"Rustlers!" he said, shortly, answering her look of interrogation. "Where's the boss?"
The woman's voice broke. "Sheriff Moreton came after him some hours ago—and took him to Willets—charging him with murdering those two men at the line cabin, last winter. He isn't guilty, of course," declared the mother; "but of course he had to go with Moreton."
Shortly swore silently. "All right, ma'am," he said, aloud; "I reckon we'll have to handle it without him! Some of the boys of the night herd are hurt, most likely—mebbe worse. If you'd sort of look after them—mebbe—" He broke off short when he saw riders rushing from the corral toward the house. "I'll stop at Joe Hamlin's place an' send Ruth over, to help you. We can't spare any men—there's a horde of them devils!"
He was leaping for his horse with the last words, and in an instant he had joined the other riders who had paused, tentatively, near the edge of the porch, having seen him. They fled, a dark mass against the dull shadows of the valley, sweeping up the big slope toward the plains.
Blackburn, the range boss, was leading, with Shorty riding close beside him. In the dim distance they could see the herd, spreading wide over the level, running fast in the dust cloud that still followed them.
The Circle L men had not ridden more than a mile after striking the level when Blackburn saw some blots detach themselves from the larger blot—a number of them, like stray wisps of clouds straggling behind a storm.
"They're droppin' back to pot-shot us," Blackburn said to Shorty. He yelled at the men behind, warning them, and the group split up, spreading out, though not reducing the breakneck speed at which they had been riding.
They had not gone far after Blackburn shouted his warning when a puff of white smoke dotted the luminous haze ahead, and a bullet whined close to Blackburn.
"Rifle!" said Blackburn, grimly.
There were still three Circle L men at the line camps on the range; five had been left behind in the valley when the attack had been made; and only twenty others, including Blackburn, were left to cope with the rustlers.
Blackburn cast a worried glance at them. He had plunged out of the bunkhouse with the other men in time to catch a glimpse of the outlaws as they went by with the herd, and he had roughly estimated their number at fifty. The odds were great, and the advantage lay with the pursued, for they could select ambuscades and take terrible toll from the Circle L men.
Yet Blackburn was determined. He yelled to the others to take advantage of whatever cover they could find; and he saw them slide from their horses, one after another, and throw themselves into a shallow depression that ran erratically north and south for some distance over the plains. Before they reached the depression, however, there had come more white puffs of smoke from the space ahead of them, and Blackburn saw two Circle L men slide from their horses with a finality that brought a savage glare into his eyes.
"Shorty," he said, hoarsely, to the big man at his side—who had wriggled behind a rock at the crest of the depression and was coldly and deliberately using the rifle he had taken from the holster on his saddle; "we've got to have help—them scum outnumber us. You've got the fastest horse an' you're the best rider in the bunch. An' you've got the most sense. Barthman's ranch is the nearest, an' he's got fifteen men. You hit the breeze over there an' tell him what's happened. Tell him we're whipped if he don't help us. An' tell him to send a rider to Corts, an' Littlefield, an' Sigmund, an' Lester, an' Caldwell. Tell 'em to take that trail leadin' to Kinney's cañon—this side. That's where they're headin' the cattle to. They'll come a-rushin', for they like the boss.
"There's forty men in that gang that's hidin' ahead of us, tryin' to wipe us out. But if they was a hundred we could keep 'em from makin' any time, an' if you'll burn the breeze some, you can have Barthman an' the others at the trail near Kinney's cañon before these guys get there!"
"Hell's fire, Blackburn," protested Shorty; "ain't there somebody else can ride a damned horse? I'm aimin' to salivate some of them skunks!"
"Orders is orders, Shorty," growled Blackburn, coldly. "You're goin', an' you're goin' right this minute—or I'm goin' to bust you in the eye!"
"Well, if you put it that way," grimly grinned Shorty.
He crawled out of the depression, threw himself upon his horse and raced southeastward, yelling, and waving his hat defiantly at the outlaws, who were shooting at him. But the speed of Shorty's horse was too great for accurate shooting; and Shorty kept going—waving his hat for a time, and then, when out of range, riding hard—seeming to glide like a shadow into the yawning gulf of distance.
The depression into which Blackburn and his men had crept was not more than three or four feet deep, with long, sloping sides which were covered with alkali and rotted rock. Along the edges grew greasewood and mesquite bushes, which afforded concealment but not protection. The shallow was wide enough for the horses, though the men were forced to throw the animals and stake their heads down, so that they would not show themselves above the edge of the depression and thus become targets for the outlaws.
The firing during the night was intermittent. Once the outlaws made an attempt to withdraw, rushing concertedly toward their horses, which they had concealed in a sand draw slightly behind them, southward. But Blackburn and his men were alert.
The outlaws had chosen a gully for their ambuscade, but they had made the mistake of leaving their horses too far away from their place of concealment. And when they rushed across the stretch of level that extended from the gully to the draw, half a dozen of them dropped before they had traveled a quarter of the distance. The others plunged back into the gully, while the Circle L men yelled exultantly.
As Blackburn had told Shorty, he did not expect to rout or capture the outlaws; the best he could hope for was that Shorty would get help in time to head off the cattle before the other outlaws drove them into Kinney's cañon or that he would bring help to the Circle L men in time to prevent the sanguinary fight which would certainly occur as soon as the day dawned.
And so Blackburn waited, grimly watchful; though worry began to wrinkle his face as he noted that the semi-gloom of the starlit night was lifting, and that a gray streak on the eastern horizon was slowly broadening.
From the doorway of the cabin on the Rabbit Ear, Antrim had watched Slade and his men ride away. His gaze followed them until they vanished over the edge of the big plain above the river valley. Then, smiling crookedly, he turned back into the cabin.
Two men—one of them the tall man who had ridden away to return with the news that Lawler and the sheriff were riding northward—were draped on chairs watching the outlaw chief. They were expectant, eager; there was covert satisfaction in their eyes.
Like Selden, the other man wore two guns. There was about both men an atmosphere that suggested stealth and violence. It lurked over them, hinting of something sinister and deadly.
Selden wore a mustache that drooped at the corners of his mouth. It was the color of old straw—a faded, washed-out blonde, darkened here and there from tobacco stains. His mouth was large, the lower lip sagging in the center, giving it a satiric appearance, increased by the bleared, narrowed eyes that always seemed to be glowing with a questioning, leering light.
Krell, the other man, was smooth of face, with a strong, bold, thrusting jaw and thick, pouting lips. His eyes were big, but they had a disquieting habit of incessant watchfulness—a crafty alertness, as though their owner was suspicious of the motives of those at whom he looked.
Selden and Krell had been recruited from the southern border, they represented an element that the ranger service was slowly and surely eliminating—and driving northward into states whose laws were less stringent for the evil-doer—the professional gunmen who took life for the malicious thrill it gave them.
Krell and Selden were "killers." They were Antrim's constant companions, except when the necessities of his trade drove the outlaw to work alone. They knew his whims and understood his methods.
Now, as Antrim paused near the table and looked at them, Krell smiled evilly.
"I reckon we'll be settin' here twirlin' our thumbs till the outfit gits back?" he suggested.
Antrim laughed.
"We're trailin' the outfit right now," he told the other.
Antrim extinguished the light, and the three went out and mounted their horses. Their movements were deliberate, unhurried. They crossed the river, gaining the plains above it, and rode at a slow lope in the direction taken by the others who had preceded them.
