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 shehadgone 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.
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 untilshesuggested 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. Shehadbeen a trifle worried just an instant before; and the white world outsidehadseemed 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 sohonorablethat 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 knownyouwouldn'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 swallowthat! 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.
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 thathehad 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.
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.
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' aremudawith 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'reBlondy Antrim an' his gang of cutthroats!"
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.
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.