildings, they had a clear, unobstructed view of the
street.

"Della Wharton didn't come?" asked Singleton.

"No," laughed Warden; "she stayed over for a reception at the governor's
mansion, tonight. She'll be here tomorrow." He leaned close to
Singleton, whispering:

"Are Blondy and his men settled?"

"Settled!" Singleton laughed deeply. "You might call it that. Blondy an'
his gang are runnin' this man's town, right now! They've got Moreton
scared, looks like! He's layin' mighty low, an' keepin' his trap shut.
Blondy's got a mighty tough gang--a bunch of hoppin', howlin'
tarantulas, straight from hell! Blondy's still raw from that deal Lawler
handed him when he brought him here an' dumped him down on the platform,
tellin' you Blondy was his 'vent.' Blondy swears he'll kill Lawler for
that, an' I'm bankin' that he makes a strong play for a killin'. There's
red in Blondy's eyes when he talks about Lawler!"

Warden smiled evilly. "That's Lawler's lookout," he said, venomously;
"he ought to be man enough to take care of himself. Let's take a look
around."

With Singleton beside him, Warden visited half a dozen saloons and dance
halls; smiling as he noted the bepistoled cowboys who were swaggering in
and out of doorways and on the sidewalk--strangers to him, but not to
Singleton, who grinned and nodded to them as they passed.

Warden spent the night in town. And after midnight, in a room at the
rear of the Wolf Saloon--when the sounds of the night's revelry were
becoming fainter--he sat at a table with Singleton and Blondy Antrim,
talking in low tones.

       *       *       *       *       *

At eight o'clock in the morning Warden stepped into the door of Sheriff
Moreton's office.

Warden's face was pale, and he smiled mirthlessly at Moreton, who was
standing near a desk looking over some papers.

Moreton looked keenly at his visitor. "You're back, eh?" he said,
shortly.

"Back to perform a solemn duty, Moreton," said Warden. "I have the
evidence I spoke to you about. It's too bad, but we are all bound to see
that justice is done. I don't like to take this step, for Lawler is a
distinguished citizen despite some mighty bad habits, and I don't like
to be the one to charge him with that crime."

"Uh-huh," grunted Moreton; "I can see that you're about ready to break
down an' bawl right out in meetin'. But I wouldn't do no more
fourflushin' in here--it ain't healthy. Where's your evidence?"

Warden laid Della Wharton's written statement on the desk at the
sheriff's hand. He watched while Moreton read; he saw Moreton's face
whiten; saw his hand tremble a little as he folded the paper and put it
into a pocket.

Then he looked straight at Warden.

"I don't believe a damned word of it, Warden!" he said, his eyes
blazing. "If that woman was in that cabin with Lawler durin' the storm
she kept it mighty quiet. An' Lawler didn't say a word about it when I
rode over to see him a couple of months ago!" He glared at Warden.
"Where's that Wharton woman, now?"

"She'll get to town this afternoon," Warden said.

"Well, she'll have to swear to this, Warden. I can't afford to act on
this--mebbe it ain't her signature."

"Meaning that I forged it?" smiled Warden.

"Meanin' what you damned please!" snapped Moreton. "I ain't actin' in
this case till that woman swears she seen what she claims to have
seen."

"She'll swear to it," said Warden, confidently. "Meantime, I'd advise
you to have a talk with Keller. Ask him who brought Della Wharton to the
hotel, and what time she got there." Warden smiled. "I'll see you later,
Sheriff."

Warden went to his office; and, after a time, Moreton strode slowly to
the Willets Hotel, where for a long time he talked with Keller.

When Moreton emerged from the hotel after the talk with Keller his brows
were furrowed and his lips were in a pout. He spent most of the day
sitting in his office, glaring moodily out into the street; and when he
heard the east-bound train rumble in late in the afternoon he drew a
deep breath and got up, muttering lowly:

"It looks mighty like it--for a fact. But Lawler--Oh, hell!"

Within fifteen minutes after the arrival of the east-bound train,
Moreton was sitting at the desk in his office, studying Miss Wharton's
face.

Della had been met at the train by Warden--who now stood just inside the
door of the office, watching her, admiring her self-possession.

For Della was calm and deliberate. There was, to be sure, a paleness
around her mouth that was not there at other times; and her lips were
set rather tightly. Moreton saw those indications of mental stress--but
they were no more pronounced than they should be in any woman who had
come to swear she had witnessed murder.

And Della swore to the statement she had made. She answered Moreton's
questions in a low voice, telling him she regretted having to answer
them--begging him to keep the matter as secret as possible, for she
abhorred publicity.

After Moreton had administered the oath, Della and Warden went out; and
for many minutes Moreton sat at his desk with his chin on his chest,
staring at the desk top.

He finally got up, buckled on his cartridge belt and pistol, went out,
mounted his horse and rode southward.

       *       *       *       *       *

Inside the sheriff's office, Warden took leave of Della Wharton,
pressing her hand warmly, telling her that she had been "great." Della
smiled shallowly, not responding to Warden's hand pressure. Her face had
grown white and there was a glow in her eyes that she did not permit
Warden to see.

Warden left her, telling her she would find her horse in front of his
office--where Singleton had brought it. Warden's expressions of regret
that he could not accompany her to the Two Diamond were received in
silence. Business would keep him in town for a day or so, he said.

Warden went toward the Wolf, and Della walked down the street to her
horse, mounted and rode through mounds of back-yard refuse to the rear
of the Willets Hotel. She got a man out to stable her horse, and a few
minutes later she was in the room she had occupied on the night Lawler
brought her to town from the line cabin. She was still pale, but now
there was a smile on her lips.




CHAPTER XXVIII

THE TRAIL HORDE


From the front windows of the Wolf Saloon, Slade, the violent-mannered
rider whom Blondy Antrim had left in charge of his men the night he had
ridden away from the desert camp fire to hold a conference with Lawler
near the trail herd, had watched Sheriff Moreton lope his horse into the
soft southern twilight.

Slade was a young man, tall, swarthy, reckless-eyed. He was keen,
cynical, and jealous of the power and authority of Antrim. He grinned at
Warden, who was standing near, also watching Moreton.

The grin was crooked, expressing reluctance.

"Well the Law is hittin' the breeze, an' I reckon, accordin' to orders,
we'll be hittin' it, too."

He left Warden and walked to the bar, where he spoke lowly to several
men. Then he walked into a rear room, where several other men were
playing cards, and repeated his words. The men ceased playing and
followed him to the front door.

Half an hour later, when Sheriff Moreton had vanished into the growing
dusk, Slade and the men to whom he had spoken, went outside, clambered
upon their horses and rode slowly in the direction taken by the sheriff.

There were a score of them--rough-looking characters with eyes as
reckless as those of the man who led them; and they were silent as they
rode, as though on some stealthy mission.

They did not follow Moreton far; they veered eastward slightly after
they had traveled several miles, and finally came to a trail that
paralleled a small river, which they rode for a time.

Darkness came while they rode, and the twinkling points of stars grew
brighter in the cold blue of the sky--millions of them appeared,
distant, winking, shedding a luminous haze over the land.

After a time the riders reached a level near the river, and some low
buildings loomed out of the haze. A light glowed through a window in one
of the buildings--the largest--and toward this the men rode, dropping
from their horses at the door and filing silently inside.

In a big room, from which came the light the riders had seen, were many
other men.

Antrim, his bronzed face almost the hue of copper in the glare from the
lamp that stood on a table, was sitting in a chair near the door. Some
of the men inside were on their feet, expectant, suspicious. They
grinned when they recognized the newcomers, calling variously to them in
greeting.

Antrim got to his feet when he saw Slade at the door, looking at him
expectantly. When Slade grinned, telling Antrim that Moreton had ridden
south, Antrim's eyes glittered with satisfaction.

"Selden!" he ordered, sharply; "you slope for the Circle L trail an'
watch it! When you see Moreton an' Lawler headin' toward town, you fan
it here in a hurry!"

A tall man with two guns sagging at his hips leaped to the door and
plunged out. In the silence that followed his departure, they could hear
the thudding of hoofs that marked his going.

Antrim grinned coldly around at the other men.

"We'll clean up on Lawler tonight, boys," he said. "We've got to work
fast!"

He stood, boldly outlined in the light, a sinister figure. His cruel
lips were set tightly, his eyes were agleam. He was a symbol of passion,
rampant and unrecking--a wild, violent spirit to whom laws were irksome
shackles.

He grinned at Slade, mockingly, naked malevolence in his gaze. His voice
was harsh, vibrant.

"Slade, tonight you're goin' to get what you've been waitin' for--the
leadership! Ha, ha!" he laughed as he saw Slade's face work with the
bitter rage that instantly seized him. "You thought I didn't know you
wanted my place--eh? Bah! I've known it for a year. You're ambitious,
eh? Well, listen!

"Tonight you're leadin' this little party. You're to run off them cattle
of Lawler's--three thousand head--which he euchered me out of last fall.
You're takin' three thousand head, Slade--not a one less. If you take
less you're through with me. You'll run 'em down through Kinney's cañon,
clear through to the big basin beyond. At the other end you'll head 'em
south, to Mexico--where we've been runnin' 'em for three years past.
You'll take a receipt for them from a guy named Miguel Lomo, who will
be waitin' for you at Panya--where you knifed that Oiler last summer.
Warden arranged that.

"You'll post a dozen men in Kinney's cañon, to drop anyone that follows.
There's goin' to be no excuses, or you settle with me--afterward.
Understand?"

Slade's eyes glared with savage triumph and defiance. He grinned
felinely at the other, and when he spoke there was cold, taunting
contempt in his voice.

"I'm doin' it, Antrim! I'm tickled to get the chance. But where are you
goin' to be tonight?"

Antrim flushed darkly. He laughed. "I'm figurin' to do a man's
work--tonight or tomorrow, Slade. Somethin' that you ain't got nerve
enough to do--I'm goin' to face Kane Lawler when he's riled, with a gun
in his hand! I'm goin' to down him right here in this room!"

Slade started, his face paled. He laughed mirthlessly.

"Well," he said, watching Antrim keenly; "if he's as fast as he used to
be--before gettin' to be a big guy in this neck of the woods tamed
him--you'll have to be lightnin'--an' then some!"

He wheeled, and went out of the door, where he stood, looking toward the
plains on the other side of the river, grinning derisively.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two hours later Selden clattered to the door of the cabin and
dismounted, conveying the news that Moreton and Lawler were riding
north, toward Willets. And within a few minutes after the appearance of
Selden, Slade and forty-eight of Antrim's men rode swiftly, scurrying
into the star haze, straight into the south wind that swept out of the
Wolf River valley.

The men rode close together for more than an hour, until they reached
the crest of the big valley, where they halted, closely massed, and
scanned the semi-gloom in front of them.

The big valley was silent, somber. There was no movement in it. Looking
down from the crest the Antrim men could see the dim outlines of the
Circle L buildings; and they had no trouble in distinguishing the
ranchhouse, out of which through a window, a feeble glimmer of light
came. The other buildings were dark.

One of the men laughed raucously, as he pointed out the light. "That's
mebbe Lawler's old woman, settin' up, wonderin' what her boy's been
grabbed by the law for," he sneered. "Well, she'll be wonderin'
more--after Blondy gits through with him."

Slade chuckled, but said nothing. He was hoping that by this time on the
morrow Antrim would have discovered that Kane Lawler could "sling" a gun
with the speed and accuracy he had used in the old days.

Far down in the valley, Slade pointed out the cattle. They were
scattered a little, as though perfunctorily guarded, but still massed
enough to make the task of rounding them up comparatively simple to the
big group of men in Slade's company.

"There ain't more'n half a dozen men ridin' night herd down there," said
Slade as he pointed out the forms of several horsemen in the vicinity of
the herd; "an' likely enough they ain't watchin' a hell of a lot." He
issued some orders, and the group on the crest of the valley split up.
Some of them rode west along the edge of the valley, where there was a
fringe of juniper and post oak to conceal them; others slid down into
the valley directly toward the herd, keeping in the tangled growth that
featured the sloping sides of the great hollow. They were adept at this
work, and they moved like shadows until they reached the wide floor of
the valley.

Then, spreading out, fanwise, a number of them swinging far around the
herd so that they approached it from the west, they closed in.

There was no longer any attempt at concealment. A shot from Slade's
pistol was the signal for a violent dash that instantly set the big herd
in motion. As the attack came from the west the cattle moved eastward,
bleating and bellowing with surprise. They moved slowly at first, as
though confused by the suddenness of the rush--milling in bewilderment;
detached numbers dashing here and there in wild affright.

Concerted movement came when the strange horsemen began to flank them.
Eastward there was open ground, with no dashing, shooting men to bar
their progress, and eastward they went, a dark mass that moved with
exceeding swiftness straight up the valley.

The few cowboys who had been riding night herd made a feeble, astonished
resistance. There were several shots, frenzied cries of rage and pain;
and then nothing but the thunderous rumble of hoofs; the shouts of the
driving rustlers; scattered shots and the clashing of horns. A vast
dust cloud ballooned above the herd; and five riderless Circle L horses
trotted aimlessly about, snorting with fright.

The big herd had gone with the suddenness of a cyclone. It went,
rumbling up the valley, the dust cloud hovering over it, blotting out
its movements. It roared past the Circle L bunkhouses, leaving behind it
a number of Circle L cowboys who had been awakened by the thunderous
noise. The Circle L men had plunged outside in various stages of
undress--all bootless, unprepared, amazed, and profane.

"Stampede!" yelled a hoarse voice.

"Stampede--hell!" shouted another. "It's rustlers! That damn Antrim
bunch!"

This was Shorty. The lithe giant had rushed out of the bunkhouse as the
herd thundered past. He was now running back toward the bunkhouse,
trying to tighten the waistband of his trousers with a belt whose
buckleless end persisted in eluding his grasp.

His words had spurred the other men to frenzied action. There was
confusion in the bunkhouse where men collided with their fellows as they
plunged about for discarded garments, gun-belts, and boots. But soon
they began to straggle out of the door in twos and threes and singly,
racing for the corral and for the lean-to where they kept their saddles.

Foremost among them was Shorty. His tall figure appeared first at the
corral gates, and his long legs were the first astride a horse. While
the others were running hither and yon near the bunkhouse and the
corral, Shorty raced his horse to the ranchhouse, slid off and crossed
the wide porch in two or three leaps.

He was confronted at the door by Mrs. Lawler, ashen, trembling.

"Rustlers!" he said, shortly, answering her look of interrogation.
"Where's the boss?"

The woman's voice broke. "Sheriff Moreton came after him some hours
ago--and took him to Willets--charging him with murdering those two men
at the line cabin, last winter. He isn't guilty, of course," declared
the mother; "but of course he had to go with Moreton."

Shortly swore silently. "All right, ma'am," he said, aloud; "I reckon
we'll have to handle it without him! Some of the boys of the night herd
are hurt, most likely--mebbe worse. If you'd sort of look after
them--mebbe--" He broke off short when he saw riders rushing from the
corral toward the house. "I'll stop at Joe Hamlin's place an' send Ruth
over, to help you. We can't spare any men--there's a horde of them
devils!"

He was leaping for his horse with the last words, and in an instant he
had joined the other riders who had paused, tentatively, near the edge
of the porch, having seen him. They fled, a dark mass against the dull
shadows of the valley, sweeping up the big slope toward the plains.

Blackburn, the range boss, was leading, with Shorty riding close beside
him. In the dim distance they could see the herd, spreading wide over
the level, running fast in the dust cloud that still followed them.

The Circle L men had not ridden more than a mile after striking the
level when Blackburn saw some blots detach themselves from the larger
blot--a number of them, like stray wisps of clouds straggling behind a
storm.

"They're droppin' back to pot-shot us," Blackburn said to Shorty. He
yelled at the men behind, warning them, and the group split up,
spreading out, though not reducing the breakneck speed at which they had
been riding.

They had not gone far after Blackburn shouted his warning when a puff of
white smoke dotted the luminous haze ahead, and a bullet whined close to
Blackburn.

"Rifle!" said Blackburn, grimly.

There were still three Circle L men at the line camps on the range; five
had been left behind in the valley when the attack had been made; and
only twenty others, including Blackburn, were left to cope with the
rustlers.

Blackburn cast a worried glance at them. He had plunged out of the
bunkhouse with the other men in time to catch a glimpse of the outlaws
as they went by with the herd, and he had roughly estimated their number
at fifty. The odds were great, and the advantage lay with the pursued,
for they could select ambuscades and take terrible toll from the Circle
L men.

Yet Blackburn was determined. He yelled to the others to take advantage
of whatever cover they could find; and he saw them slide from their
horses, one after another, and throw themselves into a shallow
depression that ran erratically north and south for some distance over
the plains. Before they reached the depression, however, there had come
more white puffs of smoke from the space ahead of them, and Blackburn
saw two Circle L men slide from their horses with a finality that
brought a savage glare into his eyes.

