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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Been in town long?" he queried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why not call a special session, Governor?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caldwell grasped Lawler's hand and shook it vigorously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X

THE SECOND OBSTACLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI

THE LONG TRAIL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII

THE NIGHT WIND'S MYSTERY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII

THE INVISIBLE MENACE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lawler enlightened the men at the camp fire that night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Kinney's cañon, ain't it?"

Lawler nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIV

LAWLER'S "NERVE"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What outfit is this?" he demanded.

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

"Where you headin'?"

"To Red Rock."

"Railroad out of business?" jeered the outlaw.

"Far as the Circle L is concerned, it is, Antrim," smiled Blackburn. "We
had a fuss, an' quit 'em."

The outlaw peered intently at the other. Then he grinned.

"It's Andy Blackburn!" he said. "Glad to meet you, Blackburn. This seems
like old times--before the railroad went through; when old Luke Lawler
used to jam 'em to Red Rock--sometimes--when he didn't pick up too many
strays on the way." He laughed as though pleased over the recollection.
"Got this stock vented, Blackburn?"

"Nary a vent, Antrim; the inspector wasn't feelin' in the humor."

"Ha!" exclaimed Antrim; "so you didn't get no vent. Well, we're aimin'
to look through your herd. We've been missin' cattle all summer--from my
ranch, the Circle Bar. About three thousand head. We've traced 'em as
far as Kinney's cañon, an' lost 'em. But we've been thinkin', Blackburn,
that it ain't no hard job to make a passable Circle L out of a Circle
Bar. That's why we aim to look your cattle over."

He grinned slightly at Blackburn's scowl, aware of the impotent rage the
latter felt over the worst insult that could be offered an honest
cattleman. For an instant he watched Blackburn keenly, his lips
sneering; and then when he saw that Blackburn had mastered his rage, he
said, sharply:

"Who was that guy that rode away as we come up?"

"Lawler," said Blackburn. "He's figurin' on seein' you alone, looks
like. He left word that when you come I was to tell you he wanted to see
you."

The outlaw's eyes glowed with swift suspicion.

"He knowed me, eh?" he said. He glanced keenly over the level floor of
the desert. Dimly, in the dusk, he could see Lawler riding near the
herd. For an instant Antrim hesitated, plainly debating the wisdom of
leaving his men; then he smiled with whimsical recklessness. And his
movements became rapid, jerky.

"Slade," he said, addressing a rider near him; "you're runnin' things
till I get back."

He wheeled his horse and sent him into the dusk toward the herd, riding
cautiously, evidently not entirely convinced of the peaceableness of
Lawler's intentions.

He rode a quarter of a mile before he came upon Lawler; and though the
light was fading he could plainly see Lawler's face, set,
expressionless.

The outlaw brought his horse to a halt within three or four paces of Red
King. Antrim's manner exuded the insolent tolerance of the master, who
has the confidence that comes from thoughts of an overwhelming
advantage.

He knew Lawler; knew him as perhaps no other man in the section knew
him. For he had seen Lawler using his gun. It had been some years
before, when Lawler had been proving himself--proving that he had a
right to the respect and consideration of his fellow-men; proving that
no man could trifle with him.

Antrim had been a witness to the shooting. He had marked Lawler's
coolness, the evenness of his temper; and had noted the deadly swiftness
and precision of his movements when he had drawn his pistol. Lawler had
not been the aggressor--a dozen other men had testified to that.

Antrim had not seen Lawler since, until now. And as he looked at him he
saw that the years had brought a change in the man. He had been a tall,
bold, reckless-looking youth then, with a certain wild waywardness in
his manner that might have destroyed him, had he yielded to it. Now he
was cold, calm, deliberate, imperturbable. The recklessness had
disappeared from his eyes; they were now aglow with quiet determination.
The waywardness had gone--ironlike resolution marked his manner.

And yet behind it all, Antrim could see the threat of those youthful
passions; the lurking eagerness for violent action; the hint of
preparedness, of readiness.

Antrim was startled, uneasy. He saw now that he should not have left his
men; that he had made a mistake in coming alone to meet Lawler.

He was certain of it now, when he heard Lawler's voice, saw the cold,
smiling light in his eyes.

"You're wanting my cattle, Antrim. Your men have been trailing me for
two weeks. You don't get them. You've got thirty-nine men, and there are
only twenty-three Circle L men over there. I'm not getting any of them
killed. This thing is between you and myself. Get your hand away from
your gun or I'll bore you!"

He moved his hand--where it had been--seemingly--lying on Red King's
neck, under the mane; and Antrim saw the dark muzzle of a pistol showing
in the hand.

"I'm not taking any chances, Antrim--you can see that. I'm not going to
take any. If you do anything to attract the attention of your men, I'll
kill you. Drop your guns, using your thumbs and forefingers." He
waited, watching keenly, until the outlaw had complied with the demand,
the two big pistols thudding dully into the sand beside his horse.

Then Lawler resumed, his voice low and even, as before:

"Now we're riding back to the fire, Antrim. Listen hard, for this means
life or death to you.

"We're going back to the fire. You're going to act as though nothing had
happened; and you are to tell your men that you have changed your mind
about the cattle--you are to tell them that you are going with me to Red
Rock; and you are sending them back to where you came from, to wait for
you."

Antrim stiffened, and his face bloated poisonously. But he did not
answer, for there was that in Lawler's eyes that convinced him of the
futility of attempting resistance.

"You're going to Red Rock with me," went on Lawler. "I'm going to be
personally responsible for you. I'm going to watch you; you're going to
ride ahead of me. If you talk, or make any motion that brings any of
your men back, you'll die so quick you won't know it happened! Do you
understand?"

"Damn you, Lawler; you'll pay for this!" muttered the outlaw. "I'll go
on your trail and I'll never let up till I get you!"

Lawler laughed, lowly. "Just be careful not to get any of that poison in
your voice when you tell your men what I told you, Antrim, or you'll
never go on anybody's trail. Get going, now; and be careful."

Antrim wheeled his horse, and Lawler spurred Red King beside him.

"I'll be watching you, Antrim," he warned. "If your men show they
suspect anything wrong you go down, mighty rapid. You don't get off your
horse until your men go. And there is to be no playing for time. You
talk fast and earnest, and carefully. Go ahead."

Riding slightly in Antrim's rear, Lawler followed the outlaw to the
fire. There had come no change in the positions of the outlaws or of the
Circle L men. And when Antrim and Lawler rode up there was a silence
during which the men of both factions looked interrogatively at their
leaders.

Antrim's face was pale, and his voice was vibrant with emotion. But he
did not hesitate.

"Slade," he said to the man he had left in charge; "I've changed my mind
about those cattle. Lawler has given me proof that none of our stock is
with them. I'm hittin' the trail to Red Rock with Lawler. You take the
boys back to the ranch an' wait for me."

Slade's eyes widened; he flushed and peered keenly at Antrim. "You--why,
hell's fire, Antrim; we----"

"Slade, do as I tell you!" said Antrim, coldly. "Are you runnin' my
affairs? You hit the breeze, right now--you hear me!"

