However, to Della, the moment of victory was at hand. She had been a trifle worried just an instant before; and the white world outside had seemed to threaten to rush in and crush out her life—the life she loved so well—and she had been just a little afraid.

But she had not been too frightened to note Lawler's sympathy—the quick glow in his eyes, and the atmosphere of tenderness that suddenly seemed to envelop him. It was surrender, she thought, the breaking down of that quiet, steady reserve in him which had filled her with resentment.

She caught his free hand and held it tightly, while she turned her head so that she could look into his eyes.

"Lawler," she said then, in a low voice; "I lied to you."

"Lied?" He stiffened, dropped his hand from her head and looked straight at her.

She laughed, lightly. "Yes; I lied, Lawler. The day we met in Willets—you remember? Well, I loved you from that moment, Lawler. You looked so big and fine and strong. I just couldn't help it. I did overhear Gary Warden telling those two men to cut the fence; and I didn't want them to set all those cattle adrift. But I didn't intend to come here. I started out to find your ranch—the Circle L. I thought I would find you there, and I knew I wouldn't be able to go back to the Two Diamond right away—that you would have to keep me at your house until the storm was over. But I got lost, and when I saw the light in the window, here, I knew I had better go toward it. But I came because I wanted to be near you, Lawler. And now—" She laughed and tried to draw him toward her.

"Of course you are not in earnest, Miss Wharton," he said, slowly, his voice grave. "Such a confession——"

"It's the truth," she declared, shamelessly, holding tightly to him. "It is simple, isn't it? I love you—and I came to you. I came, because I had to—I wanted to. I had been thinking of you—dreaming of you. You were in my mind all the time.

"And you have been acting dreadfully distant. I had begun to believe that you didn't like me—that you wished I hadn't come——"

"That would be the truth, Miss Wharton," he interrupted. He grimly walked to the fireplace, standing with his back to it, looking at her. He was wondering how he could tell her that she had disgraced her sex; how he could, without being brutal, tell her how he abhorred women who pursued men.

Despite the impulse of charity that moved him, he could not veil the grim disgust that had seized him. It showed in the curve of his lips and in his eyes.

And Miss Wharton saw it. She had been watching him narrowly when he walked away from her; she was looking at him now, in resentful inquiry, her lips tight-pressed. She was puzzled, incredulous.

Then, with their glances locked, she laughed, jeeringly.

"I really don't know how to classify you!" she said, scornfully. "Am I ugly?"

He smiled grimly. "Far from it," he answered, frankly. "I think," he added, his gaze still holding hers, "that mere physical beauty doesn't intrigue my interest. There must be something back of it."

"Character, I suppose," she mocked; "nobility, virtue?"

"I think you have said it," he smiled. "At least I haven't the slightest desire to like you."

"School teachers are more in your line, I suppose," she jibed.

There was a wanton light in her eyes. The change that had come over her was startling; and Lawler found himself watching her, trying to associate this new side of her character with that she had shown before she had betrayed her real character; she represented a type that had always been repulsive to him. And, until now, she had fooled him. He had wasted his politeness, his gentleness, his consideration, and his delicacy. He understood, now, why she had seemed to laugh at him when he had endeavored to provide a certain measure of privacy for her; he knew how she felt at this moment, when she must realize that she had betrayed herself.

Any further talk between them would be profitless, and so Lawler did not answer her question. He stood, looking at the north window, which was a little to one side of her; while she sat staring past him, her lips straight and hard.

At last she looked up. "What an odd courtship!"

His gaze dropped, met hers, and he smiled.

"Yes—odd," he returned, dryly.

"But I suppose," she said, in a tone equally dry; "that you will make up for it, after we are married. You will learn to like me."

"Yes; after we are married," he smiled, ironically.

"That will be as soon as we can get to town, I presume," she went on, watching him with brazen directness. "You see," she explained; "I have been here with you for about two weeks, you know, and my friends will ask embarrassing questions. You are so honorable that you cannot refuse to protect my reputation."

"I am sorry, of course, Miss Wharton. But you should have considered your reputation before you decided to come here."

"You mean that you won't marry me?" she demanded. She got up and walked toward him, halting within a pace of him and standing stiffly before him.

"You have perception, after all, it seems," he said, gravely. "But you don't understand human nature. No man—or woman—in this section will see anything wrong in your staying in this cabin with me during the storm. They will accept it as being the most natural thing in the world. It was a simple act of humanness for me to take you in, and it entails no offer of marriage. Perhaps it has been done, and will be done again, where there is an inclination to marry. It has been done in books, and in certain sections of the world where narrow-minded people are the manufacturers of public sentiment. The mere fact that I happened to save your life does not obligate me to marry you, Miss Wharton. And I do not feel like playing the martyr."

For an instant it seemed that Della would become hysterical. But when she looked into Lawler's eyes and realized that mere acting would not deceive him, she sneered.

"I might have known you wouldn't be man enough to protect me!"

Lawler smiled, but did not answer. And after an instant, during which Della surveyed him with scorn unspeakable, she strode stiffly to a chair in a far corner of the room and dropped into it.

Lawler had been little affected. He pitied her because of her perverted moral sense, which sought an honorable marriage from a wild, immoral impulse. He pitied her because she was what she was—a wanton who was determined by scheme and wile to gain her ends. And he shrewdly suspected that she was not so much concerned for her reputation as she was eager to achieve what she had determined upon. Defeat to her kind is intolerable.

"Gary Warden will never marry me if he discovers that I have been here," declared Della from the corner.

"You said you did not love Warden, Miss Wharton," Lawler reminded her. "You wouldn't marry a man you merely liked, would you?"

"We have been engaged for a year. Certainly, I shall marry him. Why not? But he won't have me, now!"

"Does Warden love you, Miss Wharton?"

"That doesn't concern you!" she snapped.

"No—not in the least. But if Warden loves you, and I went to him and explained that your being here was accidental——"

"Bah!" she sneered; "you're a fool, Lawler! Do you expect Gary Warden would swallow that! You don't know him!"

"Well," said Lawler, gently; "he need not know. If you are afraid to face public opinion, to show by your actions that you have nothing to be ashamed of, I'll take you to the Circle L, just as soon as we can get through. We'll time ourselves to get there at night. No one need know, and you can tell Warden that you were caught in the storm and drifted to the Circle L, where you stayed with my mother. I can come back here and no one will ever know the difference."

"I don't want to see your mother!" she sneered. "I'd be afraid she would be something like you! Ugh! I hate you!"

"There is only one other way," smiled Lawler. "I know Keller, the owner of the Willets Hotel, very intimately. I can take you there, at night—after the storm breaks. No one need know. You can say you were at the hotel all the time. And Keller will support your word."

"I presume I shall have to go to Willets—since I have to lie!" she said, wrathfully.

"Yes," said Lawler incisively; "it takes courage to be truthful, Miss Wharton. But if a person always tells the truth——"

"Shut up!" she said savagely; "you make me sick!" She glared malignantly at him. "Ugh, I positively loathe you! I must have been crazy when I thought I saw something in you!" She paused for an instant to get her breath, and then she resumed, vindictively:

"I hope they arrest you for killing those two men—Link and Givens. I hope they hang you. And they will hang you, because you can't prove you acted in self-defense. You'll be sorry you didn't marry me when you realize that I might have saved you by telling the truth about the fight!"

"Well," he said; "you can't testify without admitting you were here, you know."

"And I will never tell!" she declared; "I will never admit it!" she added, exultingly. "You'll change your mind about marrying me—you'll have to, to save your neck!"

Lawler shook his head negatively.

"You wouldn't marry me to save your life?" asked the girl, incredulously.

"Not to save my life, Miss Wharton."

"Well," she said slowly; "you're a damned fool!"

Lawler smiled and turned away. He heard Della moving about in the cabin, but he did not look around.

But later, after there had been a deep silence for a time, he ventured a backward glance. During the day he had kept the dividing blanket rolled up out of the way, fastening it with two loops that he had suspended from the ceiling. The blanket was now down—it was the first time Della had touched it.

Lawler smiled, pulled a chair over near the fireplace, rolled a cigarette, and puffed slowly at it, reflecting that life in the cabin would now be more monotonous than ever.

Della did not get out of her bunk during the day. She ate nothing, nor did she reply to Lawler when he invited her to partake of the food he had prepared.

Late that afternoon Lawler noted a glow of light coming through the north window. He went to the door, opened it and looked out. The snow had ceased and the wind had gone down. Far over in the west a cold sun, hanging its rim on a mountain peak, bathed the world with a shimmering, glittering, blinding light.

Lawler went outside and shielding his eyes with his hands, peered out over the gleaming waste. He noted that the snow had drifted much, but that there were ridges where no snow had settled, as well as vast sections of plain where the wind had swept the snow clear. There would be no difficulty in reaching Willets, for the wind that was coming over the plains now was mild—almost warm.

He went inside, told Della, and began to make preparations for the ride. And later that night, moving swiftly northward, under straggling clouds that obscured the moon, the two journeyed—Della swathed in clothing that assured her of warmth, and still preserving a sullen silence; Lawler riding ahead, breaking trail.