"Shorty," he said, hoarsely, to the big man at his side--who had
wriggled behind a rock at the crest of the depression and was coldly and
deliberately using the rifle he had taken from the holster on his
saddle; "we've got to have help--them scum outnumber us. You've got the
fastest horse an' you're the best rider in the bunch. An' you've got the
most sense. Barthman's ranch is the nearest, an' he's got fifteen men.
You hit the breeze over there an' tell him what's happened. Tell him
we're whipped if he don't help us. An' tell him to send a rider to
Corts, an' Littlefield, an' Sigmund, an' Lester, an' Caldwell. Tell 'em
to take that trail leadin' to Kinney's cañon--this side. That's where
they're headin' the cattle to. They'll come a-rushin', for they like the
boss.

"There's forty men in that gang that's hidin' ahead of us, tryin' to
wipe us out. But if they was a hundred we could keep 'em from makin' any
time, an' if you'll burn the breeze some, you can have Barthman an' the
others at the trail near Kinney's cañon before these guys get there!"

"Hell's fire, Blackburn," protested Shorty; "ain't there somebody else
can ride a damned horse? I'm aimin' to salivate some of them skunks!"

"Orders is orders, Shorty," growled Blackburn, coldly. "You're goin',
an' you're goin' right this minute--or I'm goin' to bust you in the
eye!"

"Well, if you put it that way," grimly grinned Shorty.

He crawled out of the depression, threw himself upon his horse and raced
southeastward, yelling, and waving his hat defiantly at the outlaws, who
were shooting at him. But the speed of Shorty's horse was too great for
accurate shooting; and Shorty kept going--waving his hat for a time, and
then, when out of range, riding hard--seeming to glide like a shadow
into the yawning gulf of distance.

The depression into which Blackburn and his men had crept was not more
than three or four feet deep, with long, sloping sides which were
covered with alkali and rotted rock. Along the edges grew greasewood and
mesquite bushes, which afforded concealment but not protection. The
shallow was wide enough for the horses, though the men were forced to
throw the animals and stake their heads down, so that they would not
show themselves above the edge of the depression and thus become targets
for the outlaws.

The firing during the night was intermittent. Once the outlaws made an
attempt to withdraw, rushing concertedly toward their horses, which they
had concealed in a sand draw slightly behind them, southward. But
Blackburn and his men were alert.

The outlaws had chosen a gully for their ambuscade, but they had made
the mistake of leaving their horses too far away from their place of
concealment. And when they rushed across the stretch of level that
extended from the gully to the draw, half a dozen of them dropped before
they had traveled a quarter of the distance. The others plunged back
into the gully, while the Circle L men yelled exultantly.

As Blackburn had told Shorty, he did not expect to rout or capture the
outlaws; the best he could hope for was that Shorty would get help in
time to head off the cattle before the other outlaws drove them into
Kinney's cañon or that he would bring help to the Circle L men in time
to prevent the sanguinary fight which would certainly occur as soon as
the day dawned.

And so Blackburn waited, grimly watchful; though worry began to wrinkle
his face as he noted that the semi-gloom of the starlit night was
lifting, and that a gray streak on the eastern horizon was slowly
broadening.




CHAPTER XXIX

ANTRIM STRIKES


From the doorway of the cabin on the Rabbit Ear, Antrim had watched
Slade and his men ride away. His gaze followed them until they vanished
over the edge of the big plain above the river valley. Then, smiling
crookedly, he turned back into the cabin.

Two men--one of them the tall man who had ridden away to return with the
news that Lawler and the sheriff were riding northward--were draped on
chairs watching the outlaw chief. They were expectant, eager; there was
covert satisfaction in their eyes.

Like Selden, the other man wore two guns. There was about both men an
atmosphere that suggested stealth and violence. It lurked over them,
hinting of something sinister and deadly.

Selden wore a mustache that drooped at the corners of his mouth. It was
the color of old straw--a faded, washed-out blonde, darkened here and
there from tobacco stains. His mouth was large, the lower lip sagging in
the center, giving it a satiric appearance, increased by the bleared,
narrowed eyes that always seemed to be glowing with a questioning,
leering light.

Krell, the other man, was smooth of face, with a strong, bold, thrusting
jaw and thick, pouting lips. His eyes were big, but they had a
disquieting habit of incessant watchfulness--a crafty alertness, as
though their owner was suspicious of the motives of those at whom he
looked.

Selden and Krell had been recruited from the southern border, they
represented an element that the ranger service was slowly and surely
eliminating--and driving northward into states whose laws were less
stringent for the evil-doer--the professional gunmen who took life for
the malicious thrill it gave them.

Krell and Selden were "killers." They were Antrim's constant companions,
except when the necessities of his trade drove the outlaw to work alone.
They knew his whims and understood his methods.

Now, as Antrim paused near the table and looked at them, Krell smiled
evilly.

"I reckon we'll be settin' here twirlin' our thumbs till the outfit gits
back?" he suggested.

Antrim laughed.

"We're trailin' the outfit right now," he told the other.

Antrim extinguished the light, and the three went out and mounted their
horses. Their movements were deliberate, unhurried. They crossed the
river, gaining the plains above it, and rode at a slow lope in the
direction taken by the others who had preceded them.

They talked as they rode, lowly, earnestly--planning the night's work,
speculating upon the probable outcome of the raid upon the Circle L by
the men under Slade.

When they reached the edge of the big valley and concealed themselves in
the fringing brush, they saw that Slade and his men had already struck.
Streaks of flame were splitting the darkness in the basin; there were
reports of pistols--which were reduced to mere faint, popping noises by
the distance they traveled before reaching the ears of Antrim and his
men; they saw the herd start; heard it go thundering up the valley in a
cloud of dust and strike the edge of the plain above, to swing eastward
toward Kinney's cañon.

"Slade's sure workin' hard for that promotion," observed Antrim,
mockingly. "He's got 'em runnin' fast an' under control."

The three men did not emerge from their concealment for some time. They
watched until the herd grew small in the distance eastward; they noted
the confusion that seemed to reign in the vicinity of the bunkhouse,
where the Circle L men were frenziedly preparing to pursue the rustlers;
they laughed at the figures that were darting here and there in the
light from the open doorway of the bunkhouse; and Antrim sneered when he
saw the ranchhouse door open and noted the form of a man framed in the
square of light that shone out.

"That'll be Blackburn, I reckon," he said to the other two; "inquirin'
for Lawler, mebbe. Well, Blackburn an' his guys will have to get along
without Lawler."

He watched until he saw the Circle L men sweep up the valley, following
the direction taken by the herd. He waited until he saw a woman emerge
from the door of the ranchhouse. The woman was carrying a lantern, and
its fitful, bobbing glare marked the woman's progress as she moved
toward the bunkhouse--in which a light still burned. For an instant the
light from the lantern disappeared, and then they saw it again as it
bobbed toward the open where the herd had been when the rustlers had
struck. Several times Antrim observed that the lantern became
stationary--as though it had been placed upon the ground. He grinned
coldly as he spoke to Krell and Selden.

"That's Lawler's mother, I reckon. She's huntin' for them boys that was
foolish enough to try an' stop Slade. Looks like she's findin' 'em,
too!"

Antrim watched until the light began to bob as its bearer went toward
the ranchhouse. He saw the door of the ranchhouse open and the woman
enter. Then he spoke shortly to the others and they rode down into the
valley. After they reached the floor of the valley Antrim spoke again,
shortly:

"Get busy; an' keep back out of the light when you get 'em goin'. Meet
me back there where we was waitin'!"

Antrim urged his horse toward the ranchhouse, riding slowly. When he
reached the big porch he dismounted, and an instant later was pounding
heavily upon the front door.

It was opened after an instant, and Mrs. Lawler appeared, pale, anxious.

"Oh!" she said, startled, when she saw Antrim's face in the glare of
light from within; "I thought you were one of the Circle L men!" She
shrank back a little when Antrim grinned evilly at her, catching her
breath with a gasp.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

Antrim crossed the threshold and stood inside, where the light was full
upon his face. Repelled--almost terrorized by what she saw in his eyes,
Mrs. Lawler attempted to retreat from him; but in an instant he had
seized her arms, roughly and brutally crushing them against her sides,
while he shoved her back against the open door; holding her in that
position and grinning hideously at her helplessness.

"You know me?" he sneered, his face close to hers. "I'm Antrim!" He
laughed when she caught her breath; when he noted that she recognized
the name.

"I reckoned you'd know me, when I told you," he said. "Luke Lawler
knowed me--an' your son knows me! I've never had no love for the Lawler
breed, an' I ain't changed any. But there's a lot of things that I'm
squarin' up for!

"This is my night; I've been waitin' for it!" he gloated. "I'm cleanin'
up on the Lawlers! I'm wipin' Kane Lawler out--cattle, buildings--an'
him too, mebbe. It ain't goin' to be a thing you ought to see. You're
gettin' away from here--I don't give a damn where. An' you're goin'
now!"

Awed by his manner and by the terrible threat in his voice, Mrs. Lawler
did not resist the physical strength of the outlaw. Though Antrim's
fingers were gripping her arms until the pain made her long to cry out
in agony, she made no sound. Nor--now that she realized what
portended--did her gaze waver as it met Antrim's. Her eyes glowed with
contempt as they looked into his--with a proud scorn that brought a
crimson flush into Antrim's cheeks. It had been that spirit that had
always enraged Antrim--that had always made him realize his inferiority
to her husband, and to the steady-eyed son who had shamed him publicly
at Willets. It was a thing that physical violence could not conquer; it
revealed a quiet courage that had always disconcerted him.

"Hell!" he sneered; "you can't come any of that high an' mighty stuff on
me!"

He twisted her until she faced the door, and then shoved her before him
across the porch and down upon the level on the ranchhouse yard, toward
the stable and the corral.

She did not resist, knowing that physical resistance would be futile.

He shoved her into the stable, and she stood there, unresisting while he
saddled a horse. She could not see him, but she could hear him as he
moved about; and presently he spoke shortly to her from a point close
by:

"Here's a cayuse--saddled an' bridled. You want to get on him here, or
outside?"

"Outside," she said, coldly.

In front of the stable door she mounted, Antrim helping her despite her
scornful protest.

"Listen," he said, as he stood for an instant at the horse's head, dimly
outlined. "You'd better go to Hamlin's--that's nearest. An' make
arrangements to stay there. I'm burnin' the Circle L buildin's. There
won't be a stick standin' when I get through! When I get through, I'm
goin' back to my place on the Rabbit Ear. My men have all gone with the
cattle, an' I'll be there alone. You can tell that damned son of yours
that! Understand? He's aimin' to get even for what I'm doin' tonight,
he'll find me at my place--alone--waitin' for him! Now, get goin'."

Mrs. Lawler did not answer. She took up the reins and sent the horse
forward, past the bunkhouses and the corral and the ranchhouse--through
the valley and up the long rise that led to the great plains above.

It took her a long time to reach the plains, and when she looked back
she saw some leaping tongues of flame issuing from the doors of the
bunkhouse. Two or three of the other buildings were on fire; and the
windows of the ranchhouse were illuminated by a dull red glare. But the
woman made no sound that would have betrayed the emotions that tortured
her. She turned her back to the burning buildings and rode onward,
toward the Hamlin cabin--trying, in this crisis, to live the code she
had taught her son; endeavoring to vindicate the precepts that she had
dinned into his ears all the days of his life--that courage in adversity
is the ultimate triumph of character--the forge in which is fashioned
the moral fiber which makes men strong and faithful.




CHAPTER XXX

A WOMAN LIES


Lawler had said little to Sheriff Moreton on the ride to Willets. Nor
had he made any comment when, in the Circle L ranchhouse, in the
presence of his mother, Moreton had shown him the statement signed by
Della Wharton. He had silently passed it back to Moreton; and had walked
to Mrs. Lawler--telling her why the sheriff had come; smilingly taking
leave of her while Moreton, sweating profusely, turned his back and
pretended to be interested in a picture on the wall.

"I reckon there's somethin' about this case that ain't been brought out
yet, Mrs. Lawler," said Moreton when he was about to depart with his
prisoner. "But things has a way of comin' out, an' I reckon we'll get
Kane out of this before long."

Outside, on their horses, Moreton rode close to Lawler.

"Kane, I reckon it's a damn lie about you killin' Link an' Givens the
way that Wharton woman says you did--in that damned paper--just
malicious, without them deservin' it?"

"Moreton, I told you my side of the story a couple of months ago. It's
the lady's word against mine."

Moreton muttered much to himself during the ride. He told Lawler how
Warden had come to him with the statement--the charge; and of how he
had waited until Della Wharton had personally appeared before him to
corroborate what she had signed.

"She don't want to have her reputation dragged into it," sneered
Moreton. "Well, before it's over she won't have no more reputation than
a coyote! I'll make the thing so damned public that she'll think I've
hired a brass band to blare it all over the country!"

Lawler merely smiled. He might have further increased the sheriff's rage
by showing him the signed confession in his pocket--the confession he
had secured from Link and Givens--but he preferred to keep silent until
he discovered why Della Wharton had brought the charge against him.

There were two possible motives. One was that Della was still in the
grip of the vindictiveness that had characterized her that last day in
the cabin--and had charged him with murder merely to be revenged upon
him; the other was that she had been influenced to the action by Gary
Warden. He intended to keep silent until events explained the motive.
And he smiled faintly at Moreton when the sheriff opened the jail doors
for him--Moreton saying that he "hated like poison to do it."

Two persons had watched Lawler and Moreton ride into town. Warden,
standing in the darkened windows of the Wolf Saloon--deserted by its
revelers shortly before--saw Moreton and Lawler dismount in front of the
jail, which adjoined the sheriff's office. Warden watched until he saw
the two men enter the building--until he saw Moreton come out alone and
enter his office. Then Warden smiled and walked to the door of a room
in the rear of the saloon, where Singleton and several other men were
playing cards. He winked at Singleton, a signal correctly interpreted by
the other, whose eyes quickened. And then Warden returned to the front
window where, later, he was joined by Singleton; for a long time both of
them watched the southern sky, into which had crept a dull red glow,
faint, and far away.

"Antrim didn't lose any time!" commented Warden, exultantly. "And Della
can tell the truth to the sheriff whenever she gets ready!"

The other watcher was Della Wharton. She had seen the sheriff leave
town, to ride southward, and she had divined what his errand meant. And
she had sat in a chair near a window for many hours, peering into the
darkness for Moreton's return with his prisoner. And when she saw them
coming she smiled as she had smiled when she had entered the room after
taking leave of Warden.

Della knew Warden better than Warden knew himself; and on the night when
he had asked her to sign the statement charging Lawler with murder, she
was convinced that Warden intended to use the statement. He had told her
that he merely intended to hold it as a threat over Lawler's head, to
dissuade him from succeeding politically; and she had permitted Warden
to think that she believed him. And when, upon her arrival from the
capital, he had told her that it was part of his strategy to secretly
present the statement to the sheriff--and that she must appear
personally before that official--she had consented, knowing that Warden
was insincere.

Della had really felt vindictive toward Lawler on that last day in the
line cabin. She had yielded to the resentment that had assailed her over
the conviction that she had made no impression upon the man. And she had
lied when she had told Warden that she had been merely infatuated with
Lawler. She discovered that after she reached the hotel following her
sojourn in the cabin with him. She wanted him more than she had ever
wanted anything in the world. And she was determined to have him. She
meant to win him even if she had to bring confusion upon Warden. And so
she smiled as she watched Moreton open the jail doors to Lawler--a smile
in which there was much triumph.




CHAPTER XXXI

"JAIL'S EMPTY, KANE!"


The jail was small--merely one room with barred windows and an iron
door, opening upon the street. The iron door was supplemented with a
wooden one, which halted the glances of the curious. The windows were
high, thus insuring further privacy; the hard adobe floor was clean, and
the bunk in which Lawler lay when the dawn came was as comfortable as
might have been expected.

Moreton had come in just before daylight, solicitous, concerned, eager
to lessen the discomforts of his prisoner. Back of the apology in his
voice was a note of rage:

"It goes ag'in' the grain to keep you here, Lawler," he said when he
closed the door after entering; "but I'm goin' to bring this case to a
showdown today, an' don't you forget it!"

But the sheriff did not bring the case up that day. A little later he
provided Lawler with breakfast, and toward noon he opened the door to
ask Lawler how he was getting along. On the occasion of this visit he
told Lawler he was trying to locate Warden, but so far hadn't been
successful.

"An' I ain't found that Wharton woman, either!" he declared. "I'm
sendin' a man out to the Two Diamond for both of them, an' if they ain't
in town to appear ag'in' you by night I'm goin' to turn you loose--an'
be damned to them!"

It seemed to Lawler that only an hour or so had elapsed when the key
grated in the lock of the door and Moreton stuck his head in. His face
lacked expression.

"Someone to see you, Lawler," he grunted, gruffly. "Wants to talk to you
alone. I'll be right outside, so's you can call me when you've got
enough of it."

He pushed the door open, and Della Wharton stepped in.