Slade grinned venomously, and waved a violent hand around the circle.
"You hear your boss, boys!" he said; "Slope!"

The men hesitated an instant, sending sharp, incredulous glances at
their leader. But Antrim, pale, knowing that if he betrayed the
slightest sign of insincerity his men would suspect, met their looks
steadily. The men wheeled their horses, muttering profanely, and rode
slowly westward into the growing darkness.

When they had disappeared, Lawler smiled faintly at the outlaw chief.

"You can get down, now, Antrim." He drew the pistol from Red King's
mane, where it had been concealed during Antrim's talk with his men, and
sheathed it. And then Blackburn, who had been a silent, amazed witness
to what had occurred, whistled softly, covertly poking Shorty in the
ribs.

"There's one thing that's as good as a vent, ain't there, Shorty?" he
said. "That's a gun in the hand of a man who's got plenty of nerve!"

CHAPTER XV

CONCERNING AN OUTLAW

Early in the afternoon of the first day of December the sky darkened,
and a cold, raw wind began to shriek through Willets. The company corral
was empty; and again, as on the day before Kane Lawler had visited him,
Gary Warden stood at one of the windows of his office smiling. Warden
was almost satisfied.

Only one disturbing thought persistently recurred; Lawler had got his
cattle through to Red Rock.

A crimson stain appeared in Warden's cheeks as his thoughts reverted to
Lawler's return to Willets, after disposing of his cattle to the Red
Rock buyer. And Warden's shoulders sagged a little, the smile faded and
he glared malignantly at the bleak, gray clouds that sailed over town on
the chill, bitter wind.

Oddly, at the instant Warden's memory was dwelling upon the incident of
Lawler's return to Willets, Lafe Corwin, the storekeeper, was mentally
reviewing the incident.

Willets was a cow-town, and for the winter its activity was over. All
the beef cattle in the section, with the exception of three thousand
head still held by Lawler, at the Circle L, had been shipped eastward,
and Willets would now descend to supine indifference to considerations
of gain.

Lafe Corwin was tilted back in a big wooden chair near the big,
roaring-hot stove in the lounging-room of the Willets Hotel. His clerk
could attend to the store. Until spring came, Corwin would spend much of
his leisure near the big stove in the hotel, talking politics and
cattle--two subjects of paramount importance.

But just at this instant Corwin was thinking of Lawler's return to
Willets. Little wrinkles gathered around his eyes--which were twinkling;
and he chuckled lowly as his gaze roved from one to the other of the men
who, like himself, were enjoying the warmth of the stove and listening,
between words, to the howling and moaning of the wind.

Three or four times, during silences, Corwin chuckled. And when at last
he saw Dave Rankin, the blacksmith, watching him curiously, he guffawed
aloud, rubbing his hands gleefully.

"I don't reckon I ever seen no mournfuller sight than that!" he
declared.

"Meanin' which?" asked the blacksmith, his eyes alight with truculent
inquiry. The others sat erect, attentive.

"Meanin' that mornin' when Kane Lawler hopped off the train with his
bunch of cowhands--an' Blondy Antrim," snickered Corwin. "Dave Singleton
an' Gary Warden an' Jordan an' Simmons an' that pony-built girl which is
stayin' over to the Two Diamond with that ossified woman she calls 'Aunt
Hannah,' was on the platform waitin' for the six o'clock train from the
east. It appears that pony-built--Della Wharton, her name is--was
expectin' some gimcracks, an' Warden an' her was waitin' for them.
Anyways, they was there. It sure was medium mournful!" declared Corwin.

He appeared to hesitate; and Rankin grinned.

"We've heard it before; but I reckon we can stand listenin' ag'in. Tell
it, Corwin."

"As I was sayin' when you interrupted me--it was medium mournful,"
resumed Corwin. "Shorty--who was with Lawler on the drive--has told me
since; but at that time I didn't know--that Jordan had refused to vent
Lawler's cattle.

"Well, I'd come down to see the train come in, too. We was all standin'
there when she come a-steamin' up, an' stopped. An' who clumb off but
Lawler an' his trail crew--twenty-three of 'em. An' Blondy Antrim in the
midst of 'em, lookin' like a sheep-killin' dog.

"Well, gentlemen, they was a scene. Warden got his face all screwed up
an' couldn't get it unscrewed ag'in. He looked like he'd swallered a hot
brandin' iron an' it didn't lay easy on his stummick. Singleton was
a-standin' there with his mouth open an' his eyes a-poppin' out; an'
Jordan was plumb flabbergasted. Simmons was leanin' ag'in' the side of
the station buildin', lookin' like he was expectin' to be shot the next
minute.

"That Della Wharton girl was the only one that seemed to have any wits
a-tall. I seen her grin eloquent at Lawler, an' look him straight in the
eye like she was tellin' him somethin' intimate.

"Well, as I was sayin', Lawler an' his boys got off with Blondy Antrim.
Antrim looks wild an' flighty--like you've seen a locoed steer on the
prod. His eyes was a-glarin' an' he was mutterin' cusses by the
mouthful. All of which didn't seem to faze Lawler none.

"Lawler was as cool as an iceberg which had just arrove from the North
Pole--an' then some. An' he got a mean, mild grin on his face when he
saw the reception committee that had come to meet him. They was a
twinkle in his eyes when he looked at Della Wharton; but when Warden
blows into his line of vision he looked mighty wicked.

"Lawler an' his gang had brought their hosses from Red Rock in two
cars--they'd sold some of the _remuda_ in Red Rock, not carin' to ship
'em home. Anyways, the gang didn't appear in no hurry to unload the
hosses; an' a trainman yells to them, sayin' they'd have to hurry.

"But the boys was too interested just then. 'Unload 'em yourself, you
sufferin' yap!' yells Shorty. 'If you pull out of here with them hosses
I'll blow your damned railroad over into the next county!' Shorty sure
does love the railroad!

"As I was sayin' when you interrupted me: Lawler looked mighty wicked.
But he's cold an' polite--an' ca'm. An' he escorts Antrim over to where
Warden was standin', an' says, quiet an' low:

"Warden, I have brought back my vent. He sure was a heap of trouble, an'
he got himself attached to us right close. But as we haven't got no
further use for him we're turnin' him over to you. I reckon he's lookin'
to you an' Singleton to pay him for the trouble of trailin' us for two
weeks, an' for keepin' me company as far as Red Rock, to see that my
herd got there right an' proper. 'Antrim,' he says; 'go to your boss!'
And he gives him a little shove toward Warden.

"Warden didn't say nothin'--he'd lost his voice, I reckon. But Antrim
goes off the handle complete.

"'The damned sneak lifted my guns!' he yells.

"'You wantin' a gun?' says Lawler, cold an' ca'm. He backs up an' lifts
one of Shorty's. Then he walks close to Antrim an' shoves it into his
right hand.

"'There's a gun, you polecat,' he says. 'Fan it. I'd admire to blow the
gizzard outen you!'

"But Antrim didn't seem to be none tickled, now that he'd got the gun.
He stood, lookin' at it, like it was somethin' strange an' unusual, an'
he was wonderin' whether he ought to hang onto it or drop it. Finally he
grins sorta sheepishlike, an' hands it back to Lawler, butt first.