CHAPTER XXIV

DELLA'S HANDKERCHIEF

Dawn was just breaking when Lawler dropped from Red King at the windbreak near the line cabin. He put the big horse in the dugout, closed the dugout door and entered the cabin. Then he breathed a sigh of relief.

There were still some glowing embers in the fireplace, and he soon had a roaring fire, in front of which he stood for a while, meditating.

He had got Della Wharton into the Willets Hotel without, he felt certain, attracting attention. For when they had ridden into town—taking the back way in order to avoid any sleepless citizens that might be about—it was past midnight. Lawler had timed himself to reach town at about that hour, knowing that with the exception of a brothel or two, Willets would be dark.

He had been fortunate. At his first knock on the rear door of the hotel, Keller had appeared; and Keller had instantly grasped the situation—though he plainly told Della that she was "goin' to a whole lot of unnecessary trouble." "Why, good Lord, ma'am, I reckon you had a right to hole up with Lawler! Nobody'd be blamin' you. They's a dozen men in this town that would make a colander out of anybody that'd hint things about a deal like that. Lawsy, ma'am, folks has got sense, ain't they? But if you doubt 'em, I reckon we can take care of you."

Lawler prepared and ate breakfast. It had been a tiresome ride, and after eating, knowing that there was no occasion for haste in his return to the Circle L—except that his mother would wonder over his whereabouts—he stretched out in one of the lower bunks—the one he had occupied during Della's stay in the cabin.

He had not barred the door; and when, some hours later he awoke, he saw half a dozen men in the cabin. They were standing near the door, watching him. Foremost among them was Gary Warden.

Lawler swung around in the bunk and sat on its edge, facing the men. They were Two Diamond men, for he recognized some of them.

Lawler got to his feet. He saw no friendliness in the faces of the men; and Warden was pale, scowling.

But Lawler smiled. "Looking for something, boys?" he said.

"We're looking for two men and a woman, Lawler. Have you seen anything of them?"

"I've seen two men, Warden; but no woman."

Warden's eyes quickened. Some color surged into his face.

"How long have you been here, Lawler?"

"Since the day the storm broke. Davies and Harris went to town for a spree, and I've been substituting for them."

He felt a savage amusement over Warden's attempt to conceal his disappointment. He could see that the man was consumed with curiosity over the outcome of the fence cutting, though he dared not voice it.

"Lawler," said Warden; "we've lost two men—Link and Givens; and Della Wharton—who was staying at the Two Diamond."

"I've seen no woman, Warden. But I've seen Link and Givens. You'll find them out by the windbreak. I had to kill them."

Lawler saw the men behind Warden grow rigid; Warden's face grew ghastly.

Lawler's smile had gone. He was coldly alert, watching the men behind Lawler, aware that his news was a shock to them; divining they would not hesitate to do violence if an explanation was not quickly offered.

But there was cold malice in Lawler's heart toward Warden; and he stood, silent, watchful, until Warden recovered from his astonishment. He was determined to compel Warden to ask the question that, plainly, was in his mind.

And at last Warden asked it:

"What did you kill them for?"

"I caught them cutting my fence, Warden. At just about the time the storm struck. I brought them here—after lifting their guns. I intended to take them to Sheriff Moreton, at Willets. But during the night I sent them out for wood, and when they re-entered the cabin they attacked me—Link with an axe, and Givens with a piece of cordwood. You can see where the axe landed—where it stuck in the floor, when Link missed me as I opened the door for him."

The door opened and the men filed out, eager to ascertain the truth of Lawler's story. Warden did not move; but his eyes, the expression of his face, indicated that he did not doubt Lawler's story. But he sought to discredit it.

"What would my men cut your fence for, Lawler?"

Lawler laughed. He had no intention of telling Warden about the confession the men had signed.

"You ought to know, Warden—they were your men."

"Meaning that I sent them to cut the fence?" demanded Warden. His face was red with a wrath that was plainly artificial, or that had been aroused over the knowledge that Link and Givens had failed.

"Meaning whatever you choose to think I mean, Warden," said Lawler coldly. "I'll make my explanations to the sheriff."

Warden had quickly recovered his composure. It was evident from Lawler's manner that Link and Givens had not talked. He had been afraid they might have told Lawler that he had ordered them to cut the fence. If they had talked, Lawler would have mentioned it before this—any man would, for no man could have resisted the inevitable impulse to exult over his success in thwarting the men, of bringing confusion upon the author of the scheme. That was what Warden would have done, and he believed any man would have done it.

He drew himself erect and walked slowly to the fireplace; where he halted, turned, and smiled at Lawler—a smile full of malice.

"Your explanation of the killing of Link and Givens is a mighty flimsy one, Lawler, don't you think? Moreton might want a witness,—eh?"

"There was no witness, Warden." Lawler had not turned. He was watching the door, for he expected the Two Diamond men to enter at any instant, and he knew they would deeply resent the killing of their companions. He did not intend to be taken by surprise.

Warden, standing in front of the fireplace, noted the blanket suspended from the ceiling, swinging between the two tiers of bunks. He started, his face paled, and he looked searchingly at Lawler. And then, observing that Lawler was paying no attention to him, he moved slowly toward one of the bunks—the one Miss Wharton had occupied—noting the disturbed bedclothing. A white piece of cloth, crumpled and soiled, lay on a gray blanket. He took it up swiftly, stuck it into the front of his heavy coat and turned again toward the fireplace. With his back to Lawler he swiftly examined the cloth he had picked up. It was a handkerchief—a woman's—and in one corner of it was an embroidered monogram containing the letters "D.W." It was Della's—he had seen that and others like it, many times, in her hands and at the Two Diamond, on the wash line.

For a long time, with his back to Lawler, Warden fought to control the terrible jealousy that the finding of the handkerchief had aroused in him. His face was contorted with passion; his eyes were aflame with it. He had hated Lawler before; now the passion was a malignant poison that burned, through his veins like fire.

He did not trust himself to speak—his voice would have betrayed him. He walked past Lawler, sneering silently as he reached the door, looking back as he opened it and stood on the threshold, muttering hoarsely:

"You'll hang for this, Lawler—damn you!"

Lawler heard the Two Diamond men ride away, and he went to the door at the sound they made and saw they were carrying the bodies of Link and Givens—they were lashed to their horses, which the Two Diamond men had taken from the dugout. He watched them out of sight.

It was only an hour or so later when Davies and Harris clattered to the door of the cabin. They were red and embarrassed, and confessed they had been intoxicated. But they were much relieved when they found that Lawler had headed the herd into the valley; and they were filled with rage when Lawler told them of the fence cutting and the killing of the two men. And they were delighted when Lawler told them to go on duty at the cabin, not even mentioning their dereliction.

Half an hour after the appearance of Davies and Harris half a dozen Circle L men rode up, eager-eyed, overjoyed at finding their "boss". They were covered with snow from their ride up the valley, through the big drifts they had encountered, but the glow in their eyes when they saw Lawler was safe indicated they had forgotten the rigors of the ride.

They told him the herd had reached the shelters and that few of the cattle were missing; and a little later, with Lawler riding with them, they set out for the Circle L, shouting and laughing like schoolboys.

Shorty, the tawny-haired giant, was with them.

"Cuttin' fences, eh?" he said as he rode close to Lawler. "Well, they're sort of pickin' on us, I reckon. First there's Blondy Antrim; an' now Link an' Givens cuttin' the fence. When you goin' to cut loose an' give 'em hell, Boss?"

"Hell is closer than you think, Shorty," said Lawler, gravely.



CHAPTER XXV

IN WHICH A MAN PLOTS

When the storm broke Warden had shown by his actions that he was more concerned over Link and Givens than over Della Wharton. He had told Singleton to ride the trail to Willets, to search for the girl, while himself and several of the Two Diamond men started for the line cabin. Singleton had left the Two Diamond in the early evening, while Warden had delayed his departure until after midnight.

Singleton had made good time, and he reached Willets long before midnight. He made some inquiries, discovering that Della Wharton had not been seen; and shortly after midnight he was in the low, squatty stable in the rear of the Wolf Saloon, saddling his horse for the return trip to the Two Diamond. He was convinced that Della had not come to Willets.

He was about to lead the horse outside when he saw two horsemen riding through the drifts in the rear of a building near the Willets Hotel. The light was not good, but Singleton would have recognized Red King in any light, and he laughed exultantly as he saw the rider dismount.

Singleton abruptly closed the stable door and darted into the shadow of the stable. Then he crouched, ran low behind a big drift, and gained the side of a building next to the Willets Hotel. He was close to the two riders, and he grinned maliciously when he saw that one of them was a woman.

He heard Lawler knock on the rear door of the hotel; and he crouched in the shadow of the building until Lawler and the woman entered. But just before the two entered, Singleton caught sight of the woman's face as she turned toward him for an instant and the dull light shone upon her.

He watched until Lawler came out again and rode away; and from behind another building on the other side of the street he saw Lawler going directly south, which direction would take him to Number One Circle L line camp.