Moreton closed the door, and Della stood watching Lawler steadily.

Lawler had been standing near one of the rear windows, and when he
recognized his visitor he came forward and stood within three or four
paces of her.

"Well, Miss Wharton?" he said, quietly.

"I heard you were here, Lawler," she said, evenly, her voice
expressionless. "In fact, I saw the sheriff bring you in, last night."

"You expected me, I presume?"

The sarcasm in his voice brought a faint glow to her cheeks. But her
gaze was level and steady, containing much inquiry.

"Yes," she said slowly; "I expected you to be brought here. You know, of
course, about the charge I brought against you?"

"Why did you do it, Miss Wharton?"

She laughed mirthlessly. "Why? I don't know, Lawler. I expect I did it
because I felt I ought to tell the truth."

Lawler's grim smile did not seem to affect her. She met it steadily.

"You say in your charge that I deliberately planned to kill Link and
Givens; you said I laid in wait for them at the door. Is that the way
you saw it?"

"Yes."

"And you are willing to swear to that?" His smile was incredulous.

She nodded affirmatively.

He bowed stiffly to her. "In that case, Miss Wharton, there seems to be
nothing more for us to talk about." He walked to the front window, and
stood on his toes, intending to call to Moreton to open the door for
Miss Wharton, when she moved close to him and seized his left arm,
drawing him suddenly toward her while he was off balance, so that when
he turned he was facing her, standing close to her.

The color that had surged into her face soon after her entrance, had
gone. Her cheeks were white and her eyes held mute appeal that, she
felt, he must respond to.

She saw the cold contempt in his eyes as he looked at her, the lurking
passion that lay deep in them, and the disgust that she should lie about
a matter that might mean life or death to him.

She must act, now, and she must sacrifice Warden. Her grasp on his arm
tightened; she clung to him in seeming frenzy, and she spoke brokenly,
pleadingly.

"Lawler, I don't believe what I said--what was written on that paper I
signed. I know you acted in self-defense; you couldn't help doing as you
did.

"Gary Warden forced me to sign that statement, Lawler--he threatened to
kill me if I didn't! He found out, some way, that I had been in the
cabin with you. And he made me sign.

"He told me that he didn't intend to charge you with the murder; he said
he merely wanted to threaten you--to keep you out of politics. Please
believe me, Lawler!"

Lawler laughed coldly, incredulously. "A minute ago you told me----"

"I did that to frighten you," she declared. "I--I thought
that--perhaps--when you saw that I would testify against you--you
would--" She paused and tried to get closer to him, but he held her off
and watched her keenly, suspiciously.

"Lawler," she urged; "don't you see? I thought you would agree to marry
me if--if I told you that. And, now----"

"An' now it don't make a damn bit of difference what you say!"
interrupted a voice from the doorway. Both Miss Wharton and Lawler
wheeled quickly, to see Sheriff Moreton standing in the room.

He was grinning hugely, though his eyes were gleaming subtly.

While Lawler and Miss Wharton watched him, he slowly tore to pieces the
statement the woman had signed, and scattered them upon the floor.

"That's all of that damned nonsense!" he declared. "Lawler, I knowed
they was somethin' behind all this. That's why I let this hussy in to
talk to you. I thought I'd hear somethin', an' I did!"

"Lawler, you're free as the air! If there's any more of this talk about
chargin' you with killin' them two guys, an' you don't salivate them
that's doin' the talkin', I will!"

After his first quick glance at Moreton, Lawler looked at Della. The
deep amusement Lawler felt over the knowledge that the sheriff had
overheard Della, and that the woman's evidence would now be discredited,
was revealed in his smile as he watched her.

She saw it. She also understood that she had failed. But she veiled her
chagrin and disappointment behind a scornful smile.

"Framed!" she said. "And it was crude work, too--wasn't it, Lawler? I
should have been more careful. Ha, ha! Lawler, I should have known you
would do something like this--after what happened in the line cabin. And
I let you trick me!"

She raised her head, disdaining to glance at Lawler as she walked to the
door, in front of which Moreton was standing.

She smiled broadly at the latter. "Mr. Sheriff," she said, evenly; "if
you will stand aside, I shall be glad to leave you."

Moreton grinned, admiringly. "You've sure got a heap of nerve, ma'am,"
he complimented; "I'll say that for you! I don't know what your game is,
but you're mighty clever--though you're wastin' your time out here in
the sagebrush. You ought to stay East--where there's a lot more rummies
than there is out here!"

He opened the door, and bowed her out with extravagant politeness. Then,
when she had gone, he motioned Lawler toward the door.

"Jail's empty, Kane. But I reckon we'd better play this deal safe.
Dorgan, the county prosecutor, is in his office. We'll go down to see
him, an' I'll have him make a record of what happened here. Then, if I
happen to get bumped off this here planet them scum can't come back at
you, sayin' this never came off!"

Lawler accompanied Moreton to the office of the prosecutor, who took the
depositions of both men, attested the document and placed it in the
office safe.

"So that's the kind of a dame she is--eh?" grinned the official. "Well,
she don't look it. But you never can tell--can you?"




CHAPTER XXXII

RED KING RUNS


Sheriff Moreton had left Red King at the livery stable, and after Lawler
had thanked the sheriff for his part in the little drama that had just
been played, he walked to the stable, saddled and bridled the big horse,
mounted and rode out of town, toward the Circle L.

While grim tragedy had lurked over the incident that had just closed,
the thing had had its humorous side. And as Lawler rode he reflected
smilingly, though feeling a pulse of shame for Della Wharton.

In spite of the fact that the woman had charged Gary Warden with
evolving the plot, Lawler felt nothing but contempt for the man.
Warden's schemes, so far, had resulted only in discomfiture for Warden
himself. And because Lawler was not vindictive, he entertained no
thoughts of reprisal.

However, Lawler was now well equipped with evidence of Warden's
misdeeds. Months before, he had sent to Metcalf, the editor of the
_News_, in the capital, the story of the drive to Red Rock, embellished
with an account of his adventure with Antrim's gang, his capture of
Antrim and the subsequent bringing of the outlaw to Willets, where he
had delivered him to Warden.

Metcalf had written him that the publication of the article had created
a sensation in the state, and it appeared from the prominent position in
which Metcalf had placed the story--on the front page, with a picture of
Lawler dominating; and big, black headlines announcing:

"PROMINENT CATTLEMAN WORSTS TRAIL HORDE!"--that Metcalf had kept his
promise to the effect that he intended to "feature" his fight against
the power that was attempting to control the cattle industry.

So far, though, Lawler had no evidence that the governor's power had
been used against them. He was convinced that Warden, Jordan, Simmons,
and the others were employing their talents against him with the secret
approval of the governor; but until he secured absolute, damning
evidence he dared not openly charge it.

Lawler had been waiting patiently for such evidence. He had felt all
along that sooner or later his enemies would over-reach themselves,
leaving some weak spot through which he could attack, and he had been
content to wait until that time, merely defending himself and his
interests, planning no aggressive campaign.

The effect of the assaults of his enemies thus far had disturbed him
little. He had been able to anticipate most of their attacks and they
had resulted in little harm to himself. They had left him unperturbed,
unharmed--like the attacks of an excitable poodle upon a giant,
contemptuous mastiff.

Deep in his heart, though, lurked a spark of passion that, day by day,
had been slowly growing, warming him, making his veins swell a little
when his thoughts dwelt upon Warden and the others; bringing into his
heart a savage longing that he often had yielded to in the old
days--before he had learned to control his passions. There were times
when he was almost persuaded to break the laws for which he had fought
in the old days--moments when it seemed to him that further toleration
of the attacks of his enemies would be a sign of weakness. But he had
conquered those surges of passion, though the victory always left him
with a smile on his face that would have awed Warden, had he seen it.

Something of that passion was in his heart now, as he rode toward the
Circle L. It had become plain to him that Warden would adopt any means
to destroy him; that in the man's heart was a malignant hatred that was
driving him to a boldness that could mean nothing but that in the end
they must settle their differences as man to man. Lawler would not
always be able to control the passion that lurked in him. He knew it.
One day Warden would press him too hard. And then----

His thoughts had made him oblivious to his surroundings. A whinney from
Red King brought him out of his ruminations, and he looked swiftly up,
and then directly ahead, to see a horseman racing toward him; the rider
crouched in the saddle, the horse running low, coming toward him at a
speed that brought him out of depressions with light, flying bounds, and
over the crests of small hills with a velocity that was dizzying.

The running horse and the crouching rider were still a mile from Lawler;
but even at that distance Lawler recognized Shorty, and he urged Red
King on to meet him, suspecting that nothing but a stern emergency would
make the man race his horse at that speed.

Lawler glanced back as he rode. He had come several miles, and the
rolling character of the plains behind him had blotted Willets out. He
saw, too, that he had reached a point where three trails converged.
One--which Shorty was traveling--came westward from the Two
Bar--Hamlin's ranch; the other, leading almost straight southward, was
the Circle L trail; the third, leading southward also, though inclining
in a westward direction, ran to the Rabbit Ear, near the Dickman
cabin--the ranch where Antrim and his men had established themselves.

Shorty came on at cyclonic speed. When he reached a point within a
hundred yards of Lawler, the latter observed that Shorty's face was
pale; that his jaws were set and his eyes glowing with a wild, savage
light.

Stiffening, his lips straightening, a responsive passion assailing him,
Lawler drew Red King down and waited for Shorty to reach him. He knew
Shorty did not permit himself to become excited without cause.

And when Shorty drew his horse to a sliding halt within half a dozen
paces of Red King, Lawler saw that Shorty was in the grip of a cold,
deadly passion. His eyes were glittering, his lips were stiff and white,
and he was drawing great, long breaths that could be heard above the
shuddering gasps of the horse he rode.

The giant's fingers were working--clenching and unclenching near the
butts of the two guns he wore; and his eyes were pools of icy rage that
chilled Lawler.

Twice he tried to speak as Lawler shot a short question at him, and
twice he failed, making guttural sounds that betrayed the awful
agitation that had seized him. At the third attempt he blurted:

"Lawler, Antrim's gang has cleaned up the Circle L! Damn their sneakin',
dirty hides! They've run off our cattle--takin' 'em through Kinney's
cañon! They've wiped out the Circle L outfit! Blackburn's
left--Blackburn an' three more poor fellows they plugged, an' didn't
finish!

"Blackburn made me ride for help--damn him, anyway, Lawler! I wanted to
stay with the bunch!" Shorty's voice broke; his lips quivered; his voice
rose to a screech of impotent, awful rage. Brokenly, he told Lawler what
had happened after the stampeding of the cattle by Antrim's men. He
related, in tumbling, rapid, quavering sentences, how he had got the
help Blackburn had sent him for--Caldwell's outfit--with the exception
of two men who had been sent in different directions to other ranches.
And how, later in the morning, he had returned to the shallow gulley on
the plains where he had left Blackburn and the others, to find most of
them dead. Blackburn and three more had been wounded, but had survived.

"Fifteen men, Lawler!" raged Shorty; "fifteen men wiped out by that
miserable gang of coyotes! But damn them!" he added with a fierce,
savage joy; "they didn't get away without payin' toll, either! There's
twenty of them layin' out there, Lawler--twenty of them for the coyotes
to find. For Caldwell an' his outfit wouldn't touch 'em. When I left, to
come an' tell you--thinkin' you was in jail--Caldwell an' his boys was
plantin' our fellows, an' takin' Blackburn and the three others to the
Hamlin shack!"

He looked hard at Lawler, noted the paleness of the man's face, and then
spoke less excitedly, and with deep regret in his voice.

"Lawler, I hate to tell you this. After I seen what happened to our
boys, I rode this way, intendin' to tell you. The trail took me past the
Hamlin shack. I wasn't intendin' to stop, but it seems like they heard
me comin' an' run out to see what was up.

"It was your mother stopped me, Lawler--smiling kind of grim--like she
always smiles when things go wrong.

"'Shorty,' she says; 'you go directly to town and find Kane. You know
he's in jail, for I told you so last night. Tell Sheriff Moreton to
release him; and then tell Kane that Antrim has stolen all the Circle L
cattle and has burned all the Circle L buildings. Tell him that Antrim
himself burned the buildings, and that Antrim said he would wait for
Kane at Antrim's shack--and that he dared Kane to come there for him.
'Shorty,' she said, cold an' ca'm; 'you tell Kane to get out of jail and
go to Antrim's cabin, and kill him!'"

Lawler had sat, grim and silent, listening to Shorty. Twice had Shorty
seen his eyes quicken--when Shorty had mentioned his mother, and again
when he had spoken of Antrim's action in burning the Circle L
buildings.

Now, he leaned forward and peered intently at Shorty, and Shorty
marveled how his eyes bored into his own--with a cold intensity that
chilled the giant.

"Shorty," he said, in a low, strained voice; "Mother hasn't been hurt?"

"I forgot to tell you that," said Shorty; "she said, 'tell Kane I am all
right.'"

Shorty opened his mouth to speak further, but closed it again when he
saw Red King leap down the trails--a flaming red streak that flashed
over the new grass at a speed that took him a hundred yards before
Shorty could get his own horse turned.

The big red horse was lost in a dust cloud when Shorty urged his own
animal southward. And Shorty rode as he had never ridden before, in an
effort to lessen the space between himself and the flying Red King.

To no avail, however. Shorty's horse was fast, but Red King seemed to
have wings, so lightly did he skim over the green gulf of distance that
stretched between his master and the vengeance for which Lawler's soul
was now yearning. Shorty's horse was tired, and Red King was fresh; and
the distance between them grew greater--always greater--slowly,
surely--until the red horse was lost in the tiny dust cloud that moved
with unbelievable velocity far down the trail toward the Rabbit Ear.




CHAPTER XXXIII

THE FIGHT AT THE CABIN


When Red King struck the river trail he was traveling as strongly as
when he began his long race. The miles that had stretched between him
and the destination at which his rider aimed had been mere play for him.
By the time he reached the river trail he was warmed to his work and his
giant, spurning stride carried him along in the shade of the fringing
trees at a speed that made the wind whine and moan in Lawler's ears.

But Lawler did not offer to check Red King's speed. The big horse was
traveling at a pace that was all too slow for Lawler, now in the clutch
of that passion which for many months had been smoldering within him. He
was leaning a little forward in the saddle, riding the red horse as he
had ridden few times; and then only in sport.

In Lawler's eyes was still that intense light that had been in them when
he had been watching Shorty as the latter had been relating what had
happened during the night and the morning.

And yet Lawler betrayed no sign of excitement. His face was pale, and
his lips were stiff and white; but his muscles were tense, steady, and
his brain clear.

He knew what to expect from Antrim. If Antrim expected him to come to
his cabin, Antrim would be ready for him. He might expect craft and
cunning from the outlaw--an ambuscade, a trap--anything but the cold,
sheer courage that would be required for him to face an enemy upon equal
terms. And so as Lawler rode he kept an alert eye upon the coverts and
the shelters, upon the huge rocks that littered the sides of the trail,
upon the big trees that Red King flashed past.

Nothing happened. And Red King thundered down the trail where it doubled
half a mile from the Dickman cabin, and swept out upon the level that
surrounded the place, his speed unslackened, his rider still urging him.

Lawler had forgotten Shorty. Half a mile behind him the giant's horse
labored, making better time on the level river trail than he had made
over the plains. But Lawler did not even think of Shorty. His brain was
upon the work that was before him, his thoughts were definitely centered
upon Antrim and the Circle L men that Antrim and his men had killed. It
was concentration of a sinister character that had seized Lawler, and in
it was a single purpose, a single determination--to kill Antrim.

He saw the cabin as he crossed the level--a patch of bare, sandy earth
surrounding it; and the other buildings, with no sign of life near them.
His gaze swept the corral, and he saw no horse in it. As he guided Red
King toward the cabin he peered vainly for sight of Antrim's horse.

Not a living thing was in sight. The buildings were silent, seemingly
deserted. And the atmosphere of the place seemed to be pregnant with a
lurking threat, a hint of hidden danger.

He grinned as he plunged Red King to the door of the cabin--a grin which
meant that he expected Antrim would be waiting for him, but which
expressed his contempt of ambuscades and traps.

As he slipped from Red King he drew his pistol and lunged forward,
bringing up against the cabin door and sending it crashing inward,
against the wall.

He halted just inside the door, his pistol rigid in his right hand,
which was pressed tightly to his side; for directly in front of him,
standing, his arms folded over his chest, was Antrim, a huge, venomous
grin on his face.

"Well, you got here, Lawler," he said, huskily. "You come a-runnin',
didn't you? Well, I had your cattle run off, an' I burned your
buildin's. What are you aimin' to do about it?"

Lawler did not move. He might have killed Antrim, for the man's weapon
was in the holster at his hip--Lawler could see the stock sticking above
the leather. He had expected Antrim would be in the cabin when he opened
the door; he anticipated that the outlaw would shoot on sight, and he
had been prepared to do the same.