"'I ain't aimin' to fight you today, Lawler,' he says, his face bloomin'
like a cactus.

"Lawler laughs, an' gives Shorty his gun back. Shorty grins like a
tiger. 'Mebbe Singleton wouldn't mind acceptin' your kind offer, Boss?'
he says.

"But Singleton don't break his neck reachin' for _his_ gun, neither. He
stands there, lookin' like a calf that's lost its mother. An' then
Lawler laughs again, an' says:

"'Well, boys, seein' that the reception committee has received us, an'
the honors has all been done, I reckon we'd better get the hosses off
the cars an' hit the breeze for home!'

"An' they done so. But before they went they smoked up the town
considerable--as you all seen. Them boys had divided twenty-five
thousand dollars between them, which Lawler give 'em for makin' the
drive. An' they sure did celebrate. Except Lawler. He went right home,
an' I ain't seen him since. But I reckon Warden an' the rest of them
ain't had no regrets. I ain't never seen no mournfuller sight than them
folks sneakin' away from the station. All but Della Wharton. She was
a-grinnin' sorta slylike, as though somethin' pleased her."

CHAPTER XVI

A "NORTHER"

When Lawler returned to the Circle L ranchhouse he found that Mary had
gone East, to school. She had left for Willets on the second day
following Lawler's departure; and Mrs. Lawler had already received two
letters from her. Mrs. Lawler watched her son keenly when she told him
that Joe Hamlin had brought a letter stating that Hamlin was to be
permitted to take a number of mixed cattle from the Circle L--and that
he had driven away one hundred. She smiled gently when she told Lawler
that on the day before her departure Mary had visited Ruth Hamlin--had
spent the whole day with her, and had come home, mysteriously delighted.
Ruth had given up the school.

"Mary loves her, Kane," said Mrs. Lawler. And she smiled again when she
saw a flush reach Lawler's face.

Lawler intended to ride to the Hamlin cabin this morning. It was the
third day following his arrival at the ranch; and until now he had had
no time for anything except to attend to the many details of work that
had been neglected during his absence.

There were still three thousand head of cattle on the Circle L
range--the men had held them in the valley for a time during his absence
on the trail, but the grass had grown sparse, and the herd was now
grazing on the big plain beyond the northern slope of the valley.

During the time he had been home the outfit had been busy. The Circle L
had a dozen line camps--little adobe cabins scattered over the range,
occupied during the winter by Circle L cowboys whose duty it was to
guard the cattle against the aggressions of timber wolves, rustlers,
cold, and starvation.

For two days the chuck-wagon had been sent rattling to the various line
camps, stocking them with supplies against the winter. As the weather
was threatening the hoodlum wagon had been pressed into service this
morning; and all the men, with the exception of the blacksmith--who was
working diligently in his shop near the corral; and two punchers--Davies
and Harris, who had been assigned to Number One camp--were away with the
two wagons.

Davies and Harris had not been able to resist the lure of "town." The
prosperity that had descended upon them had made them restless, and the
night before they had importuned Lawler to permit them to spend "one
more night in town before holin' up for the winter."

Lawler had consented; and now he was wishing that he hadn't. For when he
emerged from the ranchhouse this morning he saw a dark cloud bank far in
the north, moving southward on the chill wind.

The herd, he knew, was somewhere on the big level beyond the slope of
the valley, in the vicinity of Number One line camp. It was an isolated
section, off the trail that led to town--a section of featureless level
near a big break in the valley. The break opened upon another big level
that stretched southward for a hundred miles. In other days Luke Lawler
had lost many cattle here; they had drifted through the break by
hundreds, with a blizzard behind them; and had been swallowed by the
great waste.

Two years before--aware of the previous losses--Lawler had erected a
wire fence across the big break, extending from a craggy mountain wall
on the western end, to a sheer butte that marked the end of the break,
eastward.

Lawler had sent Red King to the crest of the valley on his way to the
Hamlin cabin, when he noted that the cloud bank in the north had grown
denser, nearer. The wind had increased in velocity, and he had to lean
against it as he rode; and it was so cold and raw that he drew his heavy
cap down over his eyes to shield them, and drew over his mouth the heavy
woolen scarf he wore around his neck.

He rode on a short distance, casting troubled glances into the north. He
found himself wondering if Davies and Harris had gone to the line camp.
If they hadn't, and a storm broke, the herd on the big level was in
danger.

He brought Red King to a halt. The big horse pranced, whistling eagerly.
He champed on the bit, tossed his head, raising it finally and staring
straight into the north.

"You see it too, eh, King?" said Lawler. "Well, we can't take that
chance; we'll have to go to the camp."

He headed Red King down into the valley again, where the bitter wind did
not strike them, riding westward rapidly.

It was noon before Lawler and Red King had traveled half the distance to
the line camp. A dull, gray haze was sweeping southward. It mingled with
the southern light and threw a ghostly glare into the valley, making
distance deceptive, giving a strange appearance to the landmarks with
which Lawler and the horse were familiar.

Lawler increased Red King's pace. He saw that the storm was nearer than
he had thought, and he would have to work fast to get the cattle headed
into the valley before it broke.

The distance from the Circle L ranchhouse to the big plain near the line
cabin was about fifteen miles, and the trail led upward in a long,
tiresome rise. Yet Red King struck the level with a reserve strength
that was betrayed by the way he fought for his head as he saw the level
stretch before him. He was warmed up--he wanted to run.

But Lawler drew him down in an effort to locate the herd before he
started toward it.

Man and horse made a mere blot on the yawning expanse of land that
stretched away from them in all directions. A lone eagle in the sky or a
mariner adrift on a deserted sea could not have seemed more isolated
than Lawler and Red King. In this limitless expanse of waste land horse
and rider were dwarfed to the proportion of atoms. The yawning, aching,
stretching miles of level seemed to have no end.

Several miles into the north Lawler saw the herd. Directly westward, at
a distance of about a mile, he saw the line cabin. No smoke was issuing
from the chimney; and so far as he could discern, there were no men with
the cattle.

Harris and Davies had overstayed. That knowledge might have been
responsible for the grim humor in Lawler's eyes; but the rigidness of
his body and the aggressive thrust to his chin were caused by knowledge
of a different character. The storm was about to break.

The sun was casting a dull red glow through the gray haze. It was
blotted out as he looked. Southward from the horizon ends extended a
broad sea of shimmering, glittering sky that contrasted brilliantly to
the black, wind-whipped clouds that had gathered in the north. Fleecy
gray wisps, detached from the heavy, spreading mass northward, were
scurrying southward, streaking the shimmering brilliance and telling of
the force of the wind that drove them.

A wailing note came from the north, a sighing vague with a portent of
force; a whisper of unrest, a promise of fury. Far in the north, its
blackness deepening with distance, stretched the menace, arousing awe
with its magnitude.