They talked as they rode, lowly, earnestly—planning the night's work, speculating upon the probable outcome of the raid upon the Circle L by the men under Slade.
When they reached the edge of the big valley and concealed themselves in the fringing brush, they saw that Slade and his men had already struck. Streaks of flame were splitting the darkness in the basin; there were reports of pistols—which were reduced to mere faint, popping noises by the distance they traveled before reaching the ears of Antrim and his men; they saw the herd start; heard it go thundering up the valley in a cloud of dust and strike the edge of the plain above, to swing eastward toward Kinney's cañon.
"Slade's sure workin' hard for that promotion," observed Antrim, mockingly. "He's got 'em runnin' fast an' under control."
The three men did not emerge from their concealment for some time. They watched until the herd grew small in the distance eastward; they noted the confusion that seemed to reign in the vicinity of the bunkhouse, where the Circle L men were frenziedly preparing to pursue the rustlers; they laughed at the figures that were darting here and there in the light from the open doorway of the bunkhouse; and Antrim sneered when he saw the ranchhouse door open and noted the form of a man framed in the square of light that shone out.
"That'll be Blackburn, I reckon," he said to the other two; "inquirin' for Lawler, mebbe. Well, Blackburn an' his guys will have to get along without Lawler."
He watched until he saw the Circle L men sweep up the valley, following the direction taken by the herd. He waited until he saw a woman emerge from the door of the ranchhouse. The woman was carrying a lantern, and its fitful, bobbing glare marked the woman's progress as she moved toward the bunkhouse—in which a light still burned. For an instant the light from the lantern disappeared, and then they saw it again as it bobbed toward the open where the herd had been when the rustlers had struck. Several times Antrim observed that the lantern became stationary—as though it had been placed upon the ground. He grinned coldly as he spoke to Krell and Selden.
"That's Lawler's mother, I reckon. She's huntin' for them boys that was foolish enough to try an' stop Slade. Looks like she's findin' 'em, too!"
Antrim watched until the light began to bob as its bearer went toward the ranchhouse. He saw the door of the ranchhouse open and the woman enter. Then he spoke shortly to the others and they rode down into the valley. After they reached the floor of the valley Antrim spoke again, shortly:
"Get busy; an' keep back out of the light when you get 'em goin'. Meet me back there where we was waitin'!"
Antrim urged his horse toward the ranchhouse, riding slowly. When he reached the big porch he dismounted, and an instant later was pounding heavily upon the front door.
It was opened after an instant, and Mrs. Lawler appeared, pale, anxious.
"Oh!" she said, startled, when she saw Antrim's face in the glare of light from within; "I thought you were one of the Circle L men!" She shrank back a little when Antrim grinned evilly at her, catching her breath with a gasp.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
Antrim crossed the threshold and stood inside, where the light was full upon his face. Repelled—almost terrorized by what she saw in his eyes, Mrs. Lawler attempted to retreat from him; but in an instant he had seized her arms, roughly and brutally crushing them against her sides, while he shoved her back against the open door; holding her in that position and grinning hideously at her helplessness.
"You know me?" he sneered, his face close to hers. "I'm Antrim!" He laughed when she caught her breath; when he noted that she recognized the name.
"I reckoned you'd know me, when I told you," he said. "Luke Lawler knowed me—an' your son knows me! I've never had no love for the Lawler breed, an' I ain't changed any. But there's a lot of things that I'm squarin' up for!
"This is my night; I've been waitin' for it!" he gloated. "I'm cleanin' up on the Lawlers! I'm wipin' Kane Lawler out—cattle, buildings—an' him too, mebbe. It ain't goin' to be a thing you ought to see. You're gettin' away from here—I don't give a damn where. An' you're goin' now!"
Awed by his manner and by the terrible threat in his voice, Mrs. Lawler did not resist the physical strength of the outlaw. Though Antrim's fingers were gripping her arms until the pain made her long to cry out in agony, she made no sound. Nor—now that she realized what portended—did her gaze waver as it met Antrim's. Her eyes glowed with contempt as they looked into his—with a proud scorn that brought a crimson flush into Antrim's cheeks. It had been that spirit that had always enraged Antrim—that had always made him realize his inferiority to her husband, and to the steady-eyed son who had shamed him publicly at Willets. It was a thing that physical violence could not conquer; it revealed a quiet courage that had always disconcerted him.
"Hell!" he sneered; "you can't come any of that high an' mighty stuff on me!"
He twisted her until she faced the door, and then shoved her before him across the porch and down upon the level on the ranchhouse yard, toward the stable and the corral.
She did not resist, knowing that physical resistance would be futile.
He shoved her into the stable, and she stood there, unresisting while he saddled a horse. She could not see him, but she could hear him as he moved about; and presently he spoke shortly to her from a point close by:
"Here's a cayuse—saddled an' bridled. You want to get on him here, or outside?"
"Outside," she said, coldly.
In front of the stable door she mounted, Antrim helping her despite her scornful protest.
"Listen," he said, as he stood for an instant at the horse's head, dimly outlined. "You'd better go to Hamlin's—that's nearest. An' make arrangements to stay there. I'm burnin' the Circle L buildin's. There won't be a stick standin' when I get through! When I get through, I'm goin' back to my place on the Rabbit Ear. My men have all gone with the cattle, an' I'll be there alone. You can tell that damned son of yours that! Understand? He's aimin' to get even for what I'm doin' tonight, he'll find me at my place—alone—waitin' for him! Now, get goin'."
Mrs. Lawler did not answer. She took up the reins and sent the horse forward, past the bunkhouses and the corral and the ranchhouse—through the valley and up the long rise that led to the great plains above.
It took her a long time to reach the plains, and when she looked back she saw some leaping tongues of flame issuing from the doors of the bunkhouse. Two or three of the other buildings were on fire; and the windows of the ranchhouse were illuminated by a dull red glare. But the woman made no sound that would have betrayed the emotions that tortured her. She turned her back to the burning buildings and rode onward, toward the Hamlin cabin—trying, in this crisis, to live the code she had taught her son; endeavoring to vindicate the precepts that she had dinned into his ears all the days of his life—that courage in adversity is the ultimate triumph of character—the forge in which is fashioned the moral fiber which makes men strong and faithful.
Lawler had said little to Sheriff Moreton on the ride to Willets. Nor had he made any comment when, in the Circle L ranchhouse, in the presence of his mother, Moreton had shown him the statement signed by Della Wharton. He had silently passed it back to Moreton; and had walked to Mrs. Lawler—telling her why the sheriff had come; smilingly taking leave of her while Moreton, sweating profusely, turned his back and pretended to be interested in a picture on the wall.
"I reckon there's somethin' about this case that ain't been brought out yet, Mrs. Lawler," said Moreton when he was about to depart with his prisoner. "But things has a way of comin' out, an' I reckon we'll get Kane out of this before long."
Outside, on their horses, Moreton rode close to Lawler.
"Kane, I reckon it's a damn lie about you killin' Link an' Givens the way that Wharton woman says you did—in that damned paper—just malicious, without them deservin' it?"
"Moreton, I told you my side of the story a couple of months ago. It's the lady's word against mine."