But there was something in the outlaw's manner, in the cold, measured
tone of his voice, in his nonchalant disregard of the pistol in Lawler's
hand that brought a swift suspicion into Lawler's mind. It was a
presentiment that the outlaw was not alone in the cabin; that he had
carefully laid his plans, and that they did not include a gun fight in
which he would have to face Lawler upon equal terms.

Lawler did not look around. He kept his gaze unwaveringly upon the
outlaw, knowing that if other men were in the cabin with him they were
waiting for Antrim to give the word to shoot him. Otherwise they would
have shot him down when he had entered.

"Not sayin' anything, eh?" jeered Antrim. "Well, come a-shootin'. You
bust in here, seein' red, with a gun in your hand; an' then stand there,
like you was wonderin' if you was welcome." He peered close at Lawler,
his eyes narrowing with suspicion, and then, finally, with savage
amusement.

"I reckon I ketch on," he sneered. "You know there's some one here with
me, an' that they've got you covered. I know you, an' I knowed you'd
come rushin' in here, just like you did, killin' mad. Bah! Did you think
I'd give you a chance, you short-horned maverick! There's Selden behind
that curtain, there--back of the cupboard. An' Krell watchin' you from
the door of that room, on the side. They've got you between them, an' if
you bat an eyewinker they'll down you. I'm goin' to gas to you--I'm
goin' to tell you what I think of you for ropin' me an' draggin' me back
to Willets, to show to the damned yaps on the station platform. An'
after that I'm goin' to hog-tie you an'--Ah!"

Antrim's exclamation was a mere gasp. It escaped his lips as Lawler
jumped backward, landing outside the door, overbalanced, trying to stand
upright while he snapped a shot at Antrim.

Antrim, however, had reached for his gun. It came out before Lawler
could steady himself, and Lawler saw it. Lawler saw the weapon belch
smoke and fire as it cleared Antrim's hip; he felt a shock as the bullet
struck him; felt still another sear his flesh near the arm as he let his
own pistol off. He saw the outlaw plunge forward and fall prone, his
arms outstretched. He was motionless, inert.

From inside the cabin came the sounds of steps--Antrim's confederates,
Lawler supposed. He heard them approach the door and he leaped, swaying
a little, toward the corner of the cabin nearest him. He had reached it,
had just dodged behind it, when Selden and Krell rushed out. At the same
instant Shorty thundered up, slipped out of the saddle and ran toward
Lawler, drawing his guns.

Shorty had approached the cabin from the rear, having cut across the
space behind the bunkhouses when he heard the shooting. He could not be
seen by Selden and Krell as they plunged out of the door; but he had
seen Lawler when the latter dodged behind the corner of the cabin, and
as he ran toward Lawler he drew his guns.

As yet Shorty had seen no one but Lawler. He supposed Antrim and Lawler
had exchanged shots and he knew Lawler had been hit--his swaying as he
came around the corner of the cabin proved it. Knowing something of the
terrible rage that had seized the man, he suspected Lawler had burst
into the cabin, recklessly exposing himself to Antrim's fire.

And as Shorty ran toward the spot where Lawler was standing, he
expected to see Antrim follow, to complete his work.

Within a dozen feet of Lawler he halted, facing the corner. He had not
long to wait. For Selden and Krell, guns in hand, appeared almost
instantly--their faces hideous with passion. As they rushed around the
corner they saw Shorty. They saw Shorty first, because Shorty dominated
the scene. A gun in each hand, he made a terrible figure. His eyes were
blazing with the cold rage that had seized him at sight of Lawler,
wounded--for Lawler was now leaning against the wall of the cabin, and
his gun had dropped from his hand.

The unexpected appearance of Shorty startled Krell and Selden. Surprise
showed in their faces as they paused for an infinitesimal space and
looked at him.

And then their guns roared.

Shorty, however, had anticipated them. His guns went off simultaneously,
slightly in advance of theirs, belching fire and smoke in a continuous
stream.

Shorty did not seem to be hit by the bullets from the guns of the
outlaws; he seemed to pay no attention to them whatever.

But the outlaws ceased shooting. Krell staggered, his guns dropped from
his hands, and he stood, for an instant, looking foolishly at Shorty,
his face becoming ashen. Then, without uttering a word, he lunged gently
forward, his legs doubling at the knees, and sank into the dust in a
huddled heap.

Selden had been hit hard, too. The shock of Shorty's first bullet
striking him had turned him partially around, so that his left side was
toward Shorty. He had lurched forward a little; and was turning, trying
to use the gun in his left hand, when another bullet struck him. He
grunted, stood slowly erect, and then fell backward stiffly.

Shorty ran to him and to Krell, scanning their faces with savage
intentness. When he saw that neither of them would bother him again, he
leaped around the corner of the cabin and cautiously peered into the
doorway. He saw Antrim stretched out on the floor of the cabin, face
down and motionless. He stepped into the cabin, turned the outlaw over,
grinned saturninely, and then went out to where Lawler stood. His eyes
were aglow with concern.

When he reached the corner he saw Lawler bending over, picking up the
pistol that had dropped from his hand a few seconds before. Lawler's
face was pale, but he grinned broadly at Shorty as the latter came up to
him.

"I saw what was happening but I couldn't throw in with you. I reckon
Antrim hit me mighty hard. In my right shoulder. I was trying to change
my gun to the other hand, when I dropped it. I didn't seem to be able to
get it again--just then." He grinned. "Lucky you came, Shorty," he added
jocosely.

Shorty's lips grimmed. "I reckon it's lucky I'm here right now!" he said
shortly. "You're hit bad, Lawler!"

He led Lawler into the cabin, where he tore away the latter's shirt and
exposed the wound--high up on the shoulder.

After a swift examination, Shorty exclaimed with relief.

"It ain't so bad, after all. She bored through that big muscle. Must
have struck like a batterin' ram. No wonder you was weak an' dizzy for a
minute or so. There's a hole big enough to stick your hand through. But
she ain't dangerous, Boss!"

Shorty had not been touched by the bullets the outlaws had sent at him.
He was energy, personified. He got water, bathed the wound in Lawler's
shoulder; bandaged it, and at last grinned widely as Lawler got up,
saying he felt better.

A little later they went out and mounted their horses. Lawler was pale,
though he sat steadily in the saddle; and Shorty, big, exuding elation,
grinned broadly as he glanced at the cabin as they rode away from it.

They rode up the river trail; Shorty expressing his elation by emitting
low chuckles of grim mirth; Lawler silent, riding steadily, his gaze
straight ahead.

It took them long to reach the point on the plains where the trails
diverged. And then Lawler spoke. "Shorty, you go back to Hamlin's and
tell mother I killed Antrim. You needn't mention this scratch I've got."

"Where you goin'?" demanded Shorty.

"Shorty," said Lawler evenly; "you do as I say."

"I'll be damned if I do!" declared Shorty, his face flushing. "That's
the kind of palaver Blackburn handed me when he sent me after Caldwell's
outfit, makin' me miss the big scrap. I ain't missin' nothin' else. If
this thing is to be a clean-up I'm goin' to be right close when the
cleanin' is bein' done!

"I'm stayin' right here, as long as you stay! An' when you get goin',
little Shorty will be taggin' along, achin' to salivate some more of the
scum that's been makin' things howl in these parts. Get goin' where
you're goin', Lawler!"

Shorty had not told Lawler all he knew of the wound in Lawler's
shoulder. He knew that Lawler had lost much blood, and that he was
losing more constantly; and that nothing but the man's implacable
courage was keeping him up. And he did not intend to desert him.

Lawler laughed. But he said nothing as he urged Red King over the
Willets trail, riding at a fair pace, not so steady in the saddle as he
had been. His face was chalk white, but there was a set to his lips and
a glow in his eyes that told Shorty there was no use in arguing.

Shorty permitted Lawler to hold the lead he had taken when they reached
the Willets' trail. But Shorty kept a vigilant eye upon the big horse
and his rider as they went over the plains toward town. Twice Shorty saw
Lawler reel in the saddle, and both times Shorty urged his horse forward
to be close to him when he fell. But each time Lawler stiffened and rode
onward--silent, grimly determined, with Shorty riding behind him,
watching him with awed admiration.

Lawler had not mentioned the purpose of his ride to town, and Shorty was
lost in a maze of futile conjecture. Shorty knew, however, that a man in
Lawler's condition would not ride to town to gratify a whim; and the
longer he watched Lawler the deeper became his conviction that another
tragedy was imminent. For there was something in Lawler's manner, in the
steady, unflagging way he rode; in the set of his head and the cold
gleam of his eyes, that suggested more of the kind of violence in which
both had participated at the Dickman cabin.

The sun was low when Lawler and Shorty rode into town--Lawler riding
ahead, as he had ridden all along; Shorty a few yards behind him, keenly
watching him.

There were many men on the street; for word had been brought in
regarding the big fight between the Circle L outfit and the
rustlers--and a doctor had gone, summoned to the Hamlin cabin by a wild
rider on a jaded horse--and Willets' citizens were eagerly curious. And
when they saw Lawler coming, swaying in the saddle as he rode, they
began to run toward him.

However, they were brought to a halt by Shorty--who waved a hand
savagely at them, his face expressing a cold intolerance that warned
them away. And so they retreated to the sidewalk, wonderingly, to watch
Lawler and Shorty as they rode down the street--Lawler looking neither
to the right nor left, but keeping his gaze straight ahead as though in
that direction lay what he had come to seek.

Shorty's eyes gleamed with understanding when he saw Lawler halt Red
King in front of the building in which was Warden's office. He was out
of the saddle before Lawler clambered slowly out of his, and he stood
near as Lawler walked to the door of the building and began to mount
the stairs--going up slowly, swaying from side to side and placing his
hands against the wall on either side of him for support. And when
Lawler finally reached the top of the stairs and threw open the door of
Warden's office, Shorty was so close to him that he might have touched
his shoulder.

Warden was sitting at his desk when Lawler opened the door, and he
continued to sit there--staring hard at Lawler as the latter swayed
across the room to bring up with a lurch against Warden's desk, his
hands grasping its edge.

"Warden," said Lawler--and Shorty marveled at the cold steadiness of his
voice; "I have just killed Antrim. Antrim's men ran off three thousand
head of my cattle and killed about twenty of my men--five at the Circle
L and the rest in a fight on the plains not far from the Two Bar. Antrim
burned my buildings. Twenty-five thousand dollars for the buildings, and
ninety thousand for the cattle not to mention my men.

"I've got no proof that you were implicated in the deal; but I am
convinced that you planned it--that you got Antrim and his gang to do
the work. That evidence doesn't go in law, though, Warden--and you know
it. But it's enough for the kind of law that I am representing right
now. It's this!"

He drew his gun with his left hand, taking it from the waistband of his
trousers--where he had placed it when he had picked it up at the Dickman
cabin--and held it on the desk top, so that its dark muzzle gaped at
Warden.

For an instant Warden sat, staring in dread fascination into the muzzle
of the weapon, his face dead white, his eyes wide with fear, naked,
cringing. Then he spoke, his voice hoarse and quavering.

"This is murder, Lawler!"

"Murder, Warden?" jeered Lawler. "One of my men was worth a dozen of
you!"

Lawler laughed--a sound that brought an ashen pallor to Warden's face;
then he straightened, and turned, to face Shorty.

He lurched to Shorty's side, drew out one of the latter's big guns, and
tossed it upon the desk within reach of Warden's hand.

"I gave Antrim the first shot, Warden," he said; "I gave him his chance.
I didn't murder him, and I won't murder you. Take that gun and follow me
to the street. There's people there. They'll see that it's a square
deal. You're a sneaking polecat, Warden; but you--I'm going to give
you----"

Lawler paused; he sagged. He tried to straighten, failed. And while both
men watched him--Shorty with eyes that were terrible in their ineffable
sympathy and impotent wrath; Warden in a paralysis of cold
terror--Lawler lurched heavily against the desk and slid gently to the
floor, where he leaned, his eyes closed, against the desk, motionless,
unconscious.

Silently, his eyes aflame with passion, Shorty leaped to the desk and
snatched the gun that Lawler had placed at Warden's hand. With almost
the same movement he pulled Warden out of his chair and threw him
against the rear wall of the room. He was after the man like a giant
panther; catching him by the throat with his left hand as he reached
him, crushing him against the wall so that the impact jarred the
building; while he savagely jammed the muzzle of the pistol deep into
the man's stomach, holding it there with venomous pressure, while his
blazing eyes bored into Warden's with a ferocious malignance. "Damn you,
Warden," he said hoarsely; "I ought to kill you!" He shook Warden with
his left hand, as though the man were a child in his grasp, sinking his
fingers into the flesh of his neck until Warden's eyes popped out and
his face grew purple. Then he released him so suddenly that Warden sank
to his knees on the floor, coughing, laboring, straining to draw his
breath.

He stood, huge and menacing, until Warden swayed to his feet and
staggered weakly to the chair in which he had been sitting when Lawler
entered; and then he leaned over the desk and peered into Warden's face.

"This ain't my game, Warden! If it was, I'd choke the gizzard out of you
and chuck you out of a window! I reckon I've got to save you for
Lawler--if he gets over this. If he don't, I'm comin' for you!"

He holstered his gun, stooped, lifted Lawler and gently swung him over
his shoulder; and without glancing back at Warden strode to the stairs,
out into the street and made his way to the Willets Hotel, a crowd of
curious citizens at his heels.




CHAPTER XXXIV

"GOOD OLD SHORTY!"


Della Wharton had watched from one of the windows of her room in the
hotel. She had seen Lawler and Shorty ride down the street to Warden's
office; she had seen Shorty come out carrying Lawler; and she heard
Shorty's steps on the stairs as he brought his burden up, preceded by
the proprietor.

She was standing in the hall when the proprietor and Shorty reached the
upper landing, and when the proprietor looked inquiringly at her she
silently motioned toward her room, and stood aside as Shorty entered and
placed his limp burden upon the bed. Lawler was unconscious and ghastly
pale.

Della instantly took charge of Lawler. Which means that she set
seriously to work with him, while Shorty stood by, his arms folded over
his huge chest, one hand caressing his chin, grimly watching.

Shorty continued to watch. For many days he stood guard over his
"boss"--a somber, brooding figure, silent, imperturbable. When he moved
it was only to walk slowly up and down the hall, or downstairs to take
his meals. At other times he would stand at the bedside looking down at
Lawler's closed eyes and ashen face; or he would sit on the edge of a
chair and watch him, intently, with stoic calm, his face as
expressionless as a stone image.

Mrs. Lawler came early the next morning--after the doctor had told Della
and Shorty there was a fighting chance for Lawler; and Ruth Hamlin.
Shorty's eyes grew moist as he watched Mrs. Lawler and Ruth as they
stood by the unconscious man; and his voice was low and gruff when,
during the day Mrs. Lawler asked him for particulars.

"That's all there was to it, ma'am," he said in conclusion. "The boss
oughtn't to have busted in that shack like he did, knowin' Antrim was
there--an' givin' the scum a chance to take the first shot at him. But
he done it. An' he done the same thing to Warden--offered him the first
shot. Ma'am, I never heard the beat of it! I've got nerve--as the sayin'
is. But--Lordy!"

And Shorty became silent again.

For three days Lawler remained unconscious. And during that interval
there were no disturbing sounds to agitate the deathlike quiet of the
sickroom. Riders glided into town from various points of the compass and
stepped softly as they moved in the street--whispering or talking in low
tones. The universal topic was the fight, and Lawler's condition. On the
second day of Lawler's unconsciousness a keen-eyed man stepped off the
east-bound train and made his way to the hotel.

"I'm Metcalf of the _News_, in the capital," he told Keller, the
proprietor. And Keller quietly ushered the newspaperman upstairs, where
the latter stood for a long time until Mrs. Lawler opened the door of
the sickroom for him. Metcalf entered, looked down at Lawler, and then
drew Shorty aside where, in a whispered conversation he obtained the
particulars of the fight and the wounding of Lawler. He took the
west-bound train that night.

A pall seemed to have settled over Willets. The atmosphere was tense,
strained. Riders from Caldwell's ranch, from Sigmund's, from
Lester's--and from other ranches came in; and important-looking men from
various sections of the state alighted from the trains at the station
and lingered long in the dingy foyer of the hotel. One of these was
recognized by Keller as McGregor, secretary of the State Central
Committee of Lawler's party. And Keller noted that McGregor wore a
worried look and that he scowled continually.

Willets waited; the riders who came into town waited; it seemed to the
residents of Willets that the whole state waited, with its collective
gaze upon the little room in the hotel where a man lay, fighting for his
life.

Shorty waited--still silent, the somber brooding light in his eyes; his
jaws set a little tighter, his eyes filled with a deeper glow. Shorty
said no word to any man regarding the deadly intention that reigned in
his heart. He merely waited, watching Lawler, grimly determined that if
Lawler died he would keep his promise to "come for" Warden.