Nature seemed to know what impended, for on the vast level where the
storm would have a clear sweep the dried grass, bronzed by the searing
autumn sun, was rustling as it bent far southward; the hardy sage bowed
reluctantly to the fitful blasts, and the scraggly, ugly yucca
resentfully yielded to the unseen force.

A wide, shallow gully ran northwestward from a point near Red King,
almost in a straight line toward the herd. Lawler urged the big horse
into the gully and rode hard. The distance was several miles, but when
Red King came to the gully end he flashed out of it like a streak of red
flame. He was drawn down, instantly, however, snorting and pawing
impatiently, while Lawler shielded his eyes with his hands and again
scanned the country.

He saw the herd; and as he watched it began to move. There were no men
near the cattle.

They started slowly, seemingly reluctant to leave the level. They moved
sullenly, closely massed, their heads lowered, their tails drooping. The
wind, now beginning to carry a vicious note with its whine, drove a
heavy dust cloud against them, warning them. The wind was icy, giving
the cattle a foretaste of what was to come. And mingling with the dust
were fine, flinty snow particles that came almost horizontally against
their rumps, stinging them, worrying them. They increased their pace,
and soon were running with a swinging, awkward stride, straight toward
the wire fence, several miles distant.

If they saw Lawler they gave no sign, for they went lumbering on,
snorting and bawling their apprehension.

Lawler was about to start Red King toward them, when he noted movement
on the level a little northwestward from the cattle. Peering intently,
he saw two horsemen racing southward, a little distance ahead of the
cattle, parallel with them.

At first Lawler was certain the men were Davies and Harris, and he
smiled, appreciating their devotion to duty. But when he saw them race
past the cattle, not even halting to head them in the right
direction--which would have been slightly eastward, so that they would
enter the valley before reaching the fence--he frowned, wheeled Red King
sharply, and sent him back into the gully from which he had emerged.

"They're strangers, King," he said, shortly to the horse as the latter
fled headlong down the gully toward the point from which he had started;
"Davies and Harris wouldn't leave the herd with that norther coming on."

The big horse made fast time down the gully. He brought Lawler to a
point near the fence where it crossed the gully at about the instant the
two riders were dismounting some distance away.

Lawler rode out of the gully and brought Red King to a halt. There was
no danger that the two men would discover him, for all objects in the
vicinity were rapidly being blotted out by the dancing smother of dust
that was riding the north wind. Lawler was to the north of the men,
slightly eastward, and they could not have faced the smother of dust to
look toward him.

Lawler could dimly see the herd moving toward the fence; he could see
the men plainly; and as he watched them his eyes narrowed. The big horse
leaped with the word he caught from his rider's lips, racing lightly
with the wind toward the fence where the men were working.

Lawler's approach was noiseless, for all sound was engulfed in the
steady, roaring whine of the storm. Neither of the two men, working at
the fence, heard Lawler as he brought the big horse to a halt within
half a dozen paces of them.

The taller of the two, plying a pair of wire-nippers, completed his work
at a fence post and turned to leap toward another. The movement brought
him against the muzzle of Lawler's horse. He halted jerkily, retreated a
step, and looked up, to see Lawler looking at him from behind the muzzle
of the big pistol that had leaped into his hand.

There was no word spoken--none could be heard at the moment. What
followed was grim pantomime, with tragedy lurking near.

The tall man held his position. He had tentatively extended his right
hand, the fingers spread, clawlike. Now the hand was going upward,
accompanied by the other. When the man had stepped backward to escape a
collision with Lawler's horse, the wind had whipped his hat from his
head. He now stood there, his hair waving to the vicious whims of the
gale, veiling his eyes and he not daring to lower his hands to brush it
away.

The shorter man, too, had assumed a statuesque pose. He had turned when
he had noted his companion's startled movement, and he, too, had seen an
apparition that had sent his hands swiftly upward.

The big horse stood motionless, his back to the wind. He did not move as
Lawler leaped from his back--smoothly, quickly, his eyes alert, his
muscles tensed for violent action.

The men stood rigid while Lawler jerked their pistols from their
holsters and tossed them into the dust waves that danced and swirled
around them. The short man was catapulted against the tall one with a
viciousness that staggered both; and then they heard Lawler's voice,
sharp and penetrating, above the shrieking of the wind:

"Those cattle will be here in five minutes! If you don't have that fence
repaired before then, you drift with them, hoofing it!"

In the allotted time they repaired the fence, working with breathless
energy, while Lawler stood near, the menacing gun in hand, a saturnine
smile wreathing his face.

When the herd reached the fence there was no break in it. More--where
the break had been were three men on horses who took instant charge,
easing the cattle down along the fence, heading them eastward toward the
shelter they were sure to find if they kept going.

The three men followed the cattle for a mile--until they were going
straight and fast toward the home ranch. Then Lawler, smiling with
bitter humor, motioned the men toward the back trail.

They seemed to know what was demanded of them. They wheeled their
horses, sending them into the billowy white smother that was now coming
in a gigantic wave toward them.

The southern light had gone. A dense blackness, out of which roared a
gale that robbed them of their breath, struck them. The snow was hurled
against them like a sand blast, biting deep, blinding them.

It took them more than an hour to travel the distance that lay between
the point at which they had cut the fence, and the line cabin. And when
they reached a windbreak near the structure the two men rode behind it,
silent, thankful.

Lawler had ridden forth, prepared for bad weather. His face was now
muffled in a huge scarf that encircled his neck, and his eyes were
shielded by the peak of the fur cap he wore. He dismounted, waved the
men toward a dugout, and watched them as they dismounted and led their
horses through a narrow door. When the men emerged Lawler led the big
red horse in, leaving the men to stand in the white gale that enveloped
them.

The wind was now roaring steadily, and with such force that no man could
have faced it with uncovered face. It came over the vast emptiness of
the northern spaces with a fury that sent into one the consciousness
that here was an element with which man could not cope.

Lawler emerged from the dugout and closed the door behind him. He barred
it, turned and motioned the two men toward the cabin. He followed them
as they opened the door and entered. Then, after closing the door and
barring it, he lifted the peak of his cap, removed the scarf from his
neck, glanced around the interior of the cabin and looked coldly at the
men.

"Well," he said; "there's a heap of explaining to be done. You can begin
now--one at a time!"

CHAPTER XVII

THE LINE CABIN

The two men had walked to a point near the big fireplace that occupied
the greater part of one end of the cabin. The hatless one, big,
assertive, belligerent, grinned defiantly, saying nothing in answer to
Lawler's words.

The other man, slighter, and plainly apprehensive, glanced swiftly at
his companion; then dropped his gaze to the floor.

"You skunks bunked here last night!" charged Lawler, sharply. "When I
was here, yesterday, these bunks were made up. Look at them now! Talk
fast. Were you here last night?"

The smaller man nodded.

"Why didn't you cut the fence last night?"

The smaller man grinned. "We wasn't aimin' to get caught."

"Expected there'd be line riders here, eh?"

The other did not answer. Lawler watched both men derisively.

"Then, when you saw no one was here, and that it was likely the norther
would keep anyone from coming, you cut the fence. That's it, eh?"

The two men did not answer, regarding him sullenly.