Then Singleton mounted his horse and followed the trail taken by Lawler. By the time Singleton struck Lawler's trail, Lawler was out of sight beyond a low ridge, and Singleton leisurely examined the tracks in the snow.

He discovered that two sets of tracks led in the direction Lawler was taking. He followed them for several miles, until there seemed to be no doubt that Della had been with Lawler at the line camp; then he grinned and wheeled his horse toward the Two Diamond.

* * * * *

Gary Warden was also following the two sets of tracks that led northward. He had come upon them accidentally, while riding with one of his men slightly in advance of the others as they went toward Willets, where Warden intended to take the bodies of Link and Givens. He had said nothing to his companion regarding the tracks, though he noted the other saw them also, and was studying them, puzzled.

"Them tracks ain't more'n half a dozen hours old," the man said once, tentatively. But receiving no answer from Warden he said no more.

In places there were three sets of tracks—two going northward, and one leading back. Warden, his eyes glowing malevolently, followed them until they took him into Willets. An hour later, his face flushed with passion, he was in a little office with Sheriff Moreton, demanding Lawler's arrest on a charge of murder.

Moreton, a slender man of medium height with a lean, strong face and keen, penetrating eyes, had listened patiently to Warden's story.

"Lawler told you he killed 'em, eh? Well then, I reckon he must have—Lawler ain't in the habit of lyin'. You got any witness that Lawler killed 'em, malicious? You've just got done hintin' that Lawler said he shot 'em in self-defense. But you say he didn't. One man's word is as good as another's in law, Mr. Warden—you got to remember that!"

"Then you won't do anything?" snapped Warden.

"I reckon I'll do somethin'," said the sheriff, drawlingly. "I'll have to see Lawler an' get his side of it. An' if you charge Lawler with murder, I'll have to bring him in. But I'm warnin' you that if you ain't got any witnesses to prove your charge, you ain't got no show of convictin' him. An' Lawler's standin' is pretty high in this country, Warden—an' don't you forget it!"

Warden smiled derisively. "Well, he seems to have a friend in you, anyway. I'll investigate a little before I file formal charges."

"It's a good idee—I'd do a lot of it," advised the sheriff. "An' then, when I'd done a lot of it, I'd do some more—just to be sure I wasn't bitin' off more than I could chew!"

Warden left the sheriff's office, after turning the bodies of Link and Givens over to the official. He sent his men to the Two Diamond, and spent some time at a window in the rear of the Wolf Saloon, examining hoof prints on the snow in the vicinity of the Willets Hotel, a short distance from the Wolf. He was in a vicious mood.

He noted that the three sets of tracks he had followed led to the rear of the hotel. They were clear and distinct, for no other tracks were near them. His men and himself had evidently been the first to reach town after the storm had abated—excepting the riders whose tracks he had followed.

He was still at the window when he heard a step behind him, and saw Singleton approaching.

Singleton's eyes were gleaming with knowledge. He was breathing fast.

"I met the boys, headin' for the Two Diamond," he said. "They tell me Lawler downed Link an' Givens—an' that Lawler caught 'em cuttin' the fence. An' Colter says he was ridin' with you an' that you was followin' them tracks that led to town from that Circle L line cabin. Well, that was a hot trail, Warden. She's there—in the hotel!"

"Who?" demanded Warden, his face paling, though he was convinced that what Singleton would tell him would merely confirm his suspicions.

"Della Wharton!" declared Singleton. He related what he had seen the night before from the stable in the rear of the Wolf; and he stood tense and stiff behind Warden as the latter glared out of the window, his lips in a bestial pout.

Warden spoke at last, his voice dry and light and vibrant with cold fury.

"No women, Singleton; he told me he'd kill me if I dragged any of his women into this deal. And now——"

"An' now he's drugged in the woman you've took a shine to," sympathized Singleton. He scratched his head in puzzlement. "Hell's fire!" he added; "I didn't think that of Lawler. I ain't never admired the cuss none—a damned sight less since he walloped me—but I didn't think he'd drag another man's woman into a cabin like that, an'——"

"Bah! Shut up!" commanded Warden, glaring malignantly at the other.

"Sure; I reckon you don't like to think of it," said Singleton. "It would rile me some, too."

Aware that this was a matter which would not permit of even suggestion on his part, Singleton soon found an excuse to take leave of Warden. And for an hour after Singleton's departure, Warden stood at the window fighting for his composure. Then, when he had succeeded, he walked out of the front door of the saloon and made his way down the street to the Willets Hotel. He told Keller, the proprietor, about Miss Wharton's disappearance, and he succeeded in simulating an excellent counterfeit of astonishment when Keller informed him that Miss Wharton was at that moment up stairs in her room—that she had been at the hotel since the storm broke. He pretended not to see the flush on Keller's face as he told the lie; and his greeting to Della was distinguished by calm casualness.

Later, when Warden told her that the Two Diamond had been lonely without her, and that the trail was in condition for travel, she readily agreed to accompany him. And, shortly after noon they rode out of town together, Warden apparently in the best of humor over finding her safe; Della elated over the success of the deception.

It was late when they reached the Two Diamond. Several of the men cheered delightedly when they rode into the ranch yard; and Aunt Hannah was tearfully grateful.

However, twice during the evening meal, as they sat opposite each other, Della noted a look of sullen preoccupation in Warden's eyes. And then, studying him covertly while she ate, she observed that he was paler than usual; that his lips were straight and stiff, even when he smiled; that he seemed to have little appetite and was restless and jerky.

Warden was suspicious—that was evident. She had thought, when he had entered her room at the hotel, that his manner was strange and not nearly so hearty as it should have been over finding her. He had been too matter-of-fact and undemonstrative.

She never had loved Warden; she had not even respected him. She had plumbed his nature and had found him narrow, selfish—even brutal. But she had permitted him to make love to her occasionally—mildly, for what doubtful amusement she got out of it, and she had responded merely for the thrill it gave her to have a man pursue her.

When, after supper, Warden called her into his office and closed the door behind her, she had steeled herself for any attack he might make. She was calm, and unmoved by what she saw in Warden's face.

A lamp glowed on Warden's desk, and he motioned her to a chair that stood beside it, so that when she seated herself the glare of the lamp was on her face.

While she sat there, a little malice in her heart for Warden—because he had dared to suspect her—he moved toward her and without saying a word laid before her the handkerchief he had found.

She took it up deliberately, looked at it, and as deliberately stuck it into her belt.

"It's mine, Gary," she said.

"I found it in a bunk at a Circle L line camp, occupied during the storm by Kane Lawler. I thought perhaps you would like to explain how it got there."

"I left it there, Gary—I forgot it."

"You admit you were there?"

"Certainly. Why should I deny it? Do you want to know why I went there, Gary?"

"I'd like to know, of course," said Warden. He was standing, tense, his eyes glowing with passion that he was trying to control; his face ashen.

"I started for the Circle L. I wanted to see Lawler. You didn't know that I had met him one day at the foot of the stairs leading from your office, in town. Well, I did, Gary; and I fell in love with him."

She heard Warden's gasp; saw his eyes glow into hers with a jealous fury that seemed to threaten to drive him to violence.

"Bah; don't be silly, Gary," she admonished coldly. "You know I never have cared for you in the way you wanted. I shall have to respect the man I marry, and I never could respect you, Gary. You are too—too much as you are now. You'd like to punish me, physically; you'd like to hurt me, in some way—if you could. You'll never be a lover to any woman, Gary—you are too insincere. You never have loved me; you have merely been flattered over having me near you. And it is only your vanity that is hurt, now."

Warden laughed unpleasantly; though she knew from the expression of his eyes that he knew she had spoken truthfully.

"Well—go on," he said, shortly.

"That is all, Gary," she laughed. "Except that I got lost and went to the cabin instead of the house. Lawler was there; we were both there—for ten days. And then, because I didn't want my reputation to suffer, I had Lawler take me to the hotel at night, to make it appear that I had been there all the time. Interesting, isn't it?"

"Very," said Warden. "I think I understand. But why didn't Lawler marry you to save your reputation—if you loved him so much?"

Her smile was shallow and hard.

"I expect Lawler thought my reputation didn't need saving—or wasn't worth it. For he refused me, point blank."

"Gallant—eh?" mocked Warden.

She laughed. "Well, I don't know that I blame him. I have thought, since, that I went at it very crudely. I should have played the innocent instead of doing what I did. He's wary as a serpent, Gary, and wise."

"Do you still love him?"

Her eyes flashed spitefully. "I hate him, now! I think I was merely infatuated. I thought it was love, but I can see now that it wasn't. I don't think I ever really have loved a man, Gary."

Warden laughed. He knew she had told him the truth—he could see truth in her eyes.

"He killed Link and Givens," said Warden. "Did you see it?" At her nod he went on: "Just how did it happen?"

She told him, and he evinced disappointment. Then, during a silence, he watched her keenly, a gleam of craft in his eyes.

"How much do you hate him, Della?"

Her eyes narrowed and she regarded him steadily, noting the subtle glow in his eyes. She smiled, with sinister understanding.