Moreton muttered much to himself during the ride. He told Lawler how Warden had come to him with the statement—the charge; and of how he had waited until Della Wharton had personally appeared before him to corroborate what she had signed.
"She don't want to have her reputation dragged into it," sneered Moreton. "Well, before it's over she won't have no more reputation than a coyote! I'll make the thing so damned public that she'll think I've hired a brass band to blare it all over the country!"
Lawler merely smiled. He might have further increased the sheriff's rage by showing him the signed confession in his pocket—the confession he had secured from Link and Givens—but he preferred to keep silent until he discovered why Della Wharton had brought the charge against him.
There were two possible motives. One was that Della was still in the grip of the vindictiveness that had characterized her that last day in the cabin—and had charged him with murder merely to be revenged upon him; the other was that she had been influenced to the action by Gary Warden. He intended to keep silent until events explained the motive. And he smiled faintly at Moreton when the sheriff opened the jail doors for him—Moreton saying that he "hated like poison to do it."
Two persons had watched Lawler and Moreton ride into town. Warden, standing in the darkened windows of the Wolf Saloon—deserted by its revelers shortly before—saw Moreton and Lawler dismount in front of the jail, which adjoined the sheriff's office. Warden watched until he saw the two men enter the building—until he saw Moreton come out alone and enter his office. Then Warden smiled and walked to the door of a room in the rear of the saloon, where Singleton and several other men were playing cards. He winked at Singleton, a signal correctly interpreted by the other, whose eyes quickened. And then Warden returned to the front window where, later, he was joined by Singleton; for a long time both of them watched the southern sky, into which had crept a dull red glow, faint, and far away.
"Antrim didn't lose any time!" commented Warden, exultantly. "And Della can tell the truth to the sheriff whenever she gets ready!"
The other watcher was Della Wharton. She had seen the sheriff leave town, to ride southward, and she had divined what his errand meant. And she had sat in a chair near a window for many hours, peering into the darkness for Moreton's return with his prisoner. And when she saw them coming she smiled as she had smiled when she had entered the room after taking leave of Warden.
Della knew Warden better than Warden knew himself; and on the night when he had asked her to sign the statement charging Lawler with murder, she was convinced that Warden intended to use the statement. He had told her that he merely intended to hold it as a threat over Lawler's head, to dissuade him from succeeding politically; and she had permitted Warden to think that she believed him. And when, upon her arrival from the capital, he had told her that it was part of his strategy to secretly present the statement to the sheriff—and that she must appear personally before that official—she had consented, knowing that Warden was insincere.
Della had really felt vindictive toward Lawler on that last day in the line cabin. She had yielded to the resentment that had assailed her over the conviction that she had made no impression upon the man. And she had lied when she had told Warden that she had been merely infatuated with Lawler. She discovered that after she reached the hotel following her sojourn in the cabin with him. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in the world. And she was determined to have him. She meant to win him even if she had to bring confusion upon Warden. And so she smiled as she watched Moreton open the jail doors to Lawler—a smile in which there was much triumph.
The jail was small—merely one room with barred windows and an iron door, opening upon the street. The iron door was supplemented with a wooden one, which halted the glances of the curious. The windows were high, thus insuring further privacy; the hard adobe floor was clean, and the bunk in which Lawler lay when the dawn came was as comfortable as might have been expected.
Moreton had come in just before daylight, solicitous, concerned, eager to lessen the discomforts of his prisoner. Back of the apology in his voice was a note of rage:
"It goes ag'in' the grain to keep you here, Lawler," he said when he closed the door after entering; "but I'm goin' to bring this case to a showdown today, an' don't you forget it!"
But the sheriff did not bring the case up that day. A little later he provided Lawler with breakfast, and toward noon he opened the door to ask Lawler how he was getting along. On the occasion of this visit he told Lawler he was trying to locate Warden, but so far hadn't been successful.
"An' I ain't found that Wharton woman, either!" he declared. "I'm sendin' a man out to the Two Diamond for both of them, an' if they ain't in town to appear ag'in' you by night I'm goin' to turn you loose—an' be damned to them!"
It seemed to Lawler that only an hour or so had elapsed when the key grated in the lock of the door and Moreton stuck his head in. His face lacked expression.
"Someone to see you, Lawler," he grunted, gruffly. "Wants to talk to you alone. I'll be right outside, so's you can call me when you've got enough of it."
He pushed the door open, and Della Wharton stepped in.
Moreton closed the door, and Della stood watching Lawler steadily.
Lawler had been standing near one of the rear windows, and when he recognized his visitor he came forward and stood within three or four paces of her.
"Well, Miss Wharton?" he said, quietly.
"I heard you were here, Lawler," she said, evenly, her voice expressionless. "In fact, I saw the sheriff bring you in, last night."
"You expected me, I presume?"
The sarcasm in his voice brought a faint glow to her cheeks. But her gaze was level and steady, containing much inquiry.
"Yes," she said slowly; "I expected you to be brought here. You know, of course, about the charge I brought against you?"
"Why did you do it, Miss Wharton?"
She laughed mirthlessly. "Why? I don't know, Lawler. I expect I did it because I felt I ought to tell the truth."
Lawler's grim smile did not seem to affect her. She met it steadily.
"You say in your charge that I deliberately planned to kill Link and Givens; you said I laid in wait for them at the door. Is that the way you saw it?"
"Yes."
"And you are willing to swear to that?" His smile was incredulous.
She nodded affirmatively.
He bowed stiffly to her. "In that case, Miss Wharton, there seems to be nothing more for us to talk about." He walked to the front window, and stood on his toes, intending to call to Moreton to open the door for Miss Wharton, when she moved close to him and seized his left arm, drawing him suddenly toward her while he was off balance, so that when he turned he was facing her, standing close to her.
The color that had surged into her face soon after her entrance, had gone. Her cheeks were white and her eyes held mute appeal that, she felt, he must respond to.
She saw the cold contempt in his eyes as he looked at her, the lurking passion that lay deep in them, and the disgust that she should lie about a matter that might mean life or death to him.
She must act, now, and she must sacrifice Warden. Her grasp on his arm tightened; she clung to him in seeming frenzy, and she spoke brokenly, pleadingly.
"Lawler, I don't believe what I said—what was written on that paper I signed. I know you acted in self-defense; you couldn't help doing as you did.
"Gary Warden forced me to sign that statement, Lawler—he threatened to kill me if I didn't! He found out, some way, that I had been in the cabin with you. And he made me sign.
"He told me that he didn't intend to charge you with the murder; he said he merely wanted to threaten you—to keep you out of politics. Please believe me, Lawler!"
Lawler laughed coldly, incredulously. "A minute ago you told me——"
"I did that to frighten you," she declared. "I—I thought that—perhaps—when you saw that I would testify against you—you would—" She paused and tried to get closer to him, but he held her off and watched her keenly, suspiciously.
"Lawler," she urged; "don't you see? I thought you would agree to marry me if—if I told you that. And, now——"
"An' now it don't make a damn bit of difference what you say!" interrupted a voice from the doorway. Both Miss Wharton and Lawler wheeled quickly, to see Sheriff Moreton standing in the room.
He was grinning hugely, though his eyes were gleaming subtly.
While Lawler and Miss Wharton watched him, he slowly tore to pieces the statement the woman had signed, and scattered them upon the floor.