Lawler smiled. This time there was a cold mirth in his smile that caused
the two men to look quickly at each other. They paled and scowled at
what they saw in Lawler's eyes.

Half a dozen bunks ranged the side walls of the cabin, four on one side,
two on the other, arranged in tiers, upper and lower. A rough, square
table stood near the center of the room, with a low bench on one side of
it and several low chairs on the other. A big chuck-box stood in a
corner near the fireplace, its top half open, revealing the supplies
with which the receptacle was filled; some shelves on the other side of
the fireplace were piled high with canned foods and bulging packages.
The bunks were filled with bedclothing; and an oil-lamp stood on a
triangular shelf in a corner near the door. The walls were bare with the
exception of some highly colored lithographs that, evidently, had been
placed there by someone in whom the love of art still flourished.

It was cold in the cabin. A window in the north wall, with four small
panes of glass in it, was slowly whitening with the frost that was
stealing over it. In the corners of the mullions were fine snow drifts;
and through a small crevice in the roof a white spray filtered,
ballooning around the room. The temperature was rapidly falling.

During the silence which followed Lawler's words, and while the two
fence cutters watched each other, and Lawler, all caught the voice of
the storm, raging, furious, incessant.

With his free hand Lawler unbuttoned his coat, tossed his cap into a
bunk and ran a hand through his hair, shoving it back from his forehead.
His movements were deliberate. It was as though catching fence cutters
was an everyday occurrence.

Yet something in his eyes--the thing the two men had seen--gave the lie
to the atmosphere of deliberate ease that radiated from him. In his eyes
was something that warned, that hinted of passion.

As the men watched him, noting his muscular neck and shoulders; the slim
waist of him, the set of his head--which had that hint of conscious
strength, mental and physical, which marks the intelligent fighter--they
shrank a little, glowering sullenly.

Lawler stood close to the door, the pistol dangling from his right hand.
He had hooked the thumb of the left hand into his cartridge belt, and
his eyes were gleaming with feline humor.

"There's a heap to be told," he said. "I'm listening."

A silence followed his words. Both men moistened their lips; neither
spoke.

"Get going!" commanded Lawler.

"We was headin' south," said the small man. "We cut the fence to git
through."

Lawler's eyelids flickered slightly. The heavy pistol swung upward until
the dark tube gaped somberly into the small man's eyes.

"I've got loads of time, but I don't feel like wasting it," said Lawler.
"You've got one minute to come clean. Keep your traps shut for that time
and I bore you--both--and chuck you outside!"

His smile might have misled some men, but the small man had correctly
valued Lawler.

"Gary Warden hired us to cut the fence."

The man's voice was a placative whine. His furtive eyes swept Lawler's
face for signs of emotion.

There were no signs. Lawler's face might have been an expressionless
mask. Not a muscle of his body moved. The offense was a monstrous one in
the ethics of the country, and the fence cutter had a right to expect
Lawler to exhibit passion of some kind.

"Gary Warden, eh?" Lawler laughed quietly. "If you're lying----"

The man protested that he was telling the truth.

At this point the tall man sneered.

"Hell," he said; "quit your damn blabbin'!"

"Yes," grinned Lawler, speaking to the small man. "You're quitting your
talk. From now on your friend is going to do it. I'm asking questions a
heap rapid, and the answers are going to jump right onto the tails of
the questions. If they don't, I'm going to see how near I can come to
boring a hole in the place where he has his brains cached."

The man glared malignantly at Lawler; but when the first question came
it was answered instantly:

"How much did Warden pay you?"

"A hundred dollars."

"When were you to cut the fence?"

"When the norther struck."

"You saw us cache grub in the cabin?"

The man nodded.

"What if you had found a couple of line riders here? What were you told
to do if you found line riders here? I'm wanting the truth--all of it!"

The man hesitated. Lawler's pistol roared, the concussion rocking the
air of the cabin. The man staggered back, clapping a hand to his head,
where, it seemed to him, the bullet from the pistol had been aimed.

The man brought up against the rear wall of the cabin, beside the
fireplace; and he leaned against it, his face ghastly with fright, his
lips working soundlessly. The little man cowered, plainly expecting
Lawler would shoot him, too. And Lawler's gun did swing up again, but
the voice of the tall man came, blurtingly:

"Warden told us to knife any men we found here."

Lawler's lips straightened, and his eyes glowed with a passion so
intense that the men shrank, gibbering, in the grip of a mighty
paralysis.

Lawler walked to the table and sat beside it, placing the gun near his
right hand. The men watched him, fascinated; noting his swift movements
as he plunged a hand into a pocket and drew out a small pad of paper and
a pencil. He wrote rapidly upon a leaf of the pad; then got up, stepped
back and ordered the tall man to approach the table.

"Write your name below what I have written--and date it."

When both men had signed the paper, Lawler folded it, stuck it between
some leaves of the pad, and replaced pad and pencil in his pocket.

"That's all," he said. "You'll hang out here until the norther blows
itself out; then you'll hit the trail to town and tell your story to the
sheriff. I'll be doing the honors."

He sheathed his gun and flung open the door, stepping back as a white
avalanche rushed in; grinning broadly as he saw the men shrink from it.
He divined that the men thought he was going to force them out into the
storm immediately, and he grinned coldly.

"You can be tickled that I'm not sending you out into it, to drift with
the cattle you tried to kill," he said. "You'd deserve that, plenty.
You'll find wood beside the dugout. Get some of it in here and start a
fire. Move; and don't try any monkey business!"

He closed the door as the men went out. He had no fear that they would
try to escape--even a threat of death could not have forced them to
leave the cabin.

When they came in they kindled a fire in the big fireplace, hovering
close to it after the blaze sprang up, enjoying its warmth, for the
interior of the cabin had become frigid.

Lawler, however, did not permit the men to enjoy the fire. He sent them
out for more wood, and when they had piled a goodly supply in a corner,
and had filled a tin water pail from a water hole situated about a
hundred feet straight out from the door of the cabin, he sent them again
to the dugout after their ropes. With the ropes, despite the sullen
objections of the men, he bound their hands and feet tightly, afterward
picking the men up and tossing them ungently into upper bunks on
opposite sides of the room.

He stood, after watching them for a time, his face expressionless.

"That's just so you won't get to thinking you are company," he said.
"We're holed up for a long time, maybe, and I don't want you to bother
me, a heap. If you get to bothering me--disturbing my sleep trying to
untangle yourselves from those ropes, why----"

He significantly tapped his pistol. Then he pulled a chair close to the
fire, dropped into it, rolled a cigarette, and calmly smoked, watching
the white fleece trail up the chimney.

CHAPTER XVIII

STORM-DRIVEN

For an hour there was no sound in the cabin. Lawler smoked several
cigarettes. Once he got up and threw more wood upon the fire, standing
in front of the blaze for several minutes stretching his long legs,
watching the licking tongues as they were sucked up the chimney by the
shrieking wind.

Then, for a time, he lounged in the chair, gazing meditatively at the
north window, noting how the fine, frozen snow meal clung to the glass;
watching the light fade, listening to the howling white terror that had
seized the world in its icy grip.