"You want me to swear that he killed those two men wantonly, Gary—is that it?" She laughed mirthlessly; "I would do it if—if I didn't have to risk my precious reputation."

"You won't risk your reputation," exulted Warden. "I'll fix that. We don't want to charge him openly with the murder—and he can't be convicted without evidence. What we want to do is to hold a threat of exposure over him—to fix him so that he won't ever be able to run for an office in this state—as he intends to. For they are grooming him, right now. And the governor is back of the scheme to break him—you know that. If you'll sign a statement to the effect that you were a witness of the murder, and that Lawler was the aggressor, I'll hold it over him, and we'll make him get down off his hind legs and be good. When I show him the statement you can be sure he will never want to stand trial. And we won't force him. We'll let the court at Willets examine him; and they'll have to let him off."

"It would be satisfying—wouldn't it, Gary?" she said, after a time.

"You're a brick, Della!" he laughed.

She got up and stood beside him as he wrote. And Warden did not see the designing light in her eyes as she watched him. And her smile, as she signed her name to what he had written, was inscrutable—containing much knowledge of Warden's motives, and concealing still more of her own.

In her room, while undressing, she laughed.



CHAPTER XXVI

A MENACE APPEARS

Sheriff Moreton waited for Warden to act, as he had promised. And the sheriff continued to wait. For Warden did not appear with his evidence. It seemed that the power behind Warden had called a truce; that it had been disconcerted by its failures, and was waiting—slowly marshaling its forces for another assault. But the power was working secretly, if it worked at all, for during the winter there were no visible signs which would indicate activity on the part of Lawler's enemies.

Nature seemed to wait, also. The country, between storms, lay bare and naked, bleakly barren where the winds swept; somber in the valleys, with desolation reigning on the coldly gleaming peaks of the hills and the distant mountains.

Willets was somnolent, lethargic. Occasionally a canvas-covered wagon rumbled over the frozen windrows of the town's one street, and rumbled out again, loaded with supplies for a distant ranch; or a group of cowboys, in search of diversion, came into town for a night. But these visitations were so infrequent as to create no disturbance in the dull, slumberous routine of Willets' citizens.

Warden and Della Wharton, accompanied by Aunt Hannah, had taken a west-bound train shortly after Miss Wharton's adventure in the Circle L line cabin. It was whispered they had gone to the capital for the winter.

Sheriff Moreton had ridden over to the Circle L, to quiz Lawler about the killing of Link and Givens.

"The coroner's verdict didn't incriminate no one," said Moreton. "I told him some Two Diamond men had found the bodies down south a ways, an' that they wasn't no evidence to show who'd done for 'em. Now, Lawler, if you'd give me a straight story I'd be obliged to you."

Lawler gave him a "straight" story, merely omitting mention of Miss Wharton.

"Cut your fence, eh?" muttered the sheriff, gruffly; "well, I reckon they got what was comin' to 'em!"

Lawler had ridden over to the Hamlin cabin twice, making his visits short, for he saw the embarrassment in Ruth's eyes, over what he had done for Hamlin.

A change had come over Hamlin. His eyes held a straightforward gleam that had not been in them for a long time; he held his head erect, his step was springy and full of reliance. He seemed rejuvenated, imbued with a new spirit. Several times Lawler saw Ruth's eyes following him with pleasure; though she blushed when she caught Lawler watching her.

When the mild winds of spring began to sweep across the wide levels, and the sun began to shed its welcome warmth over the land, Lawler rode again to the Hamlin cabin. This time there was an anxious light in Hamlin's eyes; and Ruth was pale and worried.

"There's been strange doin's around here, lately, Lawler," Hamlin said when Lawler questioned him. "If you hadn't rode over today, I was intendin' to sneak over to the Circle L an' tell you about it.

"The other night I was ridin' north—near Bolton's Shallow—where the old trail crosses, leadin' to Kinney's canon. There's some new grass there, an' my cattle is dead set on gettin' it. I'd got 'em, an' started back with 'em—easin' 'em down that little gully near the river—an' bein' plumb out of sight from the shallow—when I seen a trail herd comin'—west!

"Lawler, I watched 'em. I seen 'em cross the river, still headin' west, easin' off a little to the south. They was above me, an' they was a glow in the north, behind 'em—an' they stood out plain an' clear. An' so did the men that was with 'em, drivin'.

"Lawler, they was more'n fifty men drivin' them cattle—mebbe five hundred head. An' they had three wagons, an' a remuda with about a hundred head in it!

"They was takin' their time. I rode back a ways, an' then got off my horse an' sneaked up close to the shallow. An' I seen all the men, clear. I waited until they got a good start, an' then I trailed 'em. They brought up at the Rabbit Ear, at that old house of Rud Dickman's—who cashed in three or four years ago, leavin' nobody behind him."

Lawler nodded. He knew the place. Dickman had been a nester, and since his death no one had occupied the house, and no one had come to claim his land.

"Well?" said Lawler, as Hamlin paused.

"Lawler," said Hamlin, gravely; "there's goin' to be hell to pay in this section. Them men turned their cattle into the grass around there, an' put a night guard over them. They emptied their wagons and toted the stuff into the house. They fixed up the corral fence an' turned their horses into it. They brought lamps an' stoves for the bunkhouse an' the cabin—an' bunk stuff an' tables an' such. They're figurin' to stay there. An', Lawler—they're Blondy Antrim an' his gang of cutthroats!"



CHAPTER XXVII

EVIDENCE

When Gary Warden stepped off the east-bound train at Willets one evening in April—to be met by Singleton, who had been apprised of the day of his coming and who had been in town for two days waiting—there was an expectant smile on his face.

A change seemed to have come over the town. The winter lethargy had been shaken off and Willets was a throb with life and activity. There was a warm wind blowing, bearing the breath of the new sage; doors were open; many horses were hitched to the rails that fringed the walk in front of saloons and stores; and there was over it all an atmosphere that seemed to be vital, electric.

Warden drew Singleton over to a corner of the station platform, from where, between two buildings, they had a clear, unobstructed view of the street.

"Della Wharton didn't come?" asked Singleton.

"No," laughed Warden; "she stayed over for a reception at the governor's mansion, tonight. She'll be here tomorrow." He leaned close to Singleton, whispering:

"Are Blondy and his men settled?"

"Settled!" Singleton laughed deeply. "You might call it that. Blondy an' his gang are runnin' this man's town, right now! They've got Moreton scared, looks like! He's layin' mighty low, an' keepin' his trap shut. Blondy's got a mighty tough gang—a bunch of hoppin', howlin' tarantulas, straight from hell! Blondy's still raw from that deal Lawler handed him when he brought him here an' dumped him down on the platform, tellin' you Blondy was his 'vent.' Blondy swears he'll kill Lawler for that, an' I'm bankin' that he makes a strong play for a killin'. There's red in Blondy's eyes when he talks about Lawler!"

Warden smiled evilly. "That's Lawler's lookout," he said, venomously; "he ought to be man enough to take care of himself. Let's take a look around."

With Singleton beside him, Warden visited half a dozen saloons and dance halls; smiling as he noted the bepistoled cowboys who were swaggering in and out of doorways and on the sidewalk—strangers to him, but not to Singleton, who grinned and nodded to them as they passed.

Warden spent the night in town. And after midnight, in a room at the rear of the Wolf Saloon—when the sounds of the night's revelry were becoming fainter—he sat at a table with Singleton and Blondy Antrim, talking in low tones.

* * * * *

At eight o'clock in the morning Warden stepped into the door of Sheriff Moreton's office.

Warden's face was pale, and he smiled mirthlessly at Moreton, who was standing near a desk looking over some papers.

Moreton looked keenly at his visitor. "You're back, eh?" he said, shortly.

"Back to perform a solemn duty, Moreton," said Warden. "I have the evidence I spoke to you about. It's too bad, but we are all bound to see that justice is done. I don't like to take this step, for Lawler is a distinguished citizen despite some mighty bad habits, and I don't like to be the one to charge him with that crime."

"Uh-huh," grunted Moreton; "I can see that you're about ready to break down an' bawl right out in meetin'. But I wouldn't do no more fourflushin' in here—it ain't healthy. Where's your evidence?"

Warden laid Della Wharton's written statement on the desk at the sheriff's hand. He watched while Moreton read; he saw Moreton's face whiten; saw his hand tremble a little as he folded the paper and put it into a pocket.

Then he looked straight at Warden.

"I don't believe a damned word of it, Warden!" he said, his eyes blazing. "If that woman was in that cabin with Lawler durin' the storm she kept it mighty quiet. An' Lawler didn't say a word about it when I rode over to see him a couple of months ago!" He glared at Warden. "Where's that Wharton woman, now?"

"She'll get to town this afternoon," Warden said.

"Well, she'll have to swear to this, Warden. I can't afford to act on this—mebbe it ain't her signature."

"Meaning that I forged it?" smiled Warden.

"Meanin' what you damned please!" snapped Moreton. "I ain't actin' in this case till that woman swears she seen what she claims to have seen."

"She'll swear to it," said Warden, confidently. "Meantime, I'd advise you to have a talk with Keller. Ask him who brought Della Wharton to the hotel, and what time she got there." Warden smiled. "I'll see you later, Sheriff."