"That's all of that damned nonsense!" he declared. "Lawler, I knowed they was somethin' behind all this. That's why I let this hussy in to talk to you. I thought I'd hear somethin', an' I did!"
"Lawler, you're free as the air! If there's any more of this talk about chargin' you with killin' them two guys, an' you don't salivate them that's doin' the talkin', I will!"
After his first quick glance at Moreton, Lawler looked at Della. The deep amusement Lawler felt over the knowledge that the sheriff had overheard Della, and that the woman's evidence would now be discredited, was revealed in his smile as he watched her.
She saw it. She also understood that she had failed. But she veiled her chagrin and disappointment behind a scornful smile.
"Framed!" she said. "And it was crude work, too—wasn't it, Lawler? I should have been more careful. Ha, ha! Lawler, I should have known you would do something like this—after what happened in the line cabin. And I let you trick me!"
She raised her head, disdaining to glance at Lawler as she walked to the door, in front of which Moreton was standing.
She smiled broadly at the latter. "Mr. Sheriff," she said, evenly; "if you will stand aside, I shall be glad to leave you."
Moreton grinned, admiringly. "You've sure got a heap of nerve, ma'am," he complimented; "I'll say that for you! I don't know what your game is, but you're mighty clever—though you're wastin' your time out here in the sagebrush. You ought to stay East—where there's a lot more rummies than there is out here!"
He opened the door, and bowed her out with extravagant politeness. Then, when she had gone, he motioned Lawler toward the door.
"Jail's empty, Kane. But I reckon we'd better play this deal safe. Dorgan, the county prosecutor, is in his office. We'll go down to see him, an' I'll have him make a record of what happened here. Then, if I happen to get bumped off this here planet them scum can't come back at you, sayin' this never came off!"
Lawler accompanied Moreton to the office of the prosecutor, who took the depositions of both men, attested the document and placed it in the office safe.
"So that's the kind of a dame she is—eh?" grinned the official. "Well, she don't look it. But you never can tell—can you?"
Sheriff Moreton had left Red King at the livery stable, and after Lawler had thanked the sheriff for his part in the little drama that had just been played, he walked to the stable, saddled and bridled the big horse, mounted and rode out of town, toward the Circle L.
While grim tragedy had lurked over the incident that had just closed, the thing had had its humorous side. And as Lawler rode he reflected smilingly, though feeling a pulse of shame for Della Wharton.
In spite of the fact that the woman had charged Gary Warden with evolving the plot, Lawler felt nothing but contempt for the man. Warden's schemes, so far, had resulted only in discomfiture for Warden himself. And because Lawler was not vindictive, he entertained no thoughts of reprisal.
However, Lawler was now well equipped with evidence of Warden's misdeeds. Months before, he had sent to Metcalf, the editor of theNews, in the capital, the story of the drive to Red Rock, embellished with an account of his adventure with Antrim's gang, his capture of Antrim and the subsequent bringing of the outlaw to Willets, where he had delivered him to Warden.
Metcalf had written him that the publication of the article had created a sensation in the state, and it appeared from the prominent position in which Metcalf had placed the story—on the front page, with a picture of Lawler dominating; and big, black headlines announcing:
"PROMINENT CATTLEMAN WORSTS TRAIL HORDE!"—that Metcalf had kept his promise to the effect that he intended to "feature" his fight against the power that was attempting to control the cattle industry.
So far, though, Lawler had no evidence that the governor's power had been used against them. He was convinced that Warden, Jordan, Simmons, and the others were employing their talents against him with the secret approval of the governor; but until he secured absolute, damning evidence he dared not openly charge it.
Lawler had been waiting patiently for such evidence. He had felt all along that sooner or later his enemies would over-reach themselves, leaving some weak spot through which he could attack, and he had been content to wait until that time, merely defending himself and his interests, planning no aggressive campaign.
The effect of the assaults of his enemies thus far had disturbed him little. He had been able to anticipate most of their attacks and they had resulted in little harm to himself. They had left him unperturbed, unharmed—like the attacks of an excitable poodle upon a giant, contemptuous mastiff.
Deep in his heart, though, lurked a spark of passion that, day by day, had been slowly growing, warming him, making his veins swell a little when his thoughts dwelt upon Warden and the others; bringing into his heart a savage longing that he often had yielded to in the old days—before he had learned to control his passions. There were times when he was almost persuaded to break the laws for which he had fought in the old days—moments when it seemed to him that further toleration of the attacks of his enemies would be a sign of weakness. But he had conquered those surges of passion, though the victory always left him with a smile on his face that would have awed Warden, had he seen it.
Something of that passion was in his heart now, as he rode toward the Circle L. It had become plain to him that Warden would adopt any means to destroy him; that in the man's heart was a malignant hatred that was driving him to a boldness that could mean nothing but that in the end they must settle their differences as man to man. Lawler would not always be able to control the passion that lurked in him. He knew it. One day Warden would press him too hard. And then—
His thoughts had made him oblivious to his surroundings. A whinney from Red King brought him out of his ruminations, and he looked swiftly up, and then directly ahead, to see a horseman racing toward him; the rider crouched in the saddle, the horse running low, coming toward him at a speed that brought him out of depressions with light, flying bounds, and over the crests of small hills with a velocity that was dizzying.
The running horse and the crouching rider were still a mile from Lawler; but even at that distance Lawler recognized Shorty, and he urged Red King on to meet him, suspecting that nothing but a stern emergency would make the man race his horse at that speed.
Lawler glanced back as he rode. He had come several miles, and the rolling character of the plains behind him had blotted Willets out. He saw, too, that he had reached a point where three trails converged. One—which Shorty was traveling—came westward from the Two Bar—Hamlin's ranch; the other, leading almost straight southward, was the Circle L trail; the third, leading southward also, though inclining in a westward direction, ran to the Rabbit Ear, near the Dickman cabin—the ranch where Antrim and his men had established themselves.
Shorty came on at cyclonic speed. When he reached a point within a hundred yards of Lawler, the latter observed that Shorty's face was pale; that his jaws were set and his eyes glowing with a wild, savage light.
Stiffening, his lips straightening, a responsive passion assailing him, Lawler drew Red King down and waited for Shorty to reach him. He knew Shorty did not permit himself to become excited without cause.
And when Shorty drew his horse to a sliding halt within half a dozen paces of Red King, Lawler saw that Shorty was in the grip of a cold, deadly passion. His eyes were glittering, his lips were stiff and white, and he was drawing great, long breaths that could be heard above the shuddering gasps of the horse he rode.
The giant's fingers were working—clenching and unclenching near the butts of the two guns he wore; and his eyes were pools of icy rage that chilled Lawler.
Twice he tried to speak as Lawler shot a short question at him, and twice he failed, making guttural sounds that betrayed the awful agitation that had seized him. At the third attempt he blurted:
"Lawler, Antrim's gang has cleaned up the Circle L! Damn their sneakin', dirty hides! They've run off our cattle—takin' 'em through Kinney's cañon! They've wiped out the Circle L outfit! Blackburn's left—Blackburn an' three more poor fellows they plugged, an' didn't finish!