At the end of an hour it grew dark in the cabin. Lawler got up, lighted
the kerosene lamp, placed it on the table, seated himself on a bench and
again meditatively watched the leaping flames in the fireplace.

Satisfaction glowed in his eyes as he thought of what would have
happened had he not decided to substitute for Davies and Harris.
Undoubtedly by this time the two men were on their way to the camp. They
would certainly have noticed the warning bleak northern sky and other
indications of the coming storm. And undoubtedly, if they had started
toward the camp, they were by this time being punished for their
dereliction. They would make the camp, though, he was sure, for they had
the wind at their backs, and they knew the trail. He expected, any
minute, to hear them at the door. He grinned, his face a trifle grim as
he anticipated their astonishment at finding him there, with the two
fence cutters occupying the bunks.

He had not followed the herd to the Circle L shelters because he had had
small hope of keeping close to the fence cutters in the storm. And he
had brought them back to the cabin to make sure of them. As he sat at
the table he drew out the paper the men had signed and read their names:

"_Lay Givens._"

"_Ben Link._"

Their confession would convict Gary Warden of a crime that--if it did
not open the doors of the penitentiary to him--would bring upon him the
condemnation of every honest man in the state. In his anxiety to inflict
damage upon Lawler, Warden had overstepped himself.

Lawler had betrayed no passion that day when he had got off the train at
Willets with his men and Blondy Antrim. He had not permitted any of them
to suspect that the incident of the attempted theft of a portion of the
trail herd had affected him. But it had affected him. It had aroused him
as he never had been aroused before; it had filled him with a passionate
hatred of Gary Warden so intense that when his thoughts dwelt upon the
man he felt a lust to destroy him. Not even Lafe Corwin, watching him
that day at Willets, knew how he had fought to overcome the driving
desire to kill Warden, Singleton, and Antrim, as they had stood there on
the platform.

His eyes chilled now, as he thought of Warden and the others. He got up,
his blood pulsing heavily, and started toward the fire. He had reached
it, and was standing before it, when he heard a sound at the door--a
faint knocking, and a voice.

Davies and Harris were coming now. They were cold, he supposed, had seen
the light in the window--perhaps had tried the door; the wind drowning
the noise so that he had not heard it before. They were in a hurry to
get in, to the warmth the cabin afforded.

He was in no hurry to let them in, and he walked deliberately to the
table and stood beside it, his back to the fire, smiling ironically.

He heard no further sound, and he supposed the men had gone to the
dugout to turn their horses into its shelter before again trying the
door.

He was in a grimly humorous mood now, and he stooped, blew out the light
and stepped toward the door, standing back of it, where it would swing
against him when the men opened it.

He loosened the fastenings, stealthily. He wanted them to come in and
find the two fence cutters there.

He stood for a long time at the door, listening, waiting. No sound
reached his ears, and he scowled, puzzled. Then, above the wailing voice
of the storm, came the shrill, piercing neigh of a horse.

Several times in his life had Lawler heard that sound--once when a
cow-pony which had been bogged down in quicksand had neighed when he had
been drawn under; and again when a horse which he had been riding had
stepped into a gopher hole and had broken a leg. He had been forced to
shoot the animal, for which he had formed a sincere attachment; and it
had seemed to him that when he drew the pistol the horse knew what
impended--for its shrill neigh had been almost human in its terrible
appeal.

It was such a sound that now reached his ears above the roar of the
storm.

Davies and Harris were in trouble.

With a bound Lawler tore the door open and stood, leaning against the
terrific wind, trying to peer out into the white smother that shrieked
around him. When he made out the outlines of a horse not more than half
a dozen feet from the open doorway--the animal so encrusted with snow
that he looked like a pallid ghost--and a shapeless bundle on his back
that seemingly was ready to pitch into a huge drift that had formed in
front of the cabin--he leaped outward, a groan of sympathy breaking from
him.

In an instant he was inside again, carrying the shapeless bundle, his
lips stiff and white as he peered close at it as he tenderly laid it on
the floor of the cabin.

With swift movements he lighted the lamp again, and then returning to
the bundle, leaned over it, pulling away a scarf that covered its head
and disclosing a white, drawn face--the face of the woman he had met, in
Willets, at the foot of the stairs leading to Gary Warden's office!

Lawler wheeled swiftly, leaping to first one and then to the other of
the bunks where the fence cutters lay, tearing the ropes from them.

The tall man tumbled out first, urged by what he had seen and by the
low tense voice of his captor. He seized a tin pan and dove out of the
open doorway, returning instantly, the pan heaped high with snow. The
other man, following the first quickly, dove through the snow drifts to
the dugout where he fumbled in the slicker on Lawler's saddle until he
found a flask.

By the time the little man returned the woman was in one of the lower
bunks. A pair of bare feet, small and shapely, were sticking out over
the edge of the bunk, and the tall fence cutter was vigorously rubbing
snow upon them. A pair of small, high-top riding boots of soft, pliable
leather, was lying beside the bunk near some pitiably thin stockings.

At the other end of the bunk Lawler was bathing, with ineffable
tenderness and care, a face that had been swathed in the scarf he had
previously removed. The long, glistening, black hair had been brushed
back from its owner's forehead by Lawler; and a corner of a blanket had
been modestly folded over a patch of white breast, exposed when Lawler
had ruthlessly torn away the flimsy, fluffy waist.

"It was the scarf that saved her face," said Lawler, after he had worked
over the unconscious form for a quarter of an hour. The face was
flushed, now--which was a good sign; and the feet and ankles were
beginning to show signs of restored circulation also--though more
reluctantly.

"How she ever got through it I'm not pretending to say," declared
Lawler, grimly. "But she did it, and the frost didn't get her, much.
She'll be fresh as a daisy in a couple of hours."

The tall man--Link--had ceased his labors with the woman, and was
standing near Lawler. He grinned at Lawler's words.

His face was flushed, his eyes were glowing with passion as he watched
the inert form on the bunk.

"She's a peach," he said, thickly. Lawler was not looking at him; he was
giving all his attention to the woman.

"Della Wharton," continued Link. "I've seen her at the Two
Diamond--runnin' around with Warden. Warden's took a shine to her. Don't
blame him." He muttered something else that Lawler did not hear, for
Lawler was paying no attention to him.

Lawler held the flask to the woman's half-open mouth, and smiled when
several drops of the strong spirits trickled over her tongue. Then he
walked to the wood pile and replenished the fire. Returning, he saw Link
standing close to the bunk, smiling bestially at the upturned face. When
Lawler caught sight of him he was fingering the disordered hair, lifting
it and letting it filter through his fingers.

Without a word, Lawler leaped and struck with bitter malignance. Not a
sound escaped Link as he fell. Lawler lifted him bodily, threw him upon
the pile of wood in the corner, where he lay huddled up, unconscious.

Wheeling swiftly, his eyes ablaze with the terrible passion that had
seized him, Lawler faced the bunk. The woman's head was moving slowly
from side to side, as though she were making an effort to lift it; her
eyelids were fluttering, and her hands were straying over the
bedclothing, the fingers closing and unclosing.