Warden went to his office; and, after a time, Moreton strode slowly to the Willets Hotel, where for a long time he talked with Keller.

When Moreton emerged from the hotel after the talk with Keller his brows were furrowed and his lips were in a pout. He spent most of the day sitting in his office, glaring moodily out into the street; and when he heard the east-bound train rumble in late in the afternoon he drew a deep breath and got up, muttering lowly:

"It looks mighty like it—for a fact. But Lawler—Oh, hell!"

Within fifteen minutes after the arrival of the east-bound train, Moreton was sitting at the desk in his office, studying Miss Wharton's face.

Della had been met at the train by Warden—who now stood just inside the door of the office, watching her, admiring her self-possession.

For Della was calm and deliberate. There was, to be sure, a paleness around her mouth that was not there at other times; and her lips were set rather tightly. Moreton saw those indications of mental stress—but they were no more pronounced than they should be in any woman who had come to swear she had witnessed murder.

And Della swore to the statement she had made. She answered Moreton's questions in a low voice, telling him she regretted having to answer them—begging him to keep the matter as secret as possible, for she abhorred publicity.

After Moreton had administered the oath, Della and Warden went out; and for many minutes Moreton sat at his desk with his chin on his chest, staring at the desk top.

He finally got up, buckled on his cartridge belt and pistol, went out, mounted his horse and rode southward.

* * * * *

Inside the sheriff's office, Warden took leave of Della Wharton, pressing her hand warmly, telling her that she had been "great." Della smiled shallowly, not responding to Warden's hand pressure. Her face had grown white and there was a glow in her eyes that she did not permit Warden to see.

Warden left her, telling her she would find her horse in front of his office—where Singleton had brought it. Warden's expressions of regret that he could not accompany her to the Two Diamond were received in silence. Business would keep him in town for a day or so, he said.

Warden went toward the Wolf, and Della walked down the street to her horse, mounted and rode through mounds of back-yard refuse to the rear of the Willets Hotel. She got a man out to stable her horse, and a few minutes later she was in the room she had occupied on the night Lawler brought her to town from the line cabin. She was still pale, but now there was a smile on her lips.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE TRAIL HORDE

From the front windows of the Wolf Saloon, Slade, the violent-mannered rider whom Blondy Antrim had left in charge of his men the night he had ridden away from the desert camp fire to hold a conference with Lawler near the trail herd, had watched Sheriff Moreton lope his horse into the soft southern twilight.

Slade was a young man, tall, swarthy, reckless-eyed. He was keen, cynical, and jealous of the power and authority of Antrim. He grinned at Warden, who was standing near, also watching Moreton.

The grin was crooked, expressing reluctance.

"Well the Law is hittin' the breeze, an' I reckon, accordin' to orders, we'll be hittin' it, too."

He left Warden and walked to the bar, where he spoke lowly to several men. Then he walked into a rear room, where several other men were playing cards, and repeated his words. The men ceased playing and followed him to the front door.

Half an hour later, when Sheriff Moreton had vanished into the growing dusk, Slade and the men to whom he had spoken, went outside, clambered upon their horses and rode slowly in the direction taken by the sheriff.

There were a score of them—rough-looking characters with eyes as reckless as those of the man who led them; and they were silent as they rode, as though on some stealthy mission.

They did not follow Moreton far; they veered eastward slightly after they had traveled several miles, and finally came to a trail that paralleled a small river, which they rode for a time.

Darkness came while they rode, and the twinkling points of stars grew brighter in the cold blue of the sky—millions of them appeared, distant, winking, shedding a luminous haze over the land.

After a time the riders reached a level near the river, and some low buildings loomed out of the haze. A light glowed through a window in one of the buildings—the largest—and toward this the men rode, dropping from their horses at the door and filing silently inside.

In a big room, from which came the light the riders had seen, were many other men.

Antrim, his bronzed face almost the hue of copper in the glare from the lamp that stood on a table, was sitting in a chair near the door. Some of the men inside were on their feet, expectant, suspicious. They grinned when they recognized the newcomers, calling variously to them in greeting.

Antrim got to his feet when he saw Slade at the door, looking at him expectantly. When Slade grinned, telling Antrim that Moreton had ridden south, Antrim's eyes glittered with satisfaction.

"Selden!" he ordered, sharply; "you slope for the Circle L trail an' watch it! When you see Moreton an' Lawler headin' toward town, you fan it here in a hurry!"

A tall man with two guns sagging at his hips leaped to the door and plunged out. In the silence that followed his departure, they could hear the thudding of hoofs that marked his going.

Antrim grinned coldly around at the other men.

"We'll clean up on Lawler tonight, boys," he said. "We've got to work fast!"

He stood, boldly outlined in the light, a sinister figure. His cruel lips were set tightly, his eyes were agleam. He was a symbol of passion, rampant and unrecking—a wild, violent spirit to whom laws were irksome shackles.

He grinned at Slade, mockingly, naked malevolence in his gaze. His voice was harsh, vibrant.

"Slade, tonight you're goin' to get what you've been waitin' for—the leadership! Ha, ha!" he laughed as he saw Slade's face work with the bitter rage that instantly seized him. "You thought I didn't know you wanted my place—eh? Bah! I've known it for a year. You're ambitious, eh? Well, listen!

"Tonight you're leadin' this little party. You're to run off them cattle of Lawler's—three thousand head—which he euchered me out of last fall. You're takin' three thousand head, Slade—not a one less. If you take less you're through with me. You'll run 'em down through Kinney's canon, clear through to the big basin beyond. At the other end you'll head 'em south, to Mexico—where we've been runnin' 'em for three years past. You'll take a receipt for them from a guy named Miguel Lomo, who will be waitin' for you at Panya—where you knifed that Oiler last summer. Warden arranged that.

"You'll post a dozen men in Kinney's canon, to drop anyone that follows. There's goin' to be no excuses, or you settle with me—afterward. Understand?"

Slade's eyes glared with savage triumph and defiance. He grinned felinely at the other, and when he spoke there was cold, taunting contempt in his voice.

"I'm doin' it, Antrim! I'm tickled to get the chance. But where are you goin' to be tonight?"

Antrim flushed darkly. He laughed. "I'm figurin' to do a man's work—tonight or tomorrow, Slade. Somethin' that you ain't got nerve enough to do—I'm goin' to face Kane Lawler when he's riled, with a gun in his hand! I'm goin' to down him right here in this room!"

Slade started, his face paled. He laughed mirthlessly.

"Well," he said, watching Antrim keenly; "if he's as fast as he used to be—before gettin' to be a big guy in this neck of the woods tamed him—you'll have to be lightnin'—an' then some!"

He wheeled, and went out of the door, where he stood, looking toward the plains on the other side of the river, grinning derisively.

* * * * *

Two hours later Selden clattered to the door of the cabin and dismounted, conveying the news that Moreton and Lawler were riding north, toward Willets. And within a few minutes after the appearance of Selden, Slade and forty-eight of Antrim's men rode swiftly, scurrying into the star haze, straight into the south wind that swept out of the Wolf River valley.

The men rode close together for more than an hour, until they reached the crest of the big valley, where they halted, closely massed, and scanned the semi-gloom in front of them.

The big valley was silent, somber. There was no movement in it. Looking down from the crest the Antrim men could see the dim outlines of the Circle L buildings; and they had no trouble in distinguishing the ranchhouse, out of which through a window, a feeble glimmer of light came. The other buildings were dark.

One of the men laughed raucously, as he pointed out the light. "That's mebbe Lawler's old woman, settin' up, wonderin' what her boy's been grabbed by the law for," he sneered. "Well, she'll be wonderin' more—after Blondy gits through with him."

Slade chuckled, but said nothing. He was hoping that by this time on the morrow Antrim would have discovered that Kane Lawler could "sling" a gun with the speed and accuracy he had used in the old days.

Far down in the valley, Slade pointed out the cattle. They were scattered a little, as though perfunctorily guarded, but still massed enough to make the task of rounding them up comparatively simple to the big group of men in Slade's company.

"There ain't more'n half a dozen men ridin' night herd down there," said Slade as he pointed out the forms of several horsemen in the vicinity of the herd; "an' likely enough they ain't watchin' a hell of a lot." He issued some orders, and the group on the crest of the valley split up. Some of them rode west along the edge of the valley, where there was a fringe of juniper and post oak to conceal them; others slid down into the valley directly toward the herd, keeping in the tangled growth that featured the sloping sides of the great hollow. They were adept at this work, and they moved like shadows until they reached the wide floor of the valley.

Then, spreading out, fanwise, a number of them swinging far around the herd so that they approached it from the west, they closed in.

There was no longer any attempt at concealment. A shot from Slade's pistol was the signal for a violent dash that instantly set the big herd in motion. As the attack came from the west the cattle moved eastward, bleating and bellowing with surprise. They moved slowly at first, as though confused by the suddenness of the rush—milling in bewilderment; detached numbers dashing here and there in wild affright.