"Blackburn made me ride for help—damn him, anyway, Lawler! I wanted to stay with the bunch!" Shorty's voice broke; his lips quivered; his voice rose to a screech of impotent, awful rage. Brokenly, he told Lawler what had happened after the stampeding of the cattle by Antrim's men. He related, in tumbling, rapid, quavering sentences, how he had got the help Blackburn had sent him for—Caldwell's outfit—with the exception of two men who had been sent in different directions to other ranches. And how, later in the morning, he had returned to the shallow gulley on the plains where he had left Blackburn and the others, to find most of them dead. Blackburn and three more had been wounded, but had survived.
"Fifteen men, Lawler!" raged Shorty; "fifteen men wiped out by that miserable gang of coyotes! But damn them!" he added with a fierce, savage joy; "they didn't get away without payin' toll, either! There's twenty of them layin' out there, Lawler—twenty of them for the coyotes to find. For Caldwell an' his outfit wouldn't touch 'em. When I left, to come an' tell you—thinkin' you was in jail—Caldwell an' his boys was plantin' our fellows, an' takin' Blackburn and the three others to the Hamlin shack!"
He looked hard at Lawler, noted the paleness of the man's face, and then spoke less excitedly, and with deep regret in his voice.
"Lawler, I hate to tell you this. After I seen what happened to our boys, I rode this way, intendin' to tell you. The trail took me past the Hamlin shack. I wasn't intendin' to stop, but it seems like they heard me comin' an' run out to see what was up.
"It was your mother stopped me, Lawler—smiling kind of grim—like she always smiles when things go wrong.
"'Shorty,' she says; 'you go directly to town and find Kane. You know he's in jail, for I told you so last night. Tell Sheriff Moreton to release him; and then tell Kane that Antrim has stolen all the Circle L cattle and has burned all the Circle L buildings. Tell him that Antrim himself burned the buildings, and that Antrim said he would wait for Kane at Antrim's shack—and that he dared Kane to come there for him. 'Shorty,' she said, cold an' ca'm; 'you tell Kane to get out of jail and go to Antrim's cabin, and kill him!'"
Lawler had sat, grim and silent, listening to Shorty. Twice had Shorty seen his eyes quicken—when Shorty had mentioned his mother, and again when he had spoken of Antrim's action in burning the Circle L buildings.
Now, he leaned forward and peered intently at Shorty, and Shorty marveled how his eyes bored into his own—with a cold intensity that chilled the giant.
"Shorty," he said, in a low, strained voice; "Mother hasn't been hurt?"
"I forgot to tell you that," said Shorty; "she said, 'tell Kane I am all right.'"
Shorty opened his mouth to speak further, but closed it again when he saw Red King leap down the trails—a flaming red streak that flashed over the new grass at a speed that took him a hundred yards before Shorty could get his own horse turned.
The big red horse was lost in a dust cloud when Shorty urged his own animal southward. And Shorty rode as he had never ridden before, in an effort to lessen the space between himself and the flying Red King.
To no avail, however. Shorty's horse was fast, but Red King seemed to have wings, so lightly did he skim over the green gulf of distance that stretched between his master and the vengeance for which Lawler's soul was now yearning. Shorty's horse was tired, and Red King was fresh; and the distance between them grew greater—always greater—slowly, surely—until the red horse was lost in the tiny dust cloud that moved with unbelievable velocity far down the trail toward the Rabbit Ear.
When Red King struck the river trail he was traveling as strongly as when he began his long race. The miles that had stretched between him and the destination at which his rider aimed had been mere play for him. By the time he reached the river trail he was warmed to his work and his giant, spurning stride carried him along in the shade of the fringing trees at a speed that made the wind whine and moan in Lawler's ears.
But Lawler did not offer to check Red King's speed. The big horse was traveling at a pace that was all too slow for Lawler, now in the clutch of that passion which for many months had been smoldering within him. He was leaning a little forward in the saddle, riding the red horse as he had ridden few times; and then only in sport.
In Lawler's eyes was still that intense light that had been in them when he had been watching Shorty as the latter had been relating what had happened during the night and the morning.
And yet Lawler betrayed no sign of excitement. His face was pale, and his lips were stiff and white; but his muscles were tense, steady, and his brain clear.
He knew what to expect from Antrim. If Antrim expected him to come to his cabin, Antrim would be ready for him. He might expect craft and cunning from the outlaw—an ambuscade, a trap—anything but the cold, sheer courage that would be required for him to face an enemy upon equal terms. And so as Lawler rode he kept an alert eye upon the coverts and the shelters, upon the huge rocks that littered the sides of the trail, upon the big trees that Red King flashed past.
Nothing happened. And Red King thundered down the trail where it doubled half a mile from the Dickman cabin, and swept out upon the level that surrounded the place, his speed unslackened, his rider still urging him.
Lawler had forgotten Shorty. Half a mile behind him the giant's horse labored, making better time on the level river trail than he had made over the plains. But Lawler did not even think of Shorty. His brain was upon the work that was before him, his thoughts were definitely centered upon Antrim and the Circle L men that Antrim and his men had killed. It was concentration of a sinister character that had seized Lawler, and in it was a single purpose, a single determination—to kill Antrim.
He saw the cabin as he crossed the level—a patch of bare, sandy earth surrounding it; and the other buildings, with no sign of life near them. His gaze swept the corral, and he saw no horse in it. As he guided Red King toward the cabin he peered vainly for sight of Antrim's horse.
Not a living thing was in sight. The buildings were silent, seemingly deserted. And the atmosphere of the place seemed to be pregnant with a lurking threat, a hint of hidden danger.
He grinned as he plunged Red King to the door of the cabin—a grin which meant that he expected Antrim would be waiting for him, but which expressed his contempt of ambuscades and traps.
As he slipped from Red King he drew his pistol and lunged forward, bringing up against the cabin door and sending it crashing inward, against the wall.
He halted just inside the door, his pistol rigid in his right hand, which was pressed tightly to his side; for directly in front of him, standing, his arms folded over his chest, was Antrim, a huge, venomous grin on his face.
"Well, you got here, Lawler," he said, huskily. "You come a-runnin', didn't you? Well, I had your cattle run off, an' I burned your buildin's. What are you aimin' to do about it?"
Lawler did not move. He might have killed Antrim, for the man's weapon was in the holster at his hip—Lawler could see the stock sticking above the leather. He had expected Antrim would be in the cabin when he opened the door; he anticipated that the outlaw would shoot on sight, and he had been prepared to do the same.
But there was something in the outlaw's manner, in the cold, measured tone of his voice, in his nonchalant disregard of the pistol in Lawler's hand that brought a swift suspicion into Lawler's mind. It was a presentiment that the outlaw was not alone in the cabin; that he had carefully laid his plans, and that they did not include a gun fight in which he would have to face Lawler upon equal terms.
Lawler did not look around. He kept his gaze unwaveringly upon the outlaw, knowing that if other men were in the cabin with him they were waiting for Antrim to give the word to shoot him. Otherwise they would have shot him down when he had entered.
"Not sayin' anything, eh?" jeered Antrim. "Well, come a-shootin'. You bust in here, seein' red, with a gun in your hand; an' then stand there, like you was wonderin' if you was welcome." He peered close at Lawler, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, and then, finally, with savage amusement.