But Shorty would not have found Warden in town. On the night of the
shooting Warden had taken the west-bound train, and the next day he was
closeted with the governor and Hatfield--the three of them sitting in
the governor's office, where, their faces pale, though expressing no
regret, they sat and talked of the fight and conjectured over its
probable consequences.

Singleton stayed close to the Two Diamond; and after the second day,
Della Wharton rode to the ranch and sat brooding over the failure of her
plans. When Lawler had been brought into the hotel she had entertained a
hope that the situation might be turned to her advantage. But there had
been something in Ruth Hamlin's clear, direct eyes that had convinced
her of the futility of attempting to poison her mind against Lawler by
referring to her stay in the line cabin with Lawler. She saw faith in
Ruth's eyes--complete, disconcerting; and it had made her feel inferior,
unworthy, cheap, and inconsequential.

On the fourth day Lawler regained consciousness. The doctor had told
them all that the crisis was at hand; that if the fever broke, marking
the end of the delirium which had seized him, he would awaken normal
mentally, though inevitably weak. But if the fever did not break there
would be no hope for him.

Mrs. Lawler, Ruth, and Shorty were in the room with Lawler when he
opened his eyes. For a long time the three stood, breathlessly watching
as Lawler lay, staring in bewilderment at the ceiling, at the walls, and
out of the windows, through which came a soft, subdued light.

Presently Lawler raised his head a trifle, saw them all, and smiled. The
clear light of reason was in his eyes.

"Mother, Ruth, and Shorty," he said, weakly smiling. "I've known for a
long time that you were here. But I couldn't let you know. Mother and
Ruth--and Shorty," he repeated; and then, in a lower voice, that trailed
off into a murmur as he closed his eyes and appeared to be falling
asleep: "Good old Shorty!"

Ruth and Mrs. Lawler were clasped in each other's arms, joy unutterable
in their eyes. It was some time before they turned, to look at Shorty.

The tawny giant was standing near the foot of the bed. His lips were
quivering, his eyes were wet, his whole body seemed to be racked with
emotion that he could not suppress. He was making an heroic effort,
though--an effort that made the cords of his neck stand out lividly;
that swelled his muscles into knotty bunches.

"Damn it!" he growled as he turned his head away from Ruth and Mrs.
Lawler, so that they might not see what was reflected there; "there
ain't no sense of him gettin' mush-headed about it!"




CHAPTER XXXV

HAUNTING MEMORIES


It was many days before Lawler was strong enough to ride Red King to the
Circle L; and many more days joined the regiments that have marched into
the ages, before he forgot what he saw in Blackburn's eyes when one day,
soon after his return to the Circle L, he listened to the range boss
relate the story of the fight on the plains. Blackburn's cynical eyes
had changed expression. They had become tragic, strained, as though the
man was striving to blot out mental pictures that were detailed
there--pictures that memory persisted in drawing.

He rode with Lawler to the scene of the fight, and showed him where the
Circle L outfit had brought the rustlers to bay.

"After Shorty left," said Blackburn; "me insistin' on him goin', an' him
blackguardin' me for sendin' him, there was a little time when nothin'
happened. Then the day broke, an' everything seemed to happen at once.

"They rushed us, Lawler. There was more of 'em than there was of us, an'
they circled around us, howlin' an' shootin' like Indians. They got us
between 'em. But we fought 'em--Lawler, we fought 'em till there wasn't
a man left standing. But there was too many of 'em. We planted
twenty--afterward. But about that number got away. I was hit sort of
hard, but I watched 'em scutterin' towards Kinney's cañon. They'd been
gone some time when Caldwell's outfit--an' Shorty--come up. Caldwell's
outfit lit out after 'em; but Caldwell's men had rode pretty hard
gettin' to us, an' it wasn't no go. Sigmund's men, though; an' Lester's
an' the rest of 'em, had took a gorge trail that cuts into the big basin
from the south, away the other side of Kinney's cañon; an' they run
plumb into the rustlers over at the edge of the basin on Sigmund's side.

"An' they brought back your cattle; though Slade an' twenty or thirty of
his men got away, clean. I reckon you've heard about enough, an'--Well,
Lawler, that's about all--exceptin' to tell you how the boys--an' I
don't seem to want to go over that when I'm awake; I keep seein' it
enough of nights."

But something of the deep emotion Blackburn felt was reflected in
Lawler's eyes from the time he heard the story.

During the many days he had spent in the little hotel room recovering
from his wound--and in the long interval of convalescence that
followed--a small army of workmen had been engaged in rebuilding the
Circle L ranchhouse, the bunkhouses, and the other structures. On the
second day following his return to consciousness Lawler had called in a
contractor and had made arrangements for reconstruction.

A temporary cabin--to be used afterward by Blackburn--had been erected
near the site of the bunkhouses, and into this Lawler and his mother
moved while the ranchhouse and the other buildings were being rebuilt.
Blackburn was slowly engaging men to fill the depleted complement, and
the work went on some way, though in it was none of that spirit which
had marked the activities of the Circle L men in the old days.

In fact, the atmosphere that surrounded the Circle L seemed to be filled
with a strange depression. There had come a cold grimness into
Blackburn's face, a sullenness had appeared in the eyes of the three men
who had survived the fight on the plains; they were moody, irritable,
impatient. One of them, a slender, lithe man named Sloan, voiced to
Blackburn one day a prediction.

"Antrim's dead, all O.K.," he said. "But Slade--who was always a damned
sight worse than Antrim--is still a-kickin'. An' Slade ain't the man to
let things go halfway. Them boys from the other outfits bested him, all
right. But Slade will be back--you'll see. An' when he comes we'll be
squarin' things with him--an' don't you forget it!"

       *       *       *       *       *

It was after Lawler had been occupying the cabin for a month that
Metcalf made his second visit. He rode down the slope of the valley on a
horse he had hired at Willets, and came upon Lawler, who was standing at
the corral gates, looking across the enclosure at the workmen who were
bustling about the ranchhouse.

Metcalf regarded Lawler critically before he dismounted; and then he
came forward, shook Lawler's hand and again looked him over.

"A little thin and peaked; but otherwise all right, eh?" he smiled.
"It's hard to kill you denizens of the sagebrush."

He followed Lawler into the shade of the cabin, remarked to Mrs. Lawler
that her son would need someone to guard him--if he persisted in meeting
outlaws of the Antrim type single-handed; and then turned to
Lawler--after Mrs. Lawler had gone inside--and said lowly:

"Lord, man! you've got this state raving over you! Your fight against
the ring is talked about in every corner of the country. And that scrap
with Antrim, Selden, and Krell in the old Dickman cabin will go down in
history--it will be a classic! What made you rush in on Antrim that
way--giving him the first shot?"

Lawler smiled faintly. "Shucks, Metcalf, there was nothing to that.
Shorty told me what had happened, and as I recollect, now, I was pretty
much excited."

"Excited, eh?" said Metcalf, incredulously; "I don't believe it. What
about your going in to Warden's office, offering to give him the first
shot? Were you excited then?"

Lawler reddened, and Metcalf laughed triumphantly.

"Lawler," he said; "you're too damned modest--but modesty becomes you. I
believe you know it. Anyway, this state is raving over you. You're going
to be the next governor. You've got to run! This state needs a man like
you--it _needs_ you! You know it. Everybody knows it--and everybody
wants you. That is, everybody except Haughton, Hatfield, Warden--and
that bunch--including the railroad company. Why, look here, Lawler!" he
went on, when Lawler did not answer; "the fight you made last fall
against the railroad company was made, with variations, by all the
courageous cattlemen in the state. If a strong man isn't elected this
fall the same fight will have to be made again. Haughton is so rotten
that people are beginning to hold their noses!

"The people of this state trust you, Lawler--they swear by you. You've
got to run--there's no way out of it!" He looked keenly at Lawler. "Man,
do you know what McGregor told me the day before he left the capital to
come down here and look you over, to see how badly you were hurt? He
said: 'Metcalf, if Lawler dies we lose the governorship next fall. He is
the only man who can beat Haughton!'"

"Metcalf," smiled Lawler; "I'll tell you a secret--your argument has had
no effect upon me. I decided this thing as far back as the day following
the last election. I am going to run."

"Then we've got Haughton licked!" declared Metcalf, enthusiastically.

Metcalf stayed at the Circle L throughout the day, and in the evening
Lawler rode with him to Willets, where he saw him aboard the west-bound
train.

"I'm telling you something, Lawler," grinned the newspaperman as he
gripped Lawler's hand just before the train started. "McGregor came to
me yesterday. He told me he intended to come to see you, but he was
afraid you'd refuse to run. He asked me if I had any influence with you,
and I told him you'd do anything I suggested. Now, don't get excited,
Lawler," he laughed as Lawler looked sharply at him. "I've proved it,
haven't I? You've agreed to run! Lord, man, I'd hate to be an evil-doer
and have you look at me like that!" He laughed again, exultantly. "What
was it you said to Warden one day, when Warden refused to keep that
agreement you made with Lefingwell? Oh, don't look at me that way--that
conversation has been printed all over the state. I saw to that. How did
I hear of it? Somebody must have talked, Lawler. It wasn't you. You
remember what you told Warden? It was this:

"'I'm telling you this, though: A man's word in this country has got to
be backed by his performances--and he's got to have memory enough to
know when he gives his word!'

"You've given yours, Lawler; and you can't back out. McGregor will be
waiting for me in the capital. And when I tell him that I have persuaded
you to run, he'll fall on my neck and weep tears of joy. Then he'll hire
a special train and run down here to fall on _your_ neck!"

McGregor came the next day. And he took Lawler back to the capital with
him. Lawler stayed in the capital for a week, and when he returned he
went directly to the Circle L.

No word came from him, to Willets, during the summer. He did not appear
in town; though Willets heard that the new Circle L ranchhouse had at
last been completed, and that Lawler was living in it. Also, the Circle
L outfit had been recruited to full strength; Blackburn was occupying
the new cabin.

When Corwin--who was chairman of the county committee--sent out calls
for the county primary election--which convention was also to choose
delegates to the state convention, to be held later--Lawler did not
appear. He sent a note to Corwin, asking to be excused.

"I reckon he ain't entirely over that wound," Corwin told an intimate
friend. "We'll have to get along without him, this time." But there was
a light in Corwin's eyes which told that he was not unaware of the
significance of Lawler's trip to the capital with McGregor.

There came a day when Corwin and his brother-delegates got on a train at
Willets and were taken to the capital. And there came another day when
they returned. They brought a brass band with them; and Willets closed
its doors and went out into the street--and crowded the station
platform, where the band was playing, and where the returned delegates,
frenzied with joy, were shrieking above the din: "Hurrah for Kane
Lawler! Lawler--our next governor! Hip, hip--HOORRAY!"

"We swamped 'em!" howled a crimson-faced enthusiast; "there was nothin'
to it! Unanimous after the first vote! HOORRAY!"

In his office, Gary Warden heard the shouting; saw the crowd, and
listened to the cheers. He stood at one of the windows, balefully
watching; sneering at the delegates who had returned, flushed with
victory. Singleton, scowling, stood beside Warden.

They saw half a dozen men draw apart from the others. Later the
men--delegates, from the gay badges appended to them--rode out of town,
southward.

"Reception committee," sneered Warden. "They're going to escort Lawler
to town. Let's go to the Two Diamond. I'll be damned if I want to be in
town to watch Lawler grin when he sees that crowd! There's a dozen big
guns in that bunch, who have come down from the capital to watch the
fun. Well, it's no fun for me!"

However, it was "fun" for the delighted citizens of Willets, who, some
hours later, saw the reception committee returning with Lawler. They
escorted him to a platform which had been erected in the middle of the
street in the absence of the reception committee, where, after the crowd
had cheered him many times, Lawler made his first speech as the
candidate of his party.

Energetic citizens had gayly decorated the street with flags and
bunting--taking Corwin's entire stock--and the varicolored decorations
swathed the town from end to end.

Warden and Singleton had scurried out of town long before the coming of
Lawler. But Jimmy Singleton, with a number of other children who had
mercifully been dismissed by the school teacher, were close to the
platform during the celebration.

"He's gonna be governor, Jimmy," whispered one of Jimmy's companions,
awe in his voice as he indicated Lawler, who was just concluding his
speech.

"I've knowed him a long time," went on Jimmy's friend, proudly.

"Huh!" said Jimmy; "I've knowed him longer than you. An' besides, he
walloped me. An' he walloped my paw, too!"

Shorty had ridden to town with Lawler; and Shorty rode home with the
candidate for governor--after the citizens of Willets had shouted
themselves hoarse and the prominent men who had come down from the
capital had taken the evening train home.

And Shorty said nothing when Lawler veered from the Circle L trail and
headed eastward, toward Hamlin's cabin. And he waited with much patience
outside the cabin while Lawler went in, to stay an unconscionably long
time.

Ruth was alone. And her eyes were glowing with happiness when she saw
Lawler.

"Oh, I know!" she said when Lawler essayed to break the news to her. "On
his way to town, Blackburn rode over and told me. All of your men were
in town--didn't you know that?"

"Ruth," said Lawler; "I will be elected. Won't you come to the capital
with me--to be the first lady of the state?"

She looked straight at him, her face paling.

"Wait, Kane," she said, gently. "I--I can't, just now. Oh, Kane, don't
you see that the higher you go the harder it is for me. I can't have
people say--what they might say--what your enemies would be sure to say!
Father is all right now. But I can't depend upon him. We will wait,
Kane--until we are sure."

Shorty rode with Lawler after they left the Hamlin cabin. And the
gravity of Lawler's expression was noted by the giant, and duly
commented upon the following morning, in Blackburn's presence.

"The boss's trail is sure hard to anticipate," said Shorty. "There's the
state goin' loco over him--nominatin' him for governor, an' folks in
Willets makin' more fuss over him than they did over the President--the
time he stopped for two minutes in town. Well, you'd think a man would
be sort of fussed up himself, over that kind of a deal. But what does
the boss do? He rides home with me, sayin' nothin' pretty regular--with
a face on him as long as the moral law--an' then some. I ain't got no
rope on him--an' that's a fact. But he's all wool an' a yard wide--ain't
he, Blackburn?"




CHAPTER XXXVI

A MAN MEDITATES VENGEANCE


It had always been lonely at the Hamlin cabin, and it grew more lonely
after Kane Lawler left the Circle L. For the barrier between Ruth and
the happiness she had a right to expect seemed to grow higher and more
impassable daily.

After receiving official notification of his nomination, Lawler had gone
away on a speaking tour of the state, and Ruth had seen little of him.
He came home once, for a few days, just before the election, and had
renewed his pleas to Ruth. But the girl, rigidly adhering to her
determination not to permit the shadow of her father's reputation to
embarrass him, had firmly refused to consent. And after the election,
when he had gone to the capital to take the office to which he had been
chosen by a record vote, she watched him ride away with a consciousness
that the world had grown to gigantic proportions and that Lawler was
going to its extreme farther limits, leaving behind him a gulf of space,
endless and desolate.

Dorgan, the country prosecutor, had been defeated for re-election by a
man named Carney--who was known to be friendly to Singleton. Moreton had
also been defeated--by "Slim" McCray, who hailed from a little town
called Keegles, southeast from Willets. It was rumored--after the
election--that Slim McCray had been friendly to Antrim, though no one
advanced any evidence in support of the rumor.

McCray--because Willets was the county seat--came to the office that had
formerly been Moreton's, immediately following his election. He was
slender, tall, and unprepossessing, and instantly created a bad
impression.

This news came to Ruth through her father, for she had not visited town
since she had gone there to help Mrs. Lawler care for her son. She felt
that she did not dare to leave the cabin. For one night, after her
father had acted strangely, he got up suddenly and went out of the door.
And after a while, growing suspicious, she blew out the light and
stepped softly outside, to see him, at a little distance from the house,
talking with Singleton.

That incident had occurred shortly after Lawler had departed for the
capital to assume his duties as governor. She suspected her father had
talked with Singleton since, though she had never seen them together
from that time until now.

Lawler had been gone a month. She had heard through various
mediums--mostly from cowboys from nearby ranches who occasionally passed
the cabin--that Lawler was "making good"--in the vernacular of the
cowpuncher; and "makin' them all set up an' take notice." Those terms,
of course, would seem to indicate that Lawler was a good governor and
that he was attracting attention by the quality of his administration.

But it seemed that more than a month had passed since Lawler had gone
to the capital. The days dragged and the weeks seemed to be aeons long.
And yet the dull monotony of the girl's life was relieved by trips she
made to the Circle L, to visit Lawler's mother--and by the presence of
Mary Lawler, who had come home for her vacation, during the summer, and
during Lawler's absence on his speaking tour.

Ruth had heard with satisfaction that the Circle L trail herd, attended
by Blackburn, Shorty, and other Circle L men, had not been molested on
the trip to Red Rock. Caldwell and the others had driven their cattle to
Red Rock also--not one of them visiting Warden to arrange for cars.
Lawler's influence, and the spirit he had revealed in undertaking the
long drive the previous season, had had its effect upon the other
owners.