Lawler made a horrible grimace at Givens.

"Get out of here, damn you!" he said. "Go out and take care of her
horse--anything! If you are in here when she wakes up, I'll kill you!
And take that other skunk out of here, too--take him to the dugout, and
don't come back here for an hour!"

He watched impatiently while Givens seized his companion and dragged him
outside. Then Lawler fastened the door, and standing near it, watched
the woman.

Her eyes were open. He could see them, even though he stood slightly
behind her. She moved her head, lifted it and gazed around the room,
seemingly bewildered at what she saw. Then she twisted her body around;
saw her bare feet, and quickly drew an end of the bunk blanket over
them.

And then she saw Lawler. Her eyes opened wide, filling with
satisfaction, and she sat up, holding one hand to her throat, tight
against the flesh, covering it with the other.

"Oh!" she said, thinly; "I--I got here, didn't I? But I didn't expect to
find you here!"

CHAPTER XIX

DEATH AT A DOOR

Lawler smiled. "Then I reckon we're both surprised, ma'am," he said. "I
certainly wasn't expecting the norther to bring you. You had a mighty
narrow squeeze. You were pretty near all in when I opened the door and
saw you."

The girl drew a long, quavering breath and leaned back against the wall
of the bunk, closing her eyes.

Her hair had fallen about her shoulders, showing the white throat
through the damp, glistening folds; and when she again opened her eyes,
they were big and luminous--and brown, Lawler took note of that, for the
glare from the lamp was directly upon them.

Renewed life--animation--certainly beautified her. While Lawler had been
working with her to restore her suspended vitality he had felt no
emotion beyond an eagerness to restore her to consciousness. Now he was
vibrant with sympathy, with pity, and with wonder.

Why had she come here? It was quite evident that she had come
intentionally, for her words: "I got here, didn't I?" seemed to be proof
of that. Also, she had not anticipated finding him at the cabin, for she
had said so in as many words.

She gathered the blanket closer around her, noting that her feet were
wrapped in it and that one end of it covered her throat. Lawler saw the
blushes come and go in her face as she worked with the blanket, and he
secretly applauded her modesty.

When she had arranged the blanket she looked straight at him. She
studied his face long before she spoke, and his eyes gleamed with
satisfaction when he saw her lips form a faint, half-smile. She had
decided she was not afraid of him.

She was embarrassed, but not to the point of prudishness. Her gaze was
direct, frankly grateful. But there was something else in her eyes--a
vague uneasiness, curiosity, repressed eagerness. She glanced swiftly
around the interior of the cabin, and into the other bunks. And when she
saw Lawler watching her keenly she blushed. And now, as she dropped her
gaze, he saw her start as her eyes rested on the tangled ropes that
Lawler had torn from the two fence cutters when he had released them
after he had carried her into the cabin. The ropes were lying on the
floor where he had thrown them in his haste.

"Has--has anything happened?" she asked, looking swiftly at him,
blushing again.

"Plenty," he said; "you came."

"I--I mean--that is, has anything else happened?" she added. She seemed
to hold her breath, for his answer.

"I caught two fence cutters."

"Did they cut the fence?" She was rigid, tense.

Lawler nodded, and he saw her hands clench.

"But there wasn't any damage done. I caught them just after they cut it,
and I made them repair it before the cattle got through."

"And the two men?" she questioned, breathlessly.

"They're in the dugout--with the horses. They were in here, until you
came."

She leaned back, breathing fast. Her color was high, her eyes were
shining with satisfaction. And while Lawler watched her she laughed
quaveringly.

"Then I had that long, cold ride for nothing," she said.

Lawler looked straight at her. "You knew the fence was to be cut?"

Her color receded and she met his gaze unflinchingly, resolutely.

"Yes. I overheard Gary Warden telling two of the Two Diamond men--Link
and Givens--to cut it. Warden wanted to destroy all your cattle. It
seems he has had men watching them--and your men. And he learned the
herd was on the level near here. He told the men to wait until a storm
threatened. Gary didn't know I overheard him telling the men to cut the
fence; and I said nothing to him. But I waited until I saw an
opportunity, and then I came, to warn the men I expected would be here.
I didn't expect to find you here; and I intended to keep silent
regarding what I had heard."

"Why are you telling it, now?"

She blushed again and gazed downward. Then she looked at him with
direct, puzzled eyes.

"I--I really don't know," she said, hesitatingly. "I expect it was
because I felt guilty--or because I thought I saw something in your eyes
that made me think you knew that I hadn't ridden over here for the fun
of it. It was a very cold and disagreeable ride.

"And, somehow, I--I think you ought to know it. When I overheard Gary
telling those men to cut the fence it seemed to me that it was the
meanest scheme I ever had heard of. I was so angry I could have
horse-whipped Gary. At the time I believe I wasn't thinking of you at
all--I just kept seeing those poor cows wandering away in the storm, to
freeze to death in the open. And I determined to ride over here and
prevent it. I suppose what I have told you will make trouble for Gary. I
suppose I shouldn't have told you."

"Givens and Link told me."

"Oh! You made them tell, of course--_you_ would do that. What are you
going to do about it?"

"What would you do--Miss--" Lawler paused.

"I am Della Wharton," smiled the girl.

"Well, what would _you_ do, Miss Wharton?"

The girl flashed a quick glance at him. "Considering that the plan
didn't succeed, and that I rode clear over here to tell you about
it--don't you think you ought to keep silent, Mr. Lawler?"

Whatever Lawler intended to do later, he was silent now. He was puzzled,
amazed, over the startling frankness the girl had exhibited. He had
heard, from Blackburn--or somebody--it wasn't important whom--that this
girl was staying at the Two Diamond. He believed Blackburn had hinted at
relations more intimate. And she was at this moment betraying
Warden--delivering him into the hands of a man the latter hated.

"Miss Wharton," said Lawler gravely; "I confess I am puzzled. You accept
Warden's hospitality, and yet you come here to betray him."

She laughed. "I am not accepting Gary's hospitality. My father is a
member of the company that bought the Two Diamond, and I have as much
right to be there as Gary has. We live East--in New York. I came West
out of curiosity. I wanted to see the ranch. And now that I am here I
intend to stay. I have always been eager to live in the West."

"Then you don't like Gary Warden?"

The girl's face sobered. "I like him. That is all."

Lawler's eyes were still grave. "Miss Wharton," he said slowly; "do you
know what Gary Warden is doing--what the company with which your father
is connected, is doing?"

"Yes," said the girl, frankly; "they--all of them--are trying to control
the western cattle market." She looked straight at him, with no sign of
embarrassment.

"That is business, isn't it? It is what men are beginning to call 'big
business.' It means centralization of power, resources--and a number of
things that go with it. It is an admirable scheme--don't you think? It
eliminates uncertainty, risk of loss. It means the stabilizing of the
cattle industry; it means gigantic profits to the men who have brains
big enough to control it."

Lawler smiled. "Also, Miss Wharton, it means the complete subjection of
the cattle raiser. It means that competition will be stifled; that the
cattle owner will be compelled to take what prices the buyers offer. It
means that the incentive to raise cattle will be destroyed. It means the
end of the open market--which has always been a spur to industry. It is
evil."