"I reckon I ketch on," he sneered. "You know there's some one here with me, an' that they've got you covered. I know you, an' I knowed you'd come rushin' in here, just like you did, killin' mad. Bah! Did you think I'd give you a chance, you short-horned maverick! There's Selden behind that curtain, there—back of the cupboard. An' Krell watchin' you from the door of that room, on the side. They've got you between them, an' if you bat an eyewinker they'll down you. I'm goin' to gas to you—I'm goin' to tell you what I think of you for ropin' me an' draggin' me back to Willets, to show to the damned yaps on the station platform. An' after that I'm goin' to hog-tie you an'—Ah!"
Antrim's exclamation was a mere gasp. It escaped his lips as Lawler jumped backward, landing outside the door, overbalanced, trying to stand upright while he snapped a shot at Antrim.
Antrim, however, had reached for his gun. It came out before Lawler could steady himself, and Lawler saw it. Lawler saw the weapon belch smoke and fire as it cleared Antrim's hip; he felt a shock as the bullet struck him; felt still another sear his flesh near the arm as he let his own pistol off. He saw the outlaw plunge forward and fall prone, his arms outstretched. He was motionless, inert.
From inside the cabin came the sounds of steps—Antrim's confederates, Lawler supposed. He heard them approach the door and he leaped, swaying a little, toward the corner of the cabin nearest him. He had reached it, had just dodged behind it, when Selden and Krell rushed out. At the same instant Shorty thundered up, slipped out of the saddle and ran toward Lawler, drawing his guns.
Shorty had approached the cabin from the rear, having cut across the space behind the bunkhouses when he heard the shooting. He could not be seen by Selden and Krell as they plunged out of the door; but he had seen Lawler when the latter dodged behind the corner of the cabin, and as he ran toward Lawler he drew his guns.
As yet Shorty had seen no one but Lawler. He supposed Antrim and Lawler had exchanged shots and he knew Lawler had been hit—his swaying as he came around the corner of the cabin proved it. Knowing something of the terrible rage that had seized the man, he suspected Lawler had burst into the cabin, recklessly exposing himself to Antrim's fire.
And as Shorty ran toward the spot where Lawler was standing, he expected to see Antrim follow, to complete his work.
Within a dozen feet of Lawler he halted, facing the corner. He had not long to wait. For Selden and Krell, guns in hand, appeared almost instantly—their faces hideous with passion. As they rushed around the corner they saw Shorty. They saw Shorty first, because Shorty dominated the scene. A gun in each hand, he made a terrible figure. His eyes were blazing with the cold rage that had seized him at sight of Lawler, wounded—for Lawler was now leaning against the wall of the cabin, and his gun had dropped from his hand.
The unexpected appearance of Shorty startled Krell and Selden. Surprise showed in their faces as they paused for an infinitesimal space and looked at him.
And then their guns roared.
Shorty, however, had anticipated them. His guns went off simultaneously, slightly in advance of theirs, belching fire and smoke in a continuous stream.
Shorty did not seem to be hit by the bullets from the guns of the outlaws; he seemed to pay no attention to them whatever.
But the outlaws ceased shooting. Krell staggered, his guns dropped from his hands, and he stood, for an instant, looking foolishly at Shorty, his face becoming ashen. Then, without uttering a word, he lunged gently forward, his legs doubling at the knees, and sank into the dust in a huddled heap.
Selden had been hit hard, too. The shock of Shorty's first bullet striking him had turned him partially around, so that his left side was toward Shorty. He had lurched forward a little; and was turning, trying to use the gun in his left hand, when another bullet struck him. He grunted, stood slowly erect, and then fell backward stiffly.
Shorty ran to him and to Krell, scanning their faces with savage intentness. When he saw that neither of them would bother him again, he leaped around the corner of the cabin and cautiously peered into the doorway. He saw Antrim stretched out on the floor of the cabin, face down and motionless. He stepped into the cabin, turned the outlaw over, grinned saturninely, and then went out to where Lawler stood. His eyes were aglow with concern.
When he reached the corner he saw Lawler bending over, picking up the pistol that had dropped from his hand a few seconds before. Lawler's face was pale, but he grinned broadly at Shorty as the latter came up to him.
"I saw what was happening but I couldn't throw in with you. I reckon Antrim hit me mighty hard. In my right shoulder. I was trying to change my gun to the other hand, when I dropped it. I didn't seem to be able to get it again—just then." He grinned. "Lucky you came, Shorty," he added jocosely.
Shorty's lips grimmed. "I reckon it's lucky I'm here right now!" he said shortly. "You're hit bad, Lawler!"
He led Lawler into the cabin, where he tore away the latter's shirt and exposed the wound—high up on the shoulder.
After a swift examination, Shorty exclaimed with relief.
"It ain't so bad, after all. She bored through that big muscle. Must have struck like a batterin' ram. No wonder you was weak an' dizzy for a minute or so. There's a hole big enough to stick your hand through. But she ain't dangerous, Boss!"
Shorty had not been touched by the bullets the outlaws had sent at him. He was energy, personified. He got water, bathed the wound in Lawler's shoulder; bandaged it, and at last grinned widely as Lawler got up, saying he felt better.
A little later they went out and mounted their horses. Lawler was pale, though he sat steadily in the saddle; and Shorty, big, exuding elation, grinned broadly as he glanced at the cabin as they rode away from it.
They rode up the river trail; Shorty expressing his elation by emitting low chuckles of grim mirth; Lawler silent, riding steadily, his gaze straight ahead.
It took them long to reach the point on the plains where the trails diverged. And then Lawler spoke. "Shorty, you go back to Hamlin's and tell mother I killed Antrim. You needn't mention this scratch I've got."
"Where you goin'?" demanded Shorty.
"Shorty," said Lawler evenly; "you do as I say."
"I'll be damned if I do!" declared Shorty, his face flushing. "That's the kind of palaver Blackburn handed me when he sent me after Caldwell's outfit, makin' me miss the big scrap. I ain't missin' nothin' else. If this thing is to be a clean-up I'm goin' to be right close when the cleanin' is bein' done!
"I'm stayin' right here, as long as you stay! An' when you get goin', little Shorty will be taggin' along, achin' to salivate some more of the scum that's been makin' things howl in these parts. Get goin' where you're goin', Lawler!"
Shorty had not told Lawler all he knew of the wound in Lawler's shoulder. He knew that Lawler had lost much blood, and that he was losing more constantly; and that nothing but the man's implacable courage was keeping him up. And he did not intend to desert him.
Lawler laughed. But he said nothing as he urged Red King over the Willets trail, riding at a fair pace, not so steady in the saddle as he had been. His face was chalk white, but there was a set to his lips and a glow in his eyes that told Shorty there was no use in arguing.
Shorty permitted Lawler to hold the lead he had taken when they reached the Willets' trail. But Shorty kept a vigilant eye upon the big horse and his rider as they went over the plains toward town. Twice Shorty saw Lawler reel in the saddle, and both times Shorty urged his horse forward to be close to him when he fell. But each time Lawler stiffened and rode onward—silent, grimly determined, with Shorty riding behind him, watching him with awed admiration.
Lawler had not mentioned the purpose of his ride to town, and Shorty was lost in a maze of futile conjecture. Shorty knew, however, that a man in Lawler's condition would not ride to town to gratify a whim; and the longer he watched Lawler the deeper became his conviction that another tragedy was imminent. For there was something in Lawler's manner, in the steady, unflagging way he rode; in the set of his head and the cold gleam of his eyes, that suggested more of the kind of violence in which both had participated at the Dickman cabin.