Concerted movement came when the strange horsemen began to flank them. Eastward there was open ground, with no dashing, shooting men to bar their progress, and eastward they went, a dark mass that moved with exceeding swiftness straight up the valley.

The few cowboys who had been riding night herd made a feeble, astonished resistance. There were several shots, frenzied cries of rage and pain; and then nothing but the thunderous rumble of hoofs; the shouts of the driving rustlers; scattered shots and the clashing of horns. A vast dust cloud ballooned above the herd; and five riderless Circle L horses trotted aimlessly about, snorting with fright.

The big herd had gone with the suddenness of a cyclone. It went, rumbling up the valley, the dust cloud hovering over it, blotting out its movements. It roared past the Circle L bunkhouses, leaving behind it a number of Circle L cowboys who had been awakened by the thunderous noise. The Circle L men had plunged outside in various stages of undress—all bootless, unprepared, amazed, and profane.

"Stampede!" yelled a hoarse voice.

"Stampede—hell!" shouted another. "It's rustlers! That damn Antrim bunch!"

This was Shorty. The lithe giant had rushed out of the bunkhouse as the herd thundered past. He was now running back toward the bunkhouse, trying to tighten the waistband of his trousers with a belt whose buckleless end persisted in eluding his grasp.

His words had spurred the other men to frenzied action. There was confusion in the bunkhouse where men collided with their fellows as they plunged about for discarded garments, gun-belts, and boots. But soon they began to straggle out of the door in twos and threes and singly, racing for the corral and for the lean-to where they kept their saddles.

Foremost among them was Shorty. His tall figure appeared first at the corral gates, and his long legs were the first astride a horse. While the others were running hither and yon near the bunkhouse and the corral, Shorty raced his horse to the ranchhouse, slid off and crossed the wide porch in two or three leaps.

He was confronted at the door by Mrs. Lawler, ashen, trembling.

"Rustlers!" he said, shortly, answering her look of interrogation. "Where's the boss?"

The woman's voice broke. "Sheriff Moreton came after him some hours ago—and took him to Willets—charging him with murdering those two men at the line cabin, last winter. He isn't guilty, of course," declared the mother; "but of course he had to go with Moreton."

Shortly swore silently. "All right, ma'am," he said, aloud; "I reckon we'll have to handle it without him! Some of the boys of the night herd are hurt, most likely—mebbe worse. If you'd sort of look after them—mebbe—" He broke off short when he saw riders rushing from the corral toward the house. "I'll stop at Joe Hamlin's place an' send Ruth over, to help you. We can't spare any men—there's a horde of them devils!"

He was leaping for his horse with the last words, and in an instant he had joined the other riders who had paused, tentatively, near the edge of the porch, having seen him. They fled, a dark mass against the dull shadows of the valley, sweeping up the big slope toward the plains.

Blackburn, the range boss, was leading, with Shorty riding close beside him. In the dim distance they could see the herd, spreading wide over the level, running fast in the dust cloud that still followed them.

The Circle L men had not ridden more than a mile after striking the level when Blackburn saw some blots detach themselves from the larger blot—a number of them, like stray wisps of clouds straggling behind a storm.

"They're droppin' back to pot-shot us," Blackburn said to Shorty. He yelled at the men behind, warning them, and the group split up, spreading out, though not reducing the breakneck speed at which they had been riding.

They had not gone far after Blackburn shouted his warning when a puff of white smoke dotted the luminous haze ahead, and a bullet whined close to Blackburn.

"Rifle!" said Blackburn, grimly.

There were still three Circle L men at the line camps on the range; five had been left behind in the valley when the attack had been made; and only twenty others, including Blackburn, were left to cope with the rustlers.

Blackburn cast a worried glance at them. He had plunged out of the bunkhouse with the other men in time to catch a glimpse of the outlaws as they went by with the herd, and he had roughly estimated their number at fifty. The odds were great, and the advantage lay with the pursued, for they could select ambuscades and take terrible toll from the Circle L men.

Yet Blackburn was determined. He yelled to the others to take advantage of whatever cover they could find; and he saw them slide from their horses, one after another, and throw themselves into a shallow depression that ran erratically north and south for some distance over the plains. Before they reached the depression, however, there had come more white puffs of smoke from the space ahead of them, and Blackburn saw two Circle L men slide from their horses with a finality that brought a savage glare into his eyes.

"Shorty," he said, hoarsely, to the big man at his side—who had wriggled behind a rock at the crest of the depression and was coldly and deliberately using the rifle he had taken from the holster on his saddle; "we've got to have help—them scum outnumber us. You've got the fastest horse an' you're the best rider in the bunch. An' you've got the most sense. Barthman's ranch is the nearest, an' he's got fifteen men. You hit the breeze over there an' tell him what's happened. Tell him we're whipped if he don't help us. An' tell him to send a rider to Corts, an' Littlefield, an' Sigmund, an' Lester, an' Caldwell. Tell 'em to take that trail leadin' to Kinney's canon—this side. That's where they're headin' the cattle to. They'll come a-rushin', for they like the boss.

"There's forty men in that gang that's hidin' ahead of us, tryin' to wipe us out. But if they was a hundred we could keep 'em from makin' any time, an' if you'll burn the breeze some, you can have Barthman an' the others at the trail near Kinney's canon before these guys get there!"

"Hell's fire, Blackburn," protested Shorty; "ain't there somebody else can ride a damned horse? I'm aimin' to salivate some of them skunks!"

"Orders is orders, Shorty," growled Blackburn, coldly. "You're goin', an' you're goin' right this minute—or I'm goin' to bust you in the eye!"

"Well, if you put it that way," grimly grinned Shorty.

He crawled out of the depression, threw himself upon his horse and raced southeastward, yelling, and waving his hat defiantly at the outlaws, who were shooting at him. But the speed of Shorty's horse was too great for accurate shooting; and Shorty kept going—waving his hat for a time, and then, when out of range, riding hard—seeming to glide like a shadow into the yawning gulf of distance.

The depression into which Blackburn and his men had crept was not more than three or four feet deep, with long, sloping sides which were covered with alkali and rotted rock. Along the edges grew greasewood and mesquite bushes, which afforded concealment but not protection. The shallow was wide enough for the horses, though the men were forced to throw the animals and stake their heads down, so that they would not show themselves above the edge of the depression and thus become targets for the outlaws.

The firing during the night was intermittent. Once the outlaws made an attempt to withdraw, rushing concertedly toward their horses, which they had concealed in a sand draw slightly behind them, southward. But Blackburn and his men were alert.

The outlaws had chosen a gully for their ambuscade, but they had made the mistake of leaving their horses too far away from their place of concealment. And when they rushed across the stretch of level that extended from the gully to the draw, half a dozen of them dropped before they had traveled a quarter of the distance. The others plunged back into the gully, while the Circle L men yelled exultantly.

As Blackburn had told Shorty, he did not expect to rout or capture the outlaws; the best he could hope for was that Shorty would get help in time to head off the cattle before the other outlaws drove them into Kinney's canon or that he would bring help to the Circle L men in time to prevent the sanguinary fight which would certainly occur as soon as the day dawned.

And so Blackburn waited, grimly watchful; though worry began to wrinkle his face as he noted that the semi-gloom of the starlit night was lifting, and that a gray streak on the eastern horizon was slowly broadening.



CHAPTER XXIX

ANTRIM STRIKES

From the doorway of the cabin on the Rabbit Ear, Antrim had watched Slade and his men ride away. His gaze followed them until they vanished over the edge of the big plain above the river valley. Then, smiling crookedly, he turned back into the cabin.

Two men—one of them the tall man who had ridden away to return with the news that Lawler and the sheriff were riding northward—were draped on chairs watching the outlaw chief. They were expectant, eager; there was covert satisfaction in their eyes.

Like Selden, the other man wore two guns. There was about both men an atmosphere that suggested stealth and violence. It lurked over them, hinting of something sinister and deadly.

Selden wore a mustache that drooped at the corners of his mouth. It was the color of old straw—a faded, washed-out blonde, darkened here and there from tobacco stains. His mouth was large, the lower lip sagging in the center, giving it a satiric appearance, increased by the bleared, narrowed eyes that always seemed to be glowing with a questioning, leering light.

Krell, the other man, was smooth of face, with a strong, bold, thrusting jaw and thick, pouting lips. His eyes were big, but they had a disquieting habit of incessant watchfulness—a crafty alertness, as though their owner was suspicious of the motives of those at whom he looked.

Selden and Krell had been recruited from the southern border, they represented an element that the ranger service was slowly and surely eliminating—and driving northward into states whose laws were less stringent for the evil-doer—the professional gunmen who took life for the malicious thrill it gave them.

Krell and Selden were "killers." They were Antrim's constant companions, except when the necessities of his trade drove the outlaw to work alone. They knew his whims and understood his methods.

Now, as Antrim paused near the table and looked at them, Krell smiled evilly.

"I reckon we'll be settin' here twirlin' our thumbs till the outfit gits back?" he suggested.

Antrim laughed.

"We're trailin' the outfit right now," he told the other.

