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.
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!"
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!"
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!"
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.