The sun was low when Lawler and Shorty rode into town—Lawler riding ahead, as he had ridden all along; Shorty a few yards behind him, keenly watching him.
There were many men on the street; for word had been brought in regarding the big fight between the Circle L outfit and the rustlers—and a doctor had gone, summoned to the Hamlin cabin by a wild rider on a jaded horse—and Willets' citizens were eagerly curious. And when they saw Lawler coming, swaying in the saddle as he rode, they began to run toward him.
However, they were brought to a halt by Shorty—who waved a hand savagely at them, his face expressing a cold intolerance that warned them away. And so they retreated to the sidewalk, wonderingly, to watch Lawler and Shorty as they rode down the street—Lawler looking neither to the right nor left, but keeping his gaze straight ahead as though in that direction lay what he had come to seek.
Shorty's eyes gleamed with understanding when he saw Lawler halt Red King in front of the building in which was Warden's office. He was out of the saddle before Lawler clambered slowly out of his, and he stood near as Lawler walked to the door of the building and began to mount the stairs—going up slowly, swaying from side to side and placing his hands against the wall on either side of him for support. And when Lawler finally reached the top of the stairs and threw open the door of Warden's office, Shorty was so close to him that he might have touched his shoulder.
Warden was sitting at his desk when Lawler opened the door, and he continued to sit there—staring hard at Lawler as the latter swayed across the room to bring up with a lurch against Warden's desk, his hands grasping its edge.
"Warden," said Lawler—and Shorty marveled at the cold steadiness of his voice; "I have just killed Antrim. Antrim's men ran off three thousand head of my cattle and killed about twenty of my men—five at the Circle L and the rest in a fight on the plains not far from the Two Bar. Antrim burned my buildings. Twenty-five thousand dollars for the buildings, and ninety thousand for the cattle not to mention my men.
"I've got no proof that you were implicated in the deal; but I am convinced that you planned it—that you got Antrim and his gang to do the work. That evidence doesn't go in law, though, Warden—and you know it. But it's enough for the kind of law that I am representing right now. It's this!"
He drew his gun with his left hand, taking it from the waistband of his trousers—where he had placed it when he had picked it up at the Dickman cabin—and held it on the desk top, so that its dark muzzle gaped at Warden.
For an instant Warden sat, staring in dread fascination into the muzzle of the weapon, his face dead white, his eyes wide with fear, naked, cringing. Then he spoke, his voice hoarse and quavering.
"This is murder, Lawler!"
"Murder, Warden?" jeered Lawler. "One of my men was worth a dozen of you!"
Lawler laughed—a sound that brought an ashen pallor to Warden's face; then he straightened, and turned, to face Shorty.
He lurched to Shorty's side, drew out one of the latter's big guns, and tossed it upon the desk within reach of Warden's hand.
"I gave Antrim the first shot, Warden," he said; "I gave him his chance. I didn't murder him, and I won't murder you. Take that gun and follow me to the street. There's people there. They'll see that it's a square deal. You're a sneaking polecat, Warden; but you—I'm going to give you——"
Lawler paused; he sagged. He tried to straighten, failed. And while both men watched him—Shorty with eyes that were terrible in their ineffable sympathy and impotent wrath; Warden in a paralysis of cold terror—Lawler lurched heavily against the desk and slid gently to the floor, where he leaned, his eyes closed, against the desk, motionless, unconscious.
Silently, his eyes aflame with passion, Shorty leaped to the desk and snatched the gun that Lawler had placed at Warden's hand. With almost the same movement he pulled Warden out of his chair and threw him against the rear wall of the room. He was after the man like a giant panther; catching him by the throat with his left hand as he reached him, crushing him against the wall so that the impact jarred the building; while he savagely jammed the muzzle of the pistol deep into the man's stomach, holding it there with venomous pressure, while his blazing eyes bored into Warden's with a ferocious malignance. "Damn you, Warden," he said hoarsely; "I ought to kill you!" He shook Warden with his left hand, as though the man were a child in his grasp, sinking his fingers into the flesh of his neck until Warden's eyes popped out and his face grew purple. Then he released him so suddenly that Warden sank to his knees on the floor, coughing, laboring, straining to draw his breath.
He stood, huge and menacing, until Warden swayed to his feet and staggered weakly to the chair in which he had been sitting when Lawler entered; and then he leaned over the desk and peered into Warden's face.
"This ain't my game, Warden! If it was, I'd choke the gizzard out of you and chuck you out of a window! I reckon I've got to save you for Lawler—if he gets over this. If he don't, I'm comin' for you!"
He holstered his gun, stooped, lifted Lawler and gently swung him over his shoulder; and without glancing back at Warden strode to the stairs, out into the street and made his way to the Willets Hotel, a crowd of curious citizens at his heels.
Della Wharton had watched from one of the windows of her room in the hotel. She had seen Lawler and Shorty ride down the street to Warden's office; she had seen Shorty come out carrying Lawler; and she heard Shorty's steps on the stairs as he brought his burden up, preceded by the proprietor.
She was standing in the hall when the proprietor and Shorty reached the upper landing, and when the proprietor looked inquiringly at her she silently motioned toward her room, and stood aside as Shorty entered and placed his limp burden upon the bed. Lawler was unconscious and ghastly pale.
Della instantly took charge of Lawler. Which means that she set seriously to work with him, while Shorty stood by, his arms folded over his huge chest, one hand caressing his chin, grimly watching.
Shorty continued to watch. For many days he stood guard over his "boss"—a somber, brooding figure, silent, imperturbable. When he moved it was only to walk slowly up and down the hall, or downstairs to take his meals. At other times he would stand at the bedside looking down at Lawler's closed eyes and ashen face; or he would sit on the edge of a chair and watch him, intently, with stoic calm, his face as expressionless as a stone image.
Mrs. Lawler came early the next morning—after the doctor had told Della and Shorty there was a fighting chance for Lawler; and Ruth Hamlin. Shorty's eyes grew moist as he watched Mrs. Lawler and Ruth as they stood by the unconscious man; and his voice was low and gruff when, during the day Mrs. Lawler asked him for particulars.
"That's all there was to it, ma'am," he said in conclusion. "The boss oughtn't to have busted in that shack like he did, knowin' Antrim was there—an' givin' the scum a chance to take the first shot at him. But he done it. An' he done the same thing to Warden—offered him the first shot. Ma'am, I never heard the beat of it! I've got nerve—as the sayin' is. But—Lordy!"
And Shorty became silent again.
For three days Lawler remained unconscious. And during that interval there were no disturbing sounds to agitate the deathlike quiet of the sickroom. Riders glided into town from various points of the compass and stepped softly as they moved in the street—whispering or talking in low tones. The universal topic was the fight, and Lawler's condition. On the second day of Lawler's unconsciousness a keen-eyed man stepped off the east-bound train and made his way to the hotel.
"I'm Metcalf of theNews, in the capital," he told Keller, the proprietor. And Keller quietly ushered the newspaperman upstairs, where the latter stood for a long time until Mrs. Lawler opened the door of the sickroom for him. Metcalf entered, looked down at Lawler, and then drew Shorty aside where, in a whispered conversation he obtained the particulars of the fight and the wounding of Lawler. He took the west-bound train that night.