Antrim extinguished the light, and the three went out and mounted their horses. Their movements were deliberate, unhurried. They crossed the river, gaining the plains above it, and rode at a slow lope in the direction taken by the others who had preceded them.

They talked as they rode, lowly, earnestly—planning the night's work, speculating upon the probable outcome of the raid upon the Circle L by the men under Slade.

When they reached the edge of the big valley and concealed themselves in the fringing brush, they saw that Slade and his men had already struck. Streaks of flame were splitting the darkness in the basin; there were reports of pistols—which were reduced to mere faint, popping noises by the distance they traveled before reaching the ears of Antrim and his men; they saw the herd start; heard it go thundering up the valley in a cloud of dust and strike the edge of the plain above, to swing eastward toward Kinney's canon.

"Slade's sure workin' hard for that promotion," observed Antrim, mockingly. "He's got 'em runnin' fast an' under control."

The three men did not emerge from their concealment for some time. They watched until the herd grew small in the distance eastward; they noted the confusion that seemed to reign in the vicinity of the bunkhouse, where the Circle L men were frenziedly preparing to pursue the rustlers; they laughed at the figures that were darting here and there in the light from the open doorway of the bunkhouse; and Antrim sneered when he saw the ranchhouse door open and noted the form of a man framed in the square of light that shone out.

"That'll be Blackburn, I reckon," he said to the other two; "inquirin' for Lawler, mebbe. Well, Blackburn an' his guys will have to get along without Lawler."

He watched until he saw the Circle L men sweep up the valley, following the direction taken by the herd. He waited until he saw a woman emerge from the door of the ranchhouse. The woman was carrying a lantern, and its fitful, bobbing glare marked the woman's progress as she moved toward the bunkhouse—in which a light still burned. For an instant the light from the lantern disappeared, and then they saw it again as it bobbed toward the open where the herd had been when the rustlers had struck. Several times Antrim observed that the lantern became stationary—as though it had been placed upon the ground. He grinned coldly as he spoke to Krell and Selden.

"That's Lawler's mother, I reckon. She's huntin' for them boys that was foolish enough to try an' stop Slade. Looks like she's findin' 'em, too!"

Antrim watched until the light began to bob as its bearer went toward the ranchhouse. He saw the door of the ranchhouse open and the woman enter. Then he spoke shortly to the others and they rode down into the valley. After they reached the floor of the valley Antrim spoke again, shortly:

"Get busy; an' keep back out of the light when you get 'em goin'. Meet me back there where we was waitin'!"

Antrim urged his horse toward the ranchhouse, riding slowly. When he reached the big porch he dismounted, and an instant later was pounding heavily upon the front door.

It was opened after an instant, and Mrs. Lawler appeared, pale, anxious.

"Oh!" she said, startled, when she saw Antrim's face in the glare of light from within; "I thought you were one of the Circle L men!" She shrank back a little when Antrim grinned evilly at her, catching her breath with a gasp.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

Antrim crossed the threshold and stood inside, where the light was full upon his face. Repelled—almost terrorized by what she saw in his eyes, Mrs. Lawler attempted to retreat from him; but in an instant he had seized her arms, roughly and brutally crushing them against her sides, while he shoved her back against the open door; holding her in that position and grinning hideously at her helplessness.

"You know me?" he sneered, his face close to hers. "I'm Antrim!" He laughed when she caught her breath; when he noted that she recognized the name.

"I reckoned you'd know me, when I told you," he said. "Luke Lawler knowed me—an' your son knows me! I've never had no love for the Lawler breed, an' I ain't changed any. But there's a lot of things that I'm squarin' up for!

"This is my night; I've been waitin' for it!" he gloated. "I'm cleanin' up on the Lawlers! I'm wipin' Kane Lawler out—cattle, buildings—an' him too, mebbe. It ain't goin' to be a thing you ought to see. You're gettin' away from here—I don't give a damn where. An' you're goin' now!"

Awed by his manner and by the terrible threat in his voice, Mrs. Lawler did not resist the physical strength of the outlaw. Though Antrim's fingers were gripping her arms until the pain made her long to cry out in agony, she made no sound. Nor—now that she realized what portended—did her gaze waver as it met Antrim's. Her eyes glowed with contempt as they looked into his—with a proud scorn that brought a crimson flush into Antrim's cheeks. It had been that spirit that had always enraged Antrim—that had always made him realize his inferiority to her husband, and to the steady-eyed son who had shamed him publicly at Willets. It was a thing that physical violence could not conquer; it revealed a quiet courage that had always disconcerted him.

"Hell!" he sneered; "you can't come any of that high an' mighty stuff on me!"

He twisted her until she faced the door, and then shoved her before him across the porch and down upon the level on the ranchhouse yard, toward the stable and the corral.

She did not resist, knowing that physical resistance would be futile.

He shoved her into the stable, and she stood there, unresisting while he saddled a horse. She could not see him, but she could hear him as he moved about; and presently he spoke shortly to her from a point close by:

"Here's a cayuse—saddled an' bridled. You want to get on him here, or outside?"

"Outside," she said, coldly.

In front of the stable door she mounted, Antrim helping her despite her scornful protest.

"Listen," he said, as he stood for an instant at the horse's head, dimly outlined. "You'd better go to Hamlin's—that's nearest. An' make arrangements to stay there. I'm burnin' the Circle L buildin's. There won't be a stick standin' when I get through! When I get through, I'm goin' back to my place on the Rabbit Ear. My men have all gone with the cattle, an' I'll be there alone. You can tell that damned son of yours that! Understand? He's aimin' to get even for what I'm doin' tonight, he'll find me at my place—alone—waitin' for him! Now, get goin'."

Mrs. Lawler did not answer. She took up the reins and sent the horse forward, past the bunkhouses and the corral and the ranchhouse—through the valley and up the long rise that led to the great plains above.

It took her a long time to reach the plains, and when she looked back she saw some leaping tongues of flame issuing from the doors of the bunkhouse. Two or three of the other buildings were on fire; and the windows of the ranchhouse were illuminated by a dull red glare. But the woman made no sound that would have betrayed the emotions that tortured her. She turned her back to the burning buildings and rode onward, toward the Hamlin cabin—trying, in this crisis, to live the code she had taught her son; endeavoring to vindicate the precepts that she had dinned into his ears all the days of his life—that courage in adversity is the ultimate triumph of character—the forge in which is fashioned the moral fiber which makes men strong and faithful.



CHAPTER XXX

A WOMAN LIES

Lawler had said little to Sheriff Moreton on the ride to Willets. Nor had he made any comment when, in the Circle L ranchhouse, in the presence of his mother, Moreton had shown him the statement signed by Della Wharton. He had silently passed it back to Moreton; and had walked to Mrs. Lawler—telling her why the sheriff had come; smilingly taking leave of her while Moreton, sweating profusely, turned his back and pretended to be interested in a picture on the wall.

"I reckon there's somethin' about this case that ain't been brought out yet, Mrs. Lawler," said Moreton when he was about to depart with his prisoner. "But things has a way of comin' out, an' I reckon we'll get Kane out of this before long."

Outside, on their horses, Moreton rode close to Lawler.

"Kane, I reckon it's a damn lie about you killin' Link an' Givens the way that Wharton woman says you did—in that damned paper—just malicious, without them deservin' it?"

"Moreton, I told you my side of the story a couple of months ago. It's the lady's word against mine."

Moreton muttered much to himself during the ride. He told Lawler how Warden had come to him with the statement—the charge; and of how he had waited until Della Wharton had personally appeared before him to corroborate what she had signed.

"She don't want to have her reputation dragged into it," sneered Moreton. "Well, before it's over she won't have no more reputation than a coyote! I'll make the thing so damned public that she'll think I've hired a brass band to blare it all over the country!"

Lawler merely smiled. He might have further increased the sheriff's rage by showing him the signed confession in his pocket—the confession he had secured from Link and Givens—but he preferred to keep silent until he discovered why Della Wharton had brought the charge against him.

There were two possible motives. One was that Della was still in the grip of the vindictiveness that had characterized her that last day in the cabin—and had charged him with murder merely to be revenged upon him; the other was that she had been influenced to the action by Gary Warden. He intended to keep silent until events explained the motive. And he smiled faintly at Moreton when the sheriff opened the jail doors for him—Moreton saying that he "hated like poison to do it."

Two persons had watched Lawler and Moreton ride into town. Warden, standing in the darkened windows of the Wolf Saloon—deserted by its revelers shortly before—saw Moreton and Lawler dismount in front of the jail, which adjoined the sheriff's office. Warden watched until he saw the two men enter the building—until he saw Moreton come out alone and enter his office. Then Warden smiled and walked to the door of a room in the rear of the saloon, where Singleton and several other men were playing cards. He winked at Singleton, a signal correctly interpreted by the other, whose eyes quickened. And then Warden returned to the front window where, later, he was joined by Singleton; for a long time both of them watched the southern sky, into which had crept a dull red glow, faint, and far away.

"Antrim didn't lose any time!" commented Warden, exultantly. "And Della can tell the truth to the sheriff whenever she gets ready!"