It seemed to Ruth that the fight between the Circle L men and the
rustlers had made the latter cautious; and that even Warden had decided
that discretion was necessary. At any rate, the surface of life in
Willets and the surrounding country had become smooth, no matter what
forces were at work in the depths. It appeared that the men who had
fought Lawler in the past, were now careful to do nothing that would
bring upon them a demonstration of his new power.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gary Warden, however, was not fearful of Lawler's official power. In
fact, he was openly contemptuous when Lawler's name was mentioned in his
presence. Face to face with Lawler, he was afflicted with an emotion
that was akin to fear, though with it was mingled the passionate hatred
he had always felt for the man.

While Lawler had been at the Circle L he had fought him secretly, with
motives that arose from a determination to control the cattle industry.
Warden had had behind him the secret power of the state government and
the clandestine cooperation of the railroad company. His fight against
Lawler had been in the nature of business, in which the advantage had
been all on his side.

Now, however, intense personal feeling dominated Warden. Lawler had
beaten him, so far, and the knowledge intensified his rage against his
conqueror. The railroad company's corral had yawned emptily during the
entire fall season. Not a hoof had been shipped through Willets. All the
cattlemen of the district had driven their stock to Red Rock. And Warden
no longer smiled at the empty corral.

Looking out of one of his office windows this morning, Warden scowled.
He remembered a day, a year or so ago, when he had stood in one of the
windows of his office watching Della Wharton wave a handkerchief at
Lawler. She had been riding out of town in a buckboard, with Aunt
Hannah beside her, and Lawler had just come from the railroad station.
That incident had spread the poison of jealousy in Warden's veins; the
recollection of it had caused him to doubt Della's story of what had
happened at the line cabin during the blizzard of the preceding winter;
it had filled him with the maddening conviction that Lawler had
deliberately tried to alienate Della's affections--that Lawler, knowing
Della to be vain and frivolous, had intentionally planned the girl's
visit to the line cabin.

He did not blame Della for what had happened. Upon Lawler was the blame
for the affair; Lawler had planned it all, merely to be revenged upon
him for his refusal to keep the agreement that had been made with
Lefingwell.

Warden sneered as his thoughts went to that day in Jordan's office when
Lawler, a deadly threat in his eyes, had leaned close to him to warn
him. Warden remembered the words--they had flamed in his consciousness
since.

"But get this straight," Lawler had said. "You've got to fight _me_!
Understand? You'll drag no woman into it. You went to Hamlin's ranch the
other day. God's grace and a woman's mercy permitted you to get away,
alive. Just so sure as you molest a woman in the section, just so sure
will I kill you, no matter who your friends are!"

Apparently, in Lawler's code of morals, it was one thing to force one's
attentions upon a pretty woman, and another thing to steal the
affections of a woman promised to another man.

But Warden's passion permitted him to make no distinction. And his rage
was based upon the premise that Lawler was guilty. Warden's thoughts
grew abysmal as he stood at the window; and considerations of business
became unimportant in his mind as the Satanic impulse seized him. He
stood for a long time at the window, and when he finally seized hat and
coat and went down into the street he was muttering, savagely:

"God's grace and a woman's mercy. Bah! Damn you, Lawler; I'll make you
squirm!"




CHAPTER XXXVII

THE TRAP


For more than a month--or from a few days following the night on which
she had seen her father talking with Dave Singleton--Ruth Hamlin had
been aware that her parent was acting strangely. There had been an
interval--directly after that night when he had told her about his talk
with Lawler, when Lawler had offered to help him to regain his place
among men--that Hamlin had seemed to "go straight," as he had promised.
During that interval he had taken her into his confidence many times, to
discuss with her the new prospects that the future seemed to offer, and
to renew his assurances to her. It had seemed, then, that there was hope
for him.

Of late, though, a change had come over him. He no longer confided in
her; his eyes were beginning to take on again the expression of guilt
she had seen in them in the old days; his glances at her were no longer
direct, but furtive, as though he feared she might learn something of
his actions should she meet his gaze.

In the old days Ruth had passively endured the shame that Hamlin's
crimes had brought upon her. They had been so unexpected that they had
stunned her--they had been so miserably mean that she had not dared to
take anyone into her confidence.

However, the days of passive endurance were over. Lawler knew, and
Lawler had helped her father. And now, she was certain, her father had
again fallen.

She steeled herself against pity for him, determined that she would not
stand idly by and watch him betray Lawler. She did not know what she
intended to do, or what she could do, to prevent the stealing of the
Circle L cattle; but she determined to watch her father, hopeful that
she might devise some way to prevent the thefts.

She had passed many sleepless nights, having become aware that her
father was habitually absenting himself after nightfall, but she had
never been able to catch him in the act of leaving the cabin at those
times, though many nights she had purposely stayed awake.

Tonight she had gone to her room, to lie awake on the bed, fully
dressed. She had left the oil-lamp burning, for Hamlin had been sitting
at a table reading. She heard him get up after a while; saw the light
flicker and go out; heard her father cross the floor and go to his room.

There was a fire in the kitchen stove, for the weather during the day
had been cold, and she could hear the embers crackling for more than an
hour after her father went to his room. After that there followed a
brief time when she heard nothing.

She drew a blanket over her, and its welcome warmth brought on a
drowsiness to which she almost yielded. She was sure, however, that she
would not go to sleep, and she lay there, comfortably for, it seemed
merely a few minutes. And then a sound assailed her ears and she started
up, realizing that she had been asleep. For a chill had come into the
air of the cabin, and she knew the fire had gone out.

She sat up, breathing fast, and ran to her father's room. The bed had
not been slept in; and she emerged from the room, her face pallid with
resolution.

Running to the outside door she swung it open and looked out. Far out
upon the clear, moonlit sweep of plain stretching toward Willets, she
saw the shadowy figures of two horsemen.

Moving swiftly, she went to the corral, caught her pony, saddled it,
threw on a bridle, mounted and rode after the two horsemen, urging the
pony to its best efforts.

The speed at which the pony traveled did not equal the pace of the
animals ahead of her, however, and she steadily lost ground, though the
night was so clear that she did not lose sight of the figures in front
of her until they reached the shadows of Willets' buildings. She did
lose them there, though, and when she rode down the dimly lighted street
she could see no sign of them.

There was no one about, and she rode back and forth on the street,
searching for Hamlin's horse, which would give her a clue to Hamlin's
whereabouts. And at last, peering into a vacant space between two
buildings she saw Hamlin's horse, and another, hitched to a rail near an
outside stairway.

She got off the pony, threw the reins over its head and ran around to
the front of the building, into the light of some oil-lamps that stabbed
the semi-gloom of the street.

The building was occupied by the Wolf Saloon. She knew that, and it was
that knowledge that caused her to hesitate as she stood in front of it.
But her father was in there, she was certain. She had recognized the
horse that had been hitched close to her father's as one that Singleton
had ridden to the Hamlin cabin on several of his visits, and the cold
determination that had seized her at last gave her courage to swing the
front door of the saloon open. She hesitated on the threshold, white,
shaking with dread, almost afraid, now that she had come this far, to
face the terrible men she knew she would find inside. The ill-fame of
the place was notorious.

But while she hesitated, she heard her father's voice--a sound that
drove her to instant action, for it was high-pitched, and carried a note
of anger.

She went inside, then, no longer thinking of herself; her heart a throb
with concern, courage of a high order sustaining her. She pushed the
outside door open, burst through the double-swing door that screened the
barroom from the street, and stood in the front of the room blinking at
the lights.

The room was full of men--she did not know how many. They made a great
blur in front of her; and it seemed to her that all their faces were
turned to her. She had a flashing view of a multitude of inquiring eyes;
she noted the thick haze that hung over the room; her nostrils were
assailed by mingled odors that were nauseating. The flashing glance
showed her the long bar, a cluster of lights overhead; card tables; a
low ceiling, and a stairway leading from the barroom to a platform.

All sound had ceased with her entrance. She saw her father standing near
the center of the room.

He was standing alone, in sinister isolation. Singleton was facing him,
about a dozen feet distant. A few feet from Singleton stood another
man--dark of face, with cruel lips, and eyes that held a wanton light. A
little farther away--close to the bar--stood Gary Warden.

Her father seemed to be the only man in the room who had not seen her. A
terrible rage had gripped him; he seemed to have undergone a strange
transformation since she had seen him last; that manhood which she had
thought had departed from him appeared to have returned.

For he made a striking figure as he stood there. He was rigid, alert; he
seemed to dominate every man that faced him, that stood within sound of
his voice. He had been talking when Ruth entered; he was still talking,
unaware of her presence.

His voice was pitched high, it carried a note of defiance; it was
vibrant with passion. Fascinated by the change in him, Ruth stood
motionless, listening.

"So that's what you brought me here for?" he said, his voice shaking
with rage. He was looking at Singleton and the man who stood near the
latter. "You brought me here because you wanted to be sure there'd be
enough of you to down me. Well, damn you--get goin!"

His voice rose to a screech of awful rage; and while it still resounded
through the room he dropped his right hand and dragged at the pistol at
his hip.

It was done so swiftly that Ruth could make no movement to interfere.
And yet as swiftly as her father's hand had dropped to the holster at
his side, the dark-faced man who stood near Singleton anticipated the
movement. His right hand moved like a streak of light. It went down,
then up again with the same motion. The air rocked with a crashing
report, mingled with Ruth's scream of terror. And Hamlin's gun loosened
in his hand, his knees doubled and he tumbled headlong, to fall face
down at the feet of the dark-faced man who stood, sneering, some
blue-white smoke curling upward in mocking laziness from the muzzle of
his pistol.

Ruth had moved with the report of the pistol; she was at Hamlin's side
when he fell, grasping one of his arms; and she went down with him, to
one knee, dazed from the suddenness of the thing; palzied with horror,
the room reeling around her.

How long she knelt at her father's side she did not know. It seemed only
a second or two to her when she raised her head and looked around with
dumb, agonized grief at the faces that seemed to fill the place. Then
she heard Warden's voice; he spoke to the dark-faced man who had killed
her father, and his voice was vibrant with a mocking, Satanic
satisfaction.

"You've wanted her, Slade--take her!"

The dark-faced man grinned at her, bestially. She leaped to her feet at
the expression of his eyes, and started to run toward the door. But
terror shackled her feet; it seemed that some power was dragging at her,
holding her back from the door. She had not taken more than half a
dozen steps when Slade was upon her.

His strength seemed to be prodigious, for despite her desperate
resistance he lifted her from the floor, crushed her to him and started
for the stairs. She screamed, begging the men in the room to help her.
But through the haze she saw grinning faces turned to hers; heard loud
laughter and coarse oaths. And then came oblivion.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE GOVERNOR'S GUNS


From his desk in the big, quiet room in the capitol building Lawler
could look out upon a wide sweep of orderly landscape. There were
trees--now stripped of their foliage--in serried array around the
spacious grounds that surrounded the building; bushes arranged in
attractive clusters; a low stone fence with massive posts that rose in
simple dignity above white cement walks that curved gracefully toward
the streets.

For nearly two months the huge building--representing the seat of
government of a mighty state--had been Lawler's throne. And he had ruled
with a democratic spirit and with a simple directness, that had
indicated earnestness and strength. There had been a mass of detail
which had required close attention; many conferences with the prominent
men of his party--in which the prominent men had been made to understand
that Lawler intended to be governor in fact as well as in name; and a
gradual gathering up of all the loose ends of administration which had
become badly tangled through the inefficiency of the former incumbent.
And now the legislature was in session.

Lawler had not been able to seize time to visit the Wolf River section.
Work, work--and more work had confronted him from the moment he had
taken the oath of office on the capitol steps until this minute, when
he sat at his desk looking out of a window at the bleak, artificial
landscape.

There had been times when he had longed for a glance at the Wolf River
section; and there had been many more times when he had sat where he was
sitting now, thinking of Ruth Hamlin.

Something lacked--he was not satisfied. In the old days--when he had
visited the capital and had entered the state building to sense
immediately the majesty of it and to feel the atmosphere of solemn
dignity that reigned within--he had felt that any man must experience
the ultimate thrill--the tingling realization that he stood in a spot
hallowed by the traditions of the republic.

The thought of serving the people of a great state had thrilled him
mightily in the old days. It still thrilled him, but it brought with it
a longing for Ruth to share it with him.

Thoughts of Ruth this morning brought Gary Warden into his mind. And he
frowned as a man frowns who watches a pleasant scene turn into tragedy.

Only his collapse as he faced Warden that day in the latter's office had
prevented him killing the man. He had left the Dickman cabin lusting for
Warden's life. The passion that had surged through his veins during the
long ride to Warden's office had been the only force that could have
kept him going. It had burned within him like a raging fire, and it had
upheld his failing strength until he had sunk beside the desk with his
passion unsatisfied.

He had thought much of the incident during the days he had lain in the
room at the Willets Hotel, and later, while convalescing at the Circle
L. And he had been glad his strength had failed him before he did what
he had set out to do. For while there was no doubt in his mind that
Warden had been implicated in all the attacks that had been made upon
him, he had no legal proof--except the confession, signed by Link and
Givens--that Warden was guilty.

And, now that he had been elected, he intended to keep silent regarding
the confession. He hated Warden, but it was with something of the
passion a man feels who treads upon a poisonous reptile that attacks
him.

He meant to be generous in the moment of victory. Those men--Warden,
Perry Haughton, Hatfield, and the officials of the railroad company--had
performed according to their lights, using whatever power and influence
was at hand to gain their ends. But they had failed. Several bills now
pending in the legislature would effectually curb the powers of those
men and others of their kind; and he would see to it that there never
would be another opportunity for that sort of practice.

Lawler got up after a time, and walked to one of the big windows, where
he stood for some minutes looking out. Then he returned to his desk,
dropped into the chair, pulled open a deep drawer and took therefrom a
cartridge belt, completely studded with cartridges. Suspended from the
belt were two ivory-handled pistols that had seen much service.

They had belonged to his father. Later, he had worn them himself--in
the days when his character had been in process of developing, when he
had earned, with them, a reputation which had made him respected
throughout the state.

They were, he felt, symbols of an ancient time. The day was coming when
men would ride the open range without guns, when the wearing of guns
would bring upon a man the distrust and the condemnation of his kind.
Law and order would supersede the rule of the gun, and the passions of
men would have to be regulated by the statute books.

He had brought the two guns with him upon the impulse of a moment. He
would be away from the Circle L for at least two years, and he wanted
the guns where he could look at them occasionally. For they brought into
his mind a picture of his father as he had seen him, many times, wearing
them; and they reminded him of days when he, too, had worn them--days
that had a romantic charm all their own.




CHAPTER XXXIX

SLADE'S PRISONER


When Ruth regained the use of her senses she was lying on a bed in a
small, evil-smelling room. An oil-lamp burned upon a little stand in one
corner. A door--the only one--was closed--locked. She saw the stout
wooden bar in its sturdy side slots.

At first she thought she was alone; and with a hope that made her
breathless she lifted herself, swinging around until her feet were on
the floor, intending to leap to the door, open it, and escape. A sound
arrested her, a chuckle, grim and sinister, in a man's voice. She
flashed swiftly around, to see Slade sitting in a chair near the foot of
the bed. He was bending forward, his elbows on his knees, his knuckles
supporting his chin, watching her with a wide, amused grin.

For a long, breathless space she looked at him; noting the evil light in
his eyes and the cruel, bestial curve of his lips. She saw how his gaze
quickened as he watched her; how he had drawn one foot under
him--obviously to be used as leverage for a rapid leap should she try to
reach the door.

"It ain't no use, ma'am," he said; "you're here, an' you're goin' to
stay for a while." He got up and walked to the door, placing his back
against it and grinning widely as he looked down at her, as she yielded
to a long shudder of dread.

During the silence that followed Slade's words Ruth could hear faint
sounds from below--the clinking of glasses, the scuffling of feet, a low
murmur of voices. She knew, then, that they had brought her to a room
above a saloon--the Wolf, she supposed, for that was where Warden said
he intended to bring her.

She watched Slade fearfully, divining that he meant to attack her. She
could see that determination in his eyes and in his manner. He was still
grinning, but now the grin had become set, satyric, hideous. It was a
mere smirk. No mirth was behind it--nothing but passion, intense,
frightful.

She glanced swiftly around, saw a window beyond the foot of the bed with
a ragged shade hanging over it. She knew the Wolf was only two stories
in height, and she felt that if she threw herself out of the window she
would suffer injury. But she meant to do it. She got her feet set firmly
on the floor, and was about to run toward the window, when Slade leaped
at her, seeing the reckless design in her eyes.

She had been moving when Slade leaped, and she evaded the arm he
extended and slipped away from him. She heard Slade curse. She was
almost at the window when he rushed at her again; and to keep him from
grasping her she dodged, bringing up against the farther wall, while
Slade, losing his balance, plunged against the window, crashing against
the glass and sending a thousand broken fragments tinkling on the floor
of the room and into the darkness outside.