A pall seemed to have settled over Willets. The atmosphere was tense, strained. Riders from Caldwell's ranch, from Sigmund's, from Lester's—and from other ranches came in; and important-looking men from various sections of the state alighted from the trains at the station and lingered long in the dingy foyer of the hotel. One of these was recognized by Keller as McGregor, secretary of the State Central Committee of Lawler's party. And Keller noted that McGregor wore a worried look and that he scowled continually.
Willets waited; the riders who came into town waited; it seemed to the residents of Willets that the whole state waited, with its collective gaze upon the little room in the hotel where a man lay, fighting for his life.
Shorty waited—still silent, the somber brooding light in his eyes; his jaws set a little tighter, his eyes filled with a deeper glow. Shorty said no word to any man regarding the deadly intention that reigned in his heart. He merely waited, watching Lawler, grimly determined that if Lawler died he would keep his promise to "come for" Warden.
But Shorty would not have found Warden in town. On the night of the shooting Warden had taken the west-bound train, and the next day he was closeted with the governor and Hatfield—the three of them sitting in the governor's office, where, their faces pale, though expressing no regret, they sat and talked of the fight and conjectured over its probable consequences.
Singleton stayed close to the Two Diamond; and after the second day, Della Wharton rode to the ranch and sat brooding over the failure of her plans. When Lawler had been brought into the hotel she had entertained a hope that the situation might be turned to her advantage. But there had been something in Ruth Hamlin's clear, direct eyes that had convinced her of the futility of attempting to poison her mind against Lawler by referring to her stay in the line cabin with Lawler. She saw faith in Ruth's eyes—complete, disconcerting; and it had made her feel inferior, unworthy, cheap, and inconsequential.
On the fourth day Lawler regained consciousness. The doctor had told them all that the crisis was at hand; that if the fever broke, marking the end of the delirium which had seized him, he would awaken normal mentally, though inevitably weak. But if the fever did not break there would be no hope for him.
Mrs. Lawler, Ruth, and Shorty were in the room with Lawler when he opened his eyes. For a long time the three stood, breathlessly watching as Lawler lay, staring in bewilderment at the ceiling, at the walls, and out of the windows, through which came a soft, subdued light.
Presently Lawler raised his head a trifle, saw them all, and smiled. The clear light of reason was in his eyes.
"Mother, Ruth, and Shorty," he said, weakly smiling. "I've known for a long time that you were here. But I couldn't let you know. Mother and Ruth—and Shorty," he repeated; and then, in a lower voice, that trailed off into a murmur as he closed his eyes and appeared to be falling asleep: "Good old Shorty!"
Ruth and Mrs. Lawler were clasped in each other's arms, joy unutterable in their eyes. It was some time before they turned, to look at Shorty.
The tawny giant was standing near the foot of the bed. His lips were quivering, his eyes were wet, his whole body seemed to be racked with emotion that he could not suppress. He was making an heroic effort, though—an effort that made the cords of his neck stand out lividly; that swelled his muscles into knotty bunches.
"Damn it!" he growled as he turned his head away from Ruth and Mrs. Lawler, so that they might not see what was reflected there; "there ain't no sense of him gettin' mush-headed about it!"
It was many days before Lawler was strong enough to ride Red King to the Circle L; and many more days joined the regiments that have marched into the ages, before he forgot what he saw in Blackburn's eyes when one day, soon after his return to the Circle L, he listened to the range boss relate the story of the fight on the plains. Blackburn's cynical eyes had changed expression. They had become tragic, strained, as though the man was striving to blot out mental pictures that were detailed there—pictures that memory persisted in drawing.
He rode with Lawler to the scene of the fight, and showed him where the Circle L outfit had brought the rustlers to bay.
"After Shorty left," said Blackburn; "me insistin' on him goin', an' him blackguardin' me for sendin' him, there was a little time when nothin' happened. Then the day broke, an' everything seemed to happen at once.
"They rushed us, Lawler. There was more of 'em than there was of us, an' they circled around us, howlin' an' shootin' like Indians. They got us between 'em. But we fought 'em—Lawler, we fought 'em till there wasn't a man left standing. But there was too many of 'em. We planted twenty—afterward. But about that number got away. I was hit sort of hard, but I watched 'em scutterin' towards Kinney's cañon. They'd been gone some time when Caldwell's outfit—an' Shorty—come up. Caldwell's outfit lit out after 'em; but Caldwell's men had rode pretty hard gettin' to us, an' it wasn't no go. Sigmund's men, though; an' Lester's an' the rest of 'em, had took a gorge trail that cuts into the big basin from the south, away the other side of Kinney's cañon; an' they run plumb into the rustlers over at the edge of the basin on Sigmund's side.
"An' they brought back your cattle; though Slade an' twenty or thirty of his men got away, clean. I reckon you've heard about enough, an'—Well, Lawler, that's about all—exceptin' to tell you how the boys—an' I don't seem to want to go over that when I'm awake; I keep seein' it enough of nights."
But something of the deep emotion Blackburn felt was reflected in Lawler's eyes from the time he heard the story.
During the many days he had spent in the little hotel room recovering from his wound—and in the long interval of convalescence that followed—a small army of workmen had been engaged in rebuilding the Circle L ranchhouse, the bunkhouses, and the other structures. On the second day following his return to consciousness Lawler had called in a contractor and had made arrangements for reconstruction.
A temporary cabin—to be used afterward by Blackburn—had been erected near the site of the bunkhouses, and into this Lawler and his mother moved while the ranchhouse and the other buildings were being rebuilt. Blackburn was slowly engaging men to fill the depleted complement, and the work went on some way, though in it was none of that spirit which had marked the activities of the Circle L men in the old days.
In fact, the atmosphere that surrounded the Circle L seemed to be filled with a strange depression. There had come a cold grimness into Blackburn's face, a sullenness had appeared in the eyes of the three men who had survived the fight on the plains; they were moody, irritable, impatient. One of them, a slender, lithe man named Sloan, voiced to Blackburn one day a prediction.
"Antrim's dead, all O.K.," he said. "But Slade—who was always a damned sight worse than Antrim—is still a-kickin'. An' Slade ain't the man to let things go halfway. Them boys from the other outfits bested him, all right. But Slade will be back—you'll see. An' when he comes we'll be squarin' things with him—an' don't you forget it!"
It was after Lawler had been occupying the cabin for a month that Metcalf made his second visit. He rode down the slope of the valley on a horse he had hired at Willets, and came upon Lawler, who was standing at the corral gates, looking across the enclosure at the workmen who were bustling about the ranchhouse.
Metcalf regarded Lawler critically before he dismounted; and then he came forward, shook Lawler's hand and again looked him over.
"A little thin and peaked; but otherwise all right, eh?" he smiled. "It's hard to kill you denizens of the sagebrush."
He followed Lawler into the shade of the cabin, remarked to Mrs. Lawler that her son would need someone to guard him—if he persisted in meeting outlaws of the Antrim type single-handed; and then turned to Lawler—after Mrs. Lawler had gone inside—and said lowly:
"Lord, man! you've got this state raving over you! Your fight against the ring is talked about in every corner of the country. And that scrap with Antrim, Selden, and Krell in the old Dickman cabin will go down in history—it will be a classic! What made you rush in on Antrim that way—giving him the first shot?"
Lawler smiled faintly. "Shucks, Metcalf, there was nothing to that. Shorty told me what had happened, and as I recollect, now, I was pretty much excited."