The girl laughed. "How tragic!" she mocked. "One would think we were
facing a cataclysm, whereas business men are merely just beginning to
take advantage of some of the opportunities that are everywhere around
them. It is all perfectly legal, isn't it? I have heard my father say
that it is."

Lawler's smile grew slightly bitter. He saw that the girl's mind was
merely skipping over the surface of the commercial sea upon which her
father sailed a pirate craft; she had not plunged into the depths where
she might have found the basic principles of all business--fairness; she
had taken no account of the human impulse that, in just men, impels them
to grant to their fellows a fighting chance to win.

Watching her closely, Lawler saw in her the signs of frivolity and
vanity that he had failed to see that day when he had met her in
Willets. Her attitude now revealed her as plainly as though he had known
her all her days. She comprehended none of life's big problems; the
relations of men to one another had not compelled her attention; the
fine, deep impulses of sympathy had not touched her. She was selfish,
self-centered, light, inconsequential--a woman who danced from under the
burdens of life and laughed at those who were forced to bear them for
her.

And yet she was a woman, demanding respect from his sex. He smiled as
he turned from her to fix the fire, wondering at the courage that had
driven her to ride to the cabin in the storm. His smile broadened when
he remembered she had said she sympathized with the "cows"--that motive,
while not a high one, was as good as another since the pursuing of it
had meant good for him in the end.

"Do _you_ like this country?" she asked, as he turned.

"It isn't a half bad place. If it wasn't for some persons--and
northers----"

She laughed. "There are bad people everywhere. As for the 'norther'--I
enjoyed it very much until--until it got so bad that I just couldn't see
where I was going. I began to be afraid that I was lost and that I'd
freeze to death. And then I saw the light in the window--a little square
that flickered feebly in the distance, and which sometimes seemed to
disappear completely." She smiled, tremulously.

"It seemed that--after I got here--I was to freeze to death, anyway. For
I couldn't make you hear me. I rode close to the door and pounded on it.
I was afraid to get off, for fear I would fall in that big drift near
the door and not be able to get up again. I was so cold and stiff----"

She hesitated, and Lawler saw tears in her eyes.

It was the reaction, delayed by their talk. Self-accusation shone in
Lawler's eyes as he started toward her.

"I'm a box-head, Miss Wharton, for standing here, talking about nothing
at all, and you nearly freezing to death."

And then he halted, midway of the distance toward her, aware that he
could do nothing when he did reach her. And her manner warned him of
that, too, for she pulled the blanket closer around her and crowded as
far back into the bunk as she could get, looking at him with embarrassed
eyes.

"If you could get your clothes fixed," he began. "You see, Miss Wharton,
there wasn't much time, and we had to get them off mighty rapid. You can
see that we were none too gentle about it."

She blushed, and he abruptly turned his back and walked to the
fireplace. He stuck close to it until he heard her say:

"Won't you please hang my stockings up somewhere? They are so wet I
can't get them on."

The stockings, wet and limp, fell close beside him. He snatched them up,
grinning widely, though fearful that she might see the grin, and
carefully laid them over the back of a chair, pulling the chair close to
the fire.

Then he got out a frying-pan and began to prepare supper for her. When
the aroma of the sizzling bacon was wafted to her, he heard her exclaim:

"U-um, that smells good! Why, I am almost famished!"

Five minutes later, with a plate in her lap and a cup of steaming coffee
resting on the rail of the bunk, she was eating. Her eyes were bright
and her color high as she watched Lawler, who was seated at the table
with his back to her.

"You don't feel much like talking, do you?"

"No," he said. "According to the way this norther is whooping it up
we'll run out of talk before we can break trail out of here."

"Do you mean that the storm may last some days?"

"There is no telling. At this time of the year they are mighty
uncertain. I've known them to stick around for a month or more."

She sat very silent, and for a time did not even move her lips. Stealing
a swift glance at her, expecting to see a worried light in her eyes,
Lawler noted that there was a slight--a very slight smile on her lips.

He was amazed, incredulous, and he stole another glance at her to make
certain. There was no denying it--there was a smile in the eyes that
were gazing meditatively past him into the fire; a smile on her
lips--giving him proof that the prospect of remaining alone in the cabin
with him had not crushed her--had not brought the hysterical protests
that he had feared. She was plainly pleased, possibly considering the
thing an adventure which would have no damaging consequences.

With a malice in his eyes that she did not see--for he looked gravely at
her, he said, slowly:

"Listen, Miss Wharton!"

He raised a hand and looked at the north window. Following his gaze she
saw the snow whipping against the glass, rattling against the panes like
small hailstones hurled with frightful velocity. The incessant droning
whine of the wind reached their ears, deep in volume as though it would
tell them of its interrupted sweep across the vast plains; as though to
convince them of its unlimited power and ferocity. She knew as well as
he that the big drifts around the cabin had grown bigger; that other
drifts were forming around the walls. For the sounds were muffled, and a
great, weird calm had settled inside the cabin. The walls, snow-banked,
were deadening outside sound.

"A man couldn't go half a mile in that, now, Miss Wharton. And it will
be days before anybody can reach us. I am afraid we are in for a long
spell of monotony."

"Well," she said, gazing straight at him; a glow in her eyes that
puzzled him; "we can't help it, can we? And I suppose we shall have to
make the best of it."

Lawler, however, did not expect the storm to last more than a day or so.
They seldom did, at this time of the year. He had drawn the gloomy
picture merely in an attempt to force Miss Wharton to realize the
indelicacy of her position. He had thought she would have exhibited
perturbation. Instead, she was calm and plainly unworried.

Puzzled, Lawler leaned an elbow on the table and scowled into the fire.
There was no apparent reason why he should object to remaining in the
cabin with a pretty woman who did not seem eager to leave it. And yet he
was afflicted with a grave unrest.

Givens and Link were in the dugout, and presently they would return to
the cabin. They would have to remain in the cabin, for it would be
inhuman of him to compel them to stay very long in the dugout with the
horses. Thus was Miss Wharton shielded against the impropriety of
staying for any length of time in the cabin with him, alone.

But the safeguard of propriety was also a danger. Because Link had
permitted a certain light to glow in his eyes Lawler had knocked him
down. If the four of them were to remain in the cabin for any length of
time, there would be periods when he must sleep. And then Link----

Lawler's thoughts broke off here, for he heard a sound at the
door--Givens' voice, saying hoarsely:

"For God's sake, Boss, let us in! We're freezin' to death!"

Lawler got up and walked to the door. He hesitated as he lifted the bar,
telling Miss Wharton to wrap the blanket tightly around her in
anticipation of the rush of wind. When he saw that she obeyed him, he
swung the door open.

As Lawler opened the door he stepped back with it, escaping by inches
the sweep of an axe blade that caught the light from the lamp and
shimmered brightly in a half-circle as it was swung with the malignant
force of Link's arms.

The blade of the axe struck the floor, sinking deep into the boards;
while Link, hurled off balance by the viciousness of his attack, tumbled