She was alert to the advantage that had suddenly come to her, and she
ran lightly to the door and tried to lift the bar. She got one end of
it from a socket, but the other stuck. She pulled frantically at it. It
finally came loose, with a suddenness that threw her off balance, and
she reeled against the bed, almost falling.

She saw Slade coming toward her, a bestial rage in his eyes, and she
threw herself again at the door, grasping it and throwing it wide open.
She tried to throw herself out of the opening, to the stairs that led
straight downward into the barroom. But the movement was halted at its
inception by Slade's arms, which went around her with the rigidity of
iron hoops, quickly constricting. She got a glimpse of the room
below--saw the bar and the men near it--all facing her way, watching
her. Then Slade drew her back and closed the door.

He did not bar the door, for she was fighting him, now--fighting him
with a strength and fury that bothered him for an instant. His strength,
however, was greater than hers, and at last her arms were crushed
against her sides with a pressure that almost shut off her breath.
Slade's face was close to hers, his lips loose; and his eyes were
looking into hers with an expression that terrified her.

She screamed--once--twice--with the full power of her lungs. And then
Slade savagely brought a big hand over her mouth and held it there. She
fought to escape the clutch, kicking, squirming--trying to bite the
hand. But to no avail. The terrible pressure on her mouth was
suffocating her, and the room went dark as she continued to fight. She
thought Slade had extinguished the light, and she was conscious of a
dull curiosity over how he had done it. And then sound seem to cease.
She felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing. She was conscious only of
that terrible pressure over her mouth and nose. And finally she ceased
to feel even that.




CHAPTER XL

PRIMITIVE INSTINCTS


Shorty and a dozen Circle L men--among them Blackburn and the three
others who had been wounded in the fight with the rustlers on the plains
the previous spring--had been waiting long in a gully at a distance of a
mile or more from the Hamlin cabin. Shortly after dark they had filed
into the gully, having come directly from the Circle L.

Hours before, they had got off their horses to stretch their legs, and
to wait. And now they had grown impatient. It was cold--even in the
gulley where the low moaning, biting wind did not reach them--and they
knew they could have no fire.

"Hell!" exclaimed one man, intolerantly; "I reckon she's a whizzer!"

"Looks a heap like it," agreed Shorty. "Seems, if Hamlin couldn't get
him headed this way--like he said he would--he ought to let us know."

"You reckon Hamlin's runnin' straight, now?" inquired Blackburn.

"Straight as a die!" declared Shorty. "If you'd been trailin' him like
me an' the boys has, you'd know it. Trouble is, that Singleton is
holdin' off. A dozen times we've been close enough to ketch Singleton
with the goods--if he'd do the brandin'. But he don't, an' Hamlin has to
do it--with Singleton watchin'. We've framed up on him a dozen times.
But he lets Hamlin run the iron on 'em. Hamlin eased that bunch into the
gully just ahead, especial for tonight. I helped him drive 'em. An'
Hamlin said that tonight he'd refuse to run the iron on 'em--makin'
Singleton do it. An' then we'd ketch him doin' it. But I reckon Hamlin's
slipped up somewheres."

"It ain't none comfortable here, with that wind whinin' that vicious,"
complained a cowboy. "An' no fire. Hamlin said ten o'clock, didn't he?
It's past eleven."

"It's off, I reckon," said Shorty. "Let's fan it to Hamlin's shack an'
say somethin' to him."

Instantly the outfit was on the move. With Shorty leading they swept out
of the gully to the level and rode northward rapidly.

When they came in sight of the Hamlin cabin there was no light within,
and the men sat for a time on their horses, waiting and listening. Then,
when it seemed certain there was no one stirring, Shorty glanced at the
horse corral.

Instantly he whispered to the other men:

"Somethin's wrong, boys. Hamlin's horse is gone, an' Ruth's pony!"

He dismounted and burst into the cabin, looking into the two bedrooms.
He came out again, scratching his head in puzzlement.

"I don't seem to sabe this here thing, boys. I know Ruth Hamlin ain't in
the habit of wanderin' off alone at this time of the night. An' Hamlin
was tellin' me that he sure was goin' with Singleton. It's a heap
mysterious, an' I've got a hunch things ain't just what they ought to
be!"

He turned toward the plain that stretched toward Willets. Far out--a
mere dot in his vision--he detected movement. He straightened, his face
paled.

"Somebody's out there, headin' for town. I'm takin' a look--the boss
would want me to, an' I ain't overlookin' anything that'll do him any
good!"

He leaped upon his horse, and the entire company plunged into the soft
moonlight that flooded the plains between the cabin and Willets.

       *       *       *       *       *

The ivory-handled pistols were still on Lawler's desk when his secretary
softly opened a door and entered. The secretary smiled slightly at sight
of the weapons, but he said no word as he advanced to the desk and
placed a telegram before Lawler.

He stood, waiting respectfully, as Lawler read the telegram. It was from
Moreton:

"Governor Lawler: There's something mighty wrong going on in Willets.
Slade and his gang struck town this morning. He was with Warden all day
in the Wolf. Don't depend on the new sheriff."

Lawler got up, his face paling. He dismissed the secretary and then
stood for several minutes looking down at the pistols on the desk. They
offered a quick solution of the problem that confronted him.

At this minute he was conscious of one thing only--that Slade was in
Willets. Slade, who had led the gang that had killed his men--Slade,
whose face haunted Blackburn's dreams--the man the Circle L outfit held
responsible for the massacre that day on the plains above the big
valley.

Lurking in the metal cylinders of the two weapons on the desk was that
death which Warden, Singleton, Slade, and the others deserved at his
hands. He took up the pistols, nestling their sinister shapes in his
palms, while his blood rioted with the terrible lust that now seized
him--the old urge to do violence, the primal instinct to slay, to which
he had yielded when Shorty told him of the things Blondy Antrim had
done.

Another minute passed while he fondled the weapons. Twice he moved as
though to buckle the cartridge belt around his waist--shoving aside the
black coat he wore, which would have hidden them. But each time he
changed his mind.

He knew that if he wore them he would use them. The driving intensity of
his desire to kill Warden, Singleton, and Slade would overwhelm him if
he should find they had harmed Ruth. The deadly passion that held him in
a mighty clutch would take no account of his position, of his duty to
the state, or of the oath he had taken to obey and administer the laws.

While he silently fought the lust that filled his heart the secretary
came in. He started and then stood rigid, watching Lawler, seeming to
divine something of the struggle that was going on before his eyes. He
saw how Lawler's muscles had tensed, how his chin had gone forward with
a vicious thrust--noted the awful indecision that had seized the man. As
the secretary watched, he realized that Lawler was on the verge of
surrendering to the passions he was fighting--for Lawler had again
taken up the cartridge belt and was opening his coat to buckle the belt
around him.

"_Governor._"

It was the secretary's voice. It was low, conveying the respect that the
man always used in addressing Lawler. But the sound startled Lawler like
the explosion of a bomb in the room. He flashed around, saw the
secretary--looked steadily at him for one instant, and then dropped the
belt to the desk, tossed the pistols into the drawer and smiled
mirthlessly.

"Governor," said the secretary; "your train is ready."

The secretary stood within three yards of Lawler, and before he could
turn to go out, Lawler had reached him. He seized both the man's hands,
gripped them tightly, and said, hoarsely:

"Thank you, Williams."

Then he released the secretary's hands and plunged out through the door,
while the secretary, smiling wisely, walked to the desk and picking up
the cartridge belt, dropped it into the drawer with the pistols.




CHAPTER XLI

THE CLEAN-UP


The Wolf Saloon was in a big frame building that stood at a little
distance from the back of the street, with a wide, open space on each
side of it. Lights were flickering from some of the upstairs windows of
the building when Shorty and the other Circle L men reached town. Shorty
and his men had ridden hard, and they had seen a horse and rider halt in
front of the building while they were yet a mile or so out on the
plains. And when Shorty's horse struck the edge of town Shorty headed
him straight for the Wolf, veering when he reached it and passing to the
open space from which ran an outside stairway. The other men followed
Shorty's example, and they were close at his heels when he slipped off
his horse and ran around to the front of the Wolf.

Warden had come out shortly before; he was now in his office farther
down the street, congratulating himself upon the outcome of the incident
in the saloon. He had struck a damaging blow at Lawler. At a stroke he
was evening his score with the latter.

Several other men had emerged from the saloon. When Shorty reached the
front door four men were just emerging, carrying another. Suspicious,
alert, Shorty halted the men and peered closely at the face of the man
they were carrying.

"It's Joe Hamlin!" he said as he recognized the other's face.

Shorty's eyes were glowing with rage and suspicion.

"What's happened?" he demanded of one of the men.

"Rukus," shortly replied one. "Hamlin, here, tried to draw on Slade, an'
Slade----"

"Slade!"

Shorty almost screamed the words. He straightened, his face grew
convulsed. Pausing on the verge of violent action, he heard Hamlin's
voice:

"Shorty!"

Shorty leaned over. Straining, his muscles working, his eyes blazing,
Shorty heard low words issuing from Hamlin's lips:

"Slade done it, Shorty. An' he's got Ruth--took her upstairs.
Shorty--save her--for God's sake!"

Shorty straightened. "Take this man to the doctor--he's hit bad!" The
words were flung at the four men; and Shorty was on the move before he
finished.

Blackburn and the others were close behind him when he burst into the
front door of the saloon.

The saloon occupied the entire lower floor. A bar ran the length of the
room from front to rear. In the center of the room was a roulette wheel;
near it was a faro table; and scattered in various places were other
tables. Some oil-lamps in clusters provided light for the card and
gambling tables; and behind the bar were several bracket lamps.

There were perhaps a score of men in the room when Shorty and the Circle
L men burst in. Shorty had come to a halt in the glare of one of the
big clusters of lights, and his friends had halted near him.

The giant made a picture that brought an awed hush over the place. He
stood in the glaring light, a gun in each hand, the muscles of his face
and neck standing out like whipcords; his legs a-sprawl, his eyes
blazing with awful rage as they roved around the room, scanning the
faces of every man there. The other Circle L men had drawn their
weapons, too. But Shorty dominated. It was upon him that all eyes
turned; it was upon his crimson, rage-lined face that every man looked.
He was a figure of gigantic proportions--a mighty man in the grip of the
blood-lust.

"You guys stand. Every damned one of you! Don't move a finger or bat an
eyelash! I've come a-killin'!" he said in a low, tense voice, the words
coming with a snap, jerkily, like the separate and distinct lashes of a
whip.

Not a man in the room moved, nor did their fascinated eyes waver for an
instant from Shorty's face.

"Where's Slade?"

He shot the words at them. He saw their eyes waver for an instant from
his and they looked toward the stairs in the rear--the stairs that Ruth
Hamlin had seen when for an instant after throwing the door of the room
open she had glanced down to see the room full of men, all looking at
her.

The concentrated gazing of the men at the stairs told Shorty what he
wanted to know. He spoke to Blackburn, throwing the words back over his
shoulder:

"Hold 'em right where they are--damn 'em!"

Then with a few gigantic bounds he was at the foot of the stairs. In a
few more he had gained the top, where he pressed his huge shoulder
against the door. It gave a little--enough to further enrage the giant.
He drew back a little and literally hurled himself against it. It burst
open, Shorty keeping his feet as the wreck fell away from him. And he
saw Slade, with a hand over Ruth's mouth, standing near the foot of the
bed.

Evidently Slade had been about to release Ruth when he heard the door
crashing behind him; for at the instant Shorty emerged from the wreck he
saw that the girl's body was already falling--toward the bed--as Slade
drew away from her and reached for his guns.

They came out--both of them--streaking fire and smoke. But they never
came to the deadly level to which Slade sought to throw them; for
Shorty's guns were crashing at Slade's first movement, and the bullets
from the outlaw's weapons thudded into the board floor, harmlessly, and
Slade lurched forward--almost to Shorty's side--his guns loosening in
his hands and falling, one after the other, to the floor. He grinned,
with hideous satire, into Shorty's face as he tried, vainly, to steady
himself.

"Warden--the damned skunk--said Lawler would come--first!" he said, with
horrible pauses. He lurched again, still grinning satirically; and
slumped to the floor, where he turned slowly over on his back and lay
still.

Shorty glanced at Ruth, who was huddled on the bed; then he wheeled, and
leaped for the stairs.

Before he reached the bottom, Ruth sat up and stared dazedly about. She
had heard the crashing of the pistols, though the reports had seemed to
come from a great distance--faintly, dully. But when she reeled to her
feet and saw Slade lying on the floor, his upturned face ghastly in the
feeble light from the oil-lamp, she knew that someone had saved her, and
she yielded, momentarily, to a great joy that weakened her so that she
had to sit on the edge of the bed to steady herself.

It was not for long; and presently she got up and swayed to the door at
the top of the stairs, holding onto the jamb while she looked downward.
When her eyes grew accustomed to the light she paled.

In the big room were many men. She saw Shorty standing among them--she
recognized them as Circle L cowboys. Shorty's guns were out; in fact the
men in the group near Shorty seemed to bristle with weapons.

At the rear of the room was another group of men. They stood motionless,
silent, and had no weapons in their hands. But some of them were
crouching, their faces grim and set.

And then Ruth heard Shorty's voice--hoarse, raucous with passion:

"You guys that don't belong to Slade's gang, get out! Fan it! You Slade
men stand! I know every damned one of you!"

There was a short silence, during which several men slipped away from
the group at the rear of the room and bolted for the rear door. And
then, suddenly, as Shorty muttered words that Ruth did not hear, both
groups of men leaped into action.

Ruth saw the men in the group at the rear reach, concertedly, for their
weapons; she saw smoke streaks stabbing the heavy atmosphere of the big
room; heard the roar and crash of pistols; saw men falling, to land in
grotesque positions; saw Shorty, huge and terrible amid the billowing
smoke, shoot a man who tried to leap over the bar, so that he fell
across it limply, as though sleeping. She observed another man--one of
Slade's--dodge behind a card table, rest his pistol for an instant on
its top, and shoot at Shorty. She saw Shorty snap a shot at the man, saw
the man's head wobble as he sank behind the table. And then she was
suddenly aware that it was ended. A ghastly silence fell. Through the
heavy smoke she saw Shorty, standing where he had stood all along--near
the cluster of lights just inside the front door. It seemed to her that
the room was full of motionless figures of men, strewing the floor.

She was sick and weak, but she knew she must get out into the air or she
would faint; and so she began to descend the stairs, holding to the
slender railing for support.

She got down without anyone seeing her. No one seemed to pay any
attention to her. As she reached a side door--opening into the space
from which the outside stairs ran--she looked back, to see Shorty and a
number of Circle L men clustered around Blackburn--who was sitting in a
chair, looking very white.

She got out into the open and ran toward the street, hardly knowing
what she intended to do. Whatever happened, she did not want to stay
longer in the Wolf. She had a feeling that if she could find Moreton she
would be safe until Shorty and the Circle L men completed the grim work
upon which they were engaged. For she knew that the Circle L men had
sworn to square their account with the outlaws--and, knowing the
circumstances of the fight on the plains the previous spring, she could
not blame them for what they had done.

And yet she wanted to get away from the scene--anywhere.

She halted in front of the Wolf, and saw a number of men on the
street--and others running toward the building. She moved down the
street toward the station, and as she passed a group of men she saw a
man running toward her, shouting loudly:

"Lawler's here! What in hell is comin' off? Lawler just got off a
special train! He looks like he looked that day he rode into town
lookin' for Gary Warden!"

Far down the street Ruth saw him coming. He was running, and she leaped
to meet him, unaware that Shorty and the other Circle L men had emerged
from the front door of the Wolf and were listening to the man who had
brought the news of Lawler's arrival.

She was aware of nothing but the fact that Lawler was coming. And when,
running toward him, she saw him stop dead short, she cried aloud with
joy:

"O Kane! Kane!"

And then his big arms went around her, and she nestled close to him,
shuddering, sobbing, laughing.

Excitedly, rapidly, as he held her, she related the story of the night's
adventure. Then Shorty and the others came up. She and Lawler were
standing in front of a store, in a glare of light that came through a
big window; and she saw his lips straighten when she told him what Slade
had done.

"Shorty," he said, grimly; "take care of her."

And then, despite her struggles--for she knew that he was going to seek
Warden--she found herself a captive in the giant's arms, while Lawler
ran down the street toward Warden's office.




CHAPTER XLII

GOING EAST


Within fifteen minutes after he had left Ruth Hamlin with Slade at the
side door of the Wolf, Warden had sent a telegram to Lawler, at the
capital, informing him that the girl might be found at the brothel with
the outlaw. He had signed no name to the telegram, but that did not
lessen the venomous satisfaction he felt over sending it.

It had been nearly eleven o'clock when Warden sent the wire and allowing
for some minutes of waste time before the message could be delivered,
and the space of time that must elapse before Lawler could reach
Willets--even if he came on a special train--he knew that Lawler could
not arrive before the early hours of the morning.

Lawler, Warden knew, would be in a killing mood when he reached Willets.
And he knew, also, that Slade would be waiting for Lawler, and that he
would kill Lawler on sight.

Slade would have to kill Lawler, for Lawler, as governor, had the power
to be revenged upon the outlaw for the abduction of Ruth; and Slade
would know that Lawler would use that power to the limit. If Slade
killed Lawler, that would be another matter. The outlaw would have to
hide, to evade the clutches of the law. But hiding was not more than
Slade had been accustomed to for years, and that necessity would work
no hardship upon him.

That was Warden's reasoning. Perhaps it was faulty, for it hinged upon
the vagaries of a wanton character who could not be depended upon. But
Warden had to take that chance.

And Warden's reasoning, of late, had been influenced by his passionate
hatred of Lawler. That hatred had warped his judgment until he had
become a creature guided by the savage impulses that filled his brain.

When he left Slade and Ruth at the door of the Wolf, he went directly to
his office, taking Singleton with him. He lit a kerosene lamp, built a
fire in the small stove that stood in a corner; seated himself in a
chair, motioned Singleton to another, lit a cigar and smoked--his eyes
gleaming with the vindictive joy he felt.

However, the cigar in his mouth was not half smoked, when from a
distance, on the steady west wind, was borne to his ears the faint,
wailing shriek of a locomotive whistle.

The cigar drooped from his lips and he looked swiftly at Singleton.
Singleton had heard the sound, too, for his eyes had narrowed and his
attitude had become tense.

That both men had the same thought was evidenced by the glance they
exchanged--incipient apprehension.

"It's a freight, likely," muttered Singleton.

Warden took a nervous puff at his cigar. Then he got up, walked to a
window and stood, looking out into the night. He stood there for a few
minutes, Singleton watching him--until the whistle shrieked again and a
muffled roar reached their ears. Then Warden turned, his face ashen.

"Singleton, it's a special!" he said, jerkily; "an engine and one car!"

Singleton got up and walked to the window, beside Warden. As they stood
there, they saw the train stop at the station. They saw, in the dim
light from the coach, the figure of a tall man alight and dart across
the platform, to vanish in the shadow of the station. Simultaneously,
there came to their ears the staccato reports of pistols, the sounds
rendered faint and muffled by distance.

Singleton flashed around, his face pale and his eyes bulging.

"It's Lawler! I'd know him among a million! An' somethin's happened at
the Wolf. That's where the shootin' is! Warden," he said, nervously; "it
looks like there's goin' to be hell to pay!"

Warden's face was ashen, but he laughed.

"Don't worry, Singleton; Slade will take care of Lawler," he said. But
the words carried no conviction with them--they had been uttered without
expression.

Warden walked to the door and gazed down the dimly lighted stairway.
There was suppressed excitement in his manner, nervous anxiety in his
eyes. He walked back into the room, threw his cigar into a cuspidor, and
stood with his back to the stove, listening.

Singleton said nothing; though his lips had settled into a pout and his
eyes had a sullen, malignant expression. He, too, was wishing--what
Warden was wishing--that Slade would kill Lawler. The death of Lawler
would make the future safe for both of them; it would remove a menace to
their lives and a barrier to their schemes for the autocratic control of
the cattle industry.

But they doubted. Deep in their hearts lurked a fear that something had
gone wrong--which thought was suggested by the sounds of the shooting
they had heard.

Singleton had become afflicted with the nervousness that had seized
Warden. The pout on his lips grew; he cast startled, inquiring glances
toward the door. And at last, as they stood silent, looking at each
other, there came a sound--close; the sound of a man walking in the
street. As they listened the sound came closer, reached the front of the
building. Then they heard it on the stairs. Warden stiffened, and
Singleton drew his gun. An instant later the door crashed inward, and
Lawler stood in the opening, his eyes flaming with the cold wrath that
had been in them on the day when, after he had killed Antrim, he had
come to Warden's office for a like purpose.

There was no word spoken. Lawler saw the gun in Singleton's hand. He
leaped quickly to one side as Singleton pulled the trigger--the smoke
streak touching his clothing as he moved. He leaped again as Singleton
shot at him a second time. This time he was so close to Singleton that
the powder burned his face. And before Singleton could shoot again
Lawler struck--with the precision and force that he had put into his
blows that day in the schoolhouse.

Singleton reeled headlong across the room, bringing up against the
farther wall, striking it with his head and tumbling to the floor beside
it.

Then, his lips set stiffly, his eyes flaming with a fire that brought
terror into Warden's heart, he faced the other.

"Now, damn you; I'll teach you to make war on women!" He leaped forward,
striking at Warden with terrific energy.

       *       *       *       *       *

Still struggling in Shorty's arms, Ruth heard Singleton's shots. She
broke away from Shorty, noting with dull astonishment that Shorty seemed
almost to have permitted it, and ran down the street toward Warden's
office. As she ran she heard a tumult behind her, and steps close beside
her. She glanced swiftly over her shoulder, to see Shorty beside her.
The giant was taking steps that dwarfed hers, and while she looked at
him he drew past her. She heard him muttering as he passed--caught his
words:

"Lawler ain't got no gun--I seen that!"

She ran faster than ever at that, and when Shorty reached the foot of
the stairs leading to Warden's office she was at his heels.

There were other men behind her--a multitude. She felt them pressing
close behind her as she ran up the stairs. But she did not look back,
for she heard sounds of a conflict in Warden's office--the thud and jar
of blows, the crashing of furniture overturned and smashed; the
scuffling of feet on the floors--and screams of rage--in Warden's
voice.

When she reached the top of the stairs and looked into the room between
Shorty's shoulder and the door jamb, she screamed with apprehension. For
she saw Singleton, with blood dripping from a huge gash in his cheek, in
the act of picking up a pistol that, evidently, had fallen on the floor
during the fight that must have raged in the room.

Singleton's face was hideous with rage. It was evident that he did not
see Shorty and herself at the door--and that he had not heard the
tramping of the many feet on the stairs. He was apparently oblivious to
everything but the fact that the pistol was there and that he had an
opportunity to use it.

Ruth saw Warden and Lawler fighting in a corner. Warden's back was
against the wall, near the stove. He was facing the door. His lips were
lacerated, drooling blood, his eyes were puffed and blackened, and he
was screaming and cursing insanely.

As Ruth watched, her gaze taking in the wreck of the room--and Singleton
picking up the pistol--she saw Lawler strike Warden--a full sweeping
blow that sent forth a sodden deadening sound as it landed.

Warden sagged, his eyes closing as he slid to the floor and sat in the
corner his legs doubled under him, his chin on his chest.

The scene had held only for an instant--merely while Ruth screamed. The
sound had hardly died away when Singleton succeeded in grasping the
pistol. Ruth tried to squeeze past Shorty, to prevent the tragedy that
seemed imminent. But Shorty's quick, flashing motion checked her--made
interference by her unnecessary. There was a flash at Shorty's side,
and the crash of his pistol rocked the air in the room and the hallway.
Singleton straightened, turned slowly, looked full at Shorty. Then
without uttering a sound he pitched forward, almost at Lawler's feet.

The roar of the pistol brought Lawler around so that he faced the door.
He saw Shorty and Ruth and the others behind them, but gave no sign. His
rage had left him; he seemed coldly deliberate. The only sign of passion
about him was in his eyes. They were narrowed, and pin points of fire
appeared to flame in them. As though there were no witnesses to what he
was doing, he stooped, lifted Warden and threw him over his shoulder.
The crowd gave way before him as he started for the stairs--even Ruth
and Shorty stepping aside to let him pass. They watched him wonderingly
as he carried his burden down the stairs and out into the street. And
then as he walked they followed him.

He went straight across the street, past some low buildings, and over a
vacant stretch between the buildings and the station. The crowd followed
him--Ruth and Shorty closely, silently watching.

The special train in which he had come was still standing beside the
station platform, the engine panting as though from its long run
eastward. Ruth noted that the train crew was on the platform near the
engine, interestedly watching the approach of Lawler carrying his
burden.

Lawler walked to the rear end of the coach and threw Warden bodily upon
it. Then he turned and motioned toward the conductor. The latter
approached him warily, seeming doubtful of what might be in store for
him from a man, who though governor--thus carried the body of a man on
his shoulder. But he listened respectfully when he observed the clear
sanity of Lawler's eyes.

"This man is leaving Willets--immediately!" said Lawler. "He's going
East, to the end of this line--at my expense. When he regains
consciousness you will tell him what I have said."

"It's Warden, ain't it?" grinned the conductor. "Well, I'll be glad to
take him. But I'll have to wire for orders. This guy ain't a _bona fide_
passenger."

He strode to the telegraphers window. There was a short wait; and during
the interval Warden stirred and sat up, swaying from side to side and
staring about him in bewilderment. Lawler stepped forward, leaned over
the platform.

"Warden," he said; "you are going East. You are not coming back. If you
ever step a foot into this state again I will send you to prison for a
term that will make you wish you were dead. I have a signed confession
from Link and Givens that convicts you of a crime for which this state
provides an adequate penalty. Do you understand?"

Warden nodded, wearily, and dropped his chin to his chest. After an
interval, during which the crowd watched him intently, he staggered to
his feet and reeled into the coach, and the crowd saw him no more. An
instant later the conductor went toward the coach, grinning, signaling
the engineer.

A low cheer rose from the crowd as the train started, and a man far back
toward the station shouted, loudly:

"If they hadn't been in such a damned hurry, we'd have raised a
collection to send him to hell!"

A little later Lawler and Ruth and Shorty formed the van of the crowd
that walked down the street toward the Wolf--where the Circle L men had
left their horses. Ruth walked between Lawler and Shorty. Ruth was very
pale, and her lips were trembling. In front of the Willets Hotel--in the
flood of light that came through the windows, she clutched at Lawler's
sleeve.

"Hurry, Kane," she begged; "they have killed daddy!"

"Don't you believe it, Miss Ruth," said Shorty, softly, into her ear.
"When I left Joe Hamlin he was a whole lot alive--an' gettin' more alive
right along. I left Andy Miller with him--an' Andy's got more sabe of
medicine than any doctor in these parts!"

"Shorty!" she breathed, springing around in front of him and catching
him by the shoulders--standing on tip-toe to do it. "_Shorty_, you don't
mean it?"

Shorty laughed lowly. "I'm reckonin' to mean it, Miss Ruth."

"But how," she questioned, her hands still on his shoulders, her eyes
wide and questioning; "how did you happen to go to the Two Bar?"

"Well, you see, Miss Ruth," laughed the giant--while the crowd which had
followed them stood off at a little distance and watched--"it was like
this. Me an' the boys--an' your dad--had been tryin' for a long time to
ketch Singleton runnin' an iron on the Circle L cattle. Your dad an' me
had run a bunch into that gully near the Two Bar, an' tonight me an' the
boys was waitin' in the gully for your dad to bring Singleton there.
Your dad had been brandin' stolen stock--at my orders--an' tonight he
was goin' to refuse--makin' Singleton do it. For Singleton was really
doin' the rustlin'. An' your dad----"

"Was doing it all for you? Is that what you mean, Shorty?"

"Why, I reckon, Miss Ruth. You see----"

Ruth had to leap upward to do it. But somehow the height was achieved.
Two arms went around Shorty's neck and Ruth's lips were pressed against
his with a resounding smack.

"O Shorty!" she exclaimed as she hugged him tightly, after kissing him;
"I just _love_ you!"

Shorty blushed furiously. As soon as Ruth released him he grinned with
embarrassment and walked with giant strides down the street to where he
and his men had left the horses, the laughter and jibes of his fellows
following him.




CHAPTER XLIII

THE MAJESTY OF PEACE


As upon another day that was vivid in his memory, Governor Lawler sat at
his desk in his office in the capitol building. A big, keen-eyed man of
imposing appearance was sitting at a little distance from Lawler,
watching him. The big man was talking, but the governor seemed to be
looking past him--at the bare trees that dotted the spacious grounds
around the building. His gaze seemed to follow the low stone fence with
its massive posts that seemed to hint of the majesty of the government
Lawler served; it appeared that he was studying the bleak landscape, and
that he was not interested in what the big man was saying.

But Lawler was not interested in the landscape. For many minutes, while
listening to the big man--and answering him occasionally--he had been
watching for a trim little figure that he knew would presently appear on
one of the white walks leading to the great, wide steps that led to the
entrance to the building. For he had heard the long-drawn plaint of a
locomotive whistle some minutes before; he had seen the train itself
come gliding over the mammoth plains that stretched eastward from the
capitol; and he knew that Ruth would be on the train.

"The proposed bill is iniquitous," said the big man. "It is more than
that, Governor Lawler; it is discrimination without justification. We
really have made unusual efforts to provide cars for the shipment of
cattle. The bill you propose will conflict directly with the regulations
of Federal Interstate Commerce. It will be unconstitutional."

"We'll risk it," smiled Lawler. "The attorney-general is certain of the
constitutionality of the bill."

"We'll never obey its provisions!" declared the big man, with some
warmth.

Lawler looked at the other with a level gaze. "This is a cattle-raising
state," he said. "The interests of the state's citizens are sacred to
me. I intend to safeguard them. You run your railroad and I will run the
state. Previous railroad commissioners have permitted the railroad
companies to do largely as they pleased. We are going to have some
regulation--regulation that will regulate.

"The proposed bill may seem drastic to you," he added as he leaned
forward the better to look out of the window he had looked out of
before--to see the trim little figure he had expected coming up one of
the white walks; "but if you fight it, we shall introduce others. The
people of this state are pretty well worked up, and are demanding
legislation that will curb the power of the railroads--that will make
impossible a situation such as existed under the régime of my
predecessor. What would you say to a law that would compel you to
construct grade crossings at every street intersection along the
right-of-way in every city and town in the state through which your
railroad passes?"

The big man's color fled; he stared at Lawler.

"Also," went on Lawler; "there is an insistent demand for
electrification of railroads, especially from city governments. Then,
too, there is some agitation regarding rates--both freight and
passenger. But I want to be fair--to go at these improvements gradually.
Still, if your company insists on fighting the bill which is now
pending--" He paused and looked at the big man.

The latter got up, smiling faintly.

"All right, Governor; we'll be good. I never really favored that
deal--which almost set the state afire--and made you governor. But my
directors----"

"They'll be sensible, now, I hope?"

The big man grimaced. "They'll have to be sensible." He extended a hand,
and Lawler took it.

The big man went out. As the door closed behind him Lawler got up and
walked to it, standing there, expectantly. The door suddenly opened and
Ruth stood in the opening.

It was her first visit to the office, and the atmosphere of solemn
dignity almost awed her.

After a little, when she had seated herself in the governor's chair,
from where she looked gayly at the big, smiling man who watched her, she
got up and Lawler led her to one of the great windows.

"Father is much better, Kane," she said. "In another week he will be
able to ride. Your mother sent you her love, and Shorty told me to tell
you to take care of yourself. Kane, Shorty actually loves you!"

"Shorty is a man, Ruth."

"Oh, he is wonderful!" And then, with a direct look at him, she added:

"Della Wharton has gone East, Kane."

Lawler's eyes narrowed; he was silent.

Ruth's voice was tremulous with happiness as she stood close to the man
she had come to marry on the morrow, in the big house which was awaiting
both of them--the governor's mansion. "Kane," she said; "I used to dream
of this day--tomorrow, I mean; but I never thought it would be like
this--so terribly, solemnly happy."

Lawler drew her closer to him--and nearer the window. "I wonder if you
know how lonesome I used to feel as I sat at my desk, there, trying to
look out over that great waste of world, stretching between us?"

"I know," she said, lowly; "I used to feel the same way. There was a
time--right after you went away to begin your campaign, when it seemed
to me that: you had gone to the farthest limits of the earth."

"And now?" he asked, smiling. And when she did not answer, he added;
"the world seems to have become very small."

"It is a wonderful world, Kane," she said solemnly.

For a time both were silent, gazing out of the window. In the foreground
were the bare trees of the capitol grounds; the white, curving walks,
the low stone fence with its massive posts; the broad streets of the
city animated by traffic; the roofs of buildings. But straight down a
street that intersected the broad thoroughfare skirting the capitol
grounds on the east, they could look beyond the limits of the city at
the mighty level country that stretched into the yawning gulf of
distance--toward Willets; straight to the section of world which had
been the scene of the conflict that had tried them sorely.

It was a bleak picture; the plains dead and drear, barren of verdure--a
dull, drab expanse of waste world with no life or movement in it,
stretching below gray, cold clouds.

But while they watched, a rift appeared in the clouds. It grew,
expanded, and a shaft of sunlight pierced it, shimmering,
glowing--touching the waste of world with a brilliance that thrilled
them.

It was evident that Ruth seemed to feel that the glimmering shaft was a
promise of happiness to come, for when Lawler turned, her eyes were
shining with a light that caused his own to deepen with sympathy and
understanding.



       *       *       *       *       *



Transcriber's note: On page 275, "foolishing" changed to "foolishly".
  (looking foolishly at Shorty)