The other watcher was Della Wharton. She had seen the sheriff leave town, to ride southward, and she had divined what his errand meant. And she had sat in a chair near a window for many hours, peering into the darkness for Moreton's return with his prisoner. And when she saw them coming she smiled as she had smiled when she had entered the room after taking leave of Warden.

Della knew Warden better than Warden knew himself; and on the night when he had asked her to sign the statement charging Lawler with murder, she was convinced that Warden intended to use the statement. He had told her that he merely intended to hold it as a threat over Lawler's head, to dissuade him from succeeding politically; and she had permitted Warden to think that she believed him. And when, upon her arrival from the capital, he had told her that it was part of his strategy to secretly present the statement to the sheriff—and that she must appear personally before that official—she had consented, knowing that Warden was insincere.

Della had really felt vindictive toward Lawler on that last day in the line cabin. She had yielded to the resentment that had assailed her over the conviction that she had made no impression upon the man. And she had lied when she had told Warden that she had been merely infatuated with Lawler. She discovered that after she reached the hotel following her sojourn in the cabin with him. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in the world. And she was determined to have him. She meant to win him even if she had to bring confusion upon Warden. And so she smiled as she watched Moreton open the jail doors to Lawler—a smile in which there was much triumph.



CHAPTER XXXI

"JAIL'S EMPTY, KANE!"

The jail was small—merely one room with barred windows and an iron door, opening upon the street. The iron door was supplemented with a wooden one, which halted the glances of the curious. The windows were high, thus insuring further privacy; the hard adobe floor was clean, and the bunk in which Lawler lay when the dawn came was as comfortable as might have been expected.

Moreton had come in just before daylight, solicitous, concerned, eager to lessen the discomforts of his prisoner. Back of the apology in his voice was a note of rage:

"It goes ag'in' the grain to keep you here, Lawler," he said when he closed the door after entering; "but I'm goin' to bring this case to a showdown today, an' don't you forget it!"

But the sheriff did not bring the case up that day. A little later he provided Lawler with breakfast, and toward noon he opened the door to ask Lawler how he was getting along. On the occasion of this visit he told Lawler he was trying to locate Warden, but so far hadn't been successful.

"An' I ain't found that Wharton woman, either!" he declared. "I'm sendin' a man out to the Two Diamond for both of them, an' if they ain't in town to appear ag'in' you by night I'm goin' to turn you loose—an' be damned to them!"

It seemed to Lawler that only an hour or so had elapsed when the key grated in the lock of the door and Moreton stuck his head in. His face lacked expression.

"Someone to see you, Lawler," he grunted, gruffly. "Wants to talk to you alone. I'll be right outside, so's you can call me when you've got enough of it."

He pushed the door open, and Della Wharton stepped in.

Moreton closed the door, and Della stood watching Lawler steadily.

Lawler had been standing near one of the rear windows, and when he recognized his visitor he came forward and stood within three or four paces of her.

"Well, Miss Wharton?" he said, quietly.

"I heard you were here, Lawler," she said, evenly, her voice expressionless. "In fact, I saw the sheriff bring you in, last night."

"You expected me, I presume?"

The sarcasm in his voice brought a faint glow to her cheeks. But her gaze was level and steady, containing much inquiry.

"Yes," she said slowly; "I expected you to be brought here. You know, of course, about the charge I brought against you?"

"Why did you do it, Miss Wharton?"

She laughed mirthlessly. "Why? I don't know, Lawler. I expect I did it because I felt I ought to tell the truth."

Lawler's grim smile did not seem to affect her. She met it steadily.

"You say in your charge that I deliberately planned to kill Link and Givens; you said I laid in wait for them at the door. Is that the way you saw it?"

"Yes."

"And you are willing to swear to that?" His smile was incredulous.

She nodded affirmatively.

He bowed stiffly to her. "In that case, Miss Wharton, there seems to be nothing more for us to talk about." He walked to the front window, and stood on his toes, intending to call to Moreton to open the door for Miss Wharton, when she moved close to him and seized his left arm, drawing him suddenly toward her while he was off balance, so that when he turned he was facing her, standing close to her.

The color that had surged into her face soon after her entrance, had gone. Her cheeks were white and her eyes held mute appeal that, she felt, he must respond to.

She saw the cold contempt in his eyes as he looked at her, the lurking passion that lay deep in them, and the disgust that she should lie about a matter that might mean life or death to him.

She must act, now, and she must sacrifice Warden. Her grasp on his arm tightened; she clung to him in seeming frenzy, and she spoke brokenly, pleadingly.

"Lawler, I don't believe what I said—what was written on that paper I signed. I know you acted in self-defense; you couldn't help doing as you did.

"Gary Warden forced me to sign that statement, Lawler—he threatened to kill me if I didn't! He found out, some way, that I had been in the cabin with you. And he made me sign.

"He told me that he didn't intend to charge you with the murder; he said he merely wanted to threaten you—to keep you out of politics. Please believe me, Lawler!"

Lawler laughed coldly, incredulously. "A minute ago you told me——"

"I did that to frighten you," she declared. "I—I thought that—perhaps—when you saw that I would testify against you—you would—" She paused and tried to get closer to him, but he held her off and watched her keenly, suspiciously.

"Lawler," she urged; "don't you see? I thought you would agree to marry me if—if I told you that. And, now——"

"An' now it don't make a damn bit of difference what you say!" interrupted a voice from the doorway. Both Miss Wharton and Lawler wheeled quickly, to see Sheriff Moreton standing in the room.

He was grinning hugely, though his eyes were gleaming subtly.

While Lawler and Miss Wharton watched him, he slowly tore to pieces the statement the woman had signed, and scattered them upon the floor.

"That's all of that damned nonsense!" he declared. "Lawler, I knowed they was somethin' behind all this. That's why I let this hussy in to talk to you. I thought I'd hear somethin', an' I did!"

"Lawler, you're free as the air! If there's any more of this talk about chargin' you with killin' them two guys, an' you don't salivate them that's doin' the talkin', I will!"

After his first quick glance at Moreton, Lawler looked at Della. The deep amusement Lawler felt over the knowledge that the sheriff had overheard Della, and that the woman's evidence would now be discredited, was revealed in his smile as he watched her.

She saw it. She also understood that she had failed. But she veiled her chagrin and disappointment behind a scornful smile.

"Framed!" she said. "And it was crude work, too—wasn't it, Lawler? I should have been more careful. Ha, ha! Lawler, I should have known you would do something like this—after what happened in the line cabin. And I let you trick me!"

She raised her head, disdaining to glance at Lawler as she walked to the door, in front of which Moreton was standing.

She smiled broadly at the latter. "Mr. Sheriff," she said, evenly; "if you will stand aside, I shall be glad to leave you."

Moreton grinned, admiringly. "You've sure got a heap of nerve, ma'am," he complimented; "I'll say that for you! I don't know what your game is, but you're mighty clever—though you're wastin' your time out here in the sagebrush. You ought to stay East—where there's a lot more rummies than there is out here!"

He opened the door, and bowed her out with extravagant politeness. Then, when she had gone, he motioned Lawler toward the door.

"Jail's empty, Kane. But I reckon we'd better play this deal safe. Dorgan, the county prosecutor, is in his office. We'll go down to see him, an' I'll have him make a record of what happened here. Then, if I happen to get bumped off this here planet them scum can't come back at you, sayin' this never came off!"

Lawler accompanied Moreton to the office of the prosecutor, who took the depositions of both men, attested the document and placed it in the office safe.

"So that's the kind of a dame she is—eh?" grinned the official. "Well, she don't look it. But you never can tell—can you?"



CHAPTER XXXII

RED KING RUNS

Sheriff Moreton had left Red King at the livery stable, and after Lawler had thanked the sheriff for his part in the little drama that had just been played, he walked to the stable, saddled and bridled the big horse, mounted and rode out of town, toward the Circle L.

While grim tragedy had lurked over the incident that had just closed, the thing had had its humorous side. And as Lawler rode he reflected smilingly, though feeling a pulse of shame for Della Wharton.

In spite of the fact that the woman had charged Gary Warden with evolving the plot, Lawler felt nothing but contempt for the man. Warden's schemes, so far, had resulted only in discomfiture for Warden himself. And because Lawler was not vindictive, he entertained no thoughts of reprisal.

However, Lawler was now well equipped with evidence of Warden's misdeeds. Months before, he had sent to Metcalf, the editor of the News, in the capital, the story of the drive to Red Rock, embellished with an account of his adventure with Antrim's gang, his capture of Antrim and the subsequent bringing of the outlaw to Willets, where he had delivered him to Warden.

Metcalf had written him that the publication of the article had created a sensation in the state, and it appeared from the prominent position in which Metcalf had placed the story—on the front page, with a picture of Lawler dominating; and big, black headlines announcing:

"PROMINENT CATTLEMAN WORSTS TRAIL HORDE!"—that Metcalf had kept his promise to the effect that he intended to "feature" his fight against the power that was attempting to control the cattle industry.

So far, though, Lawler had no evidence that the governor's power had been used against them. He was convinced that Warden, Jordan, Simmons, and the others were employing their talents against him with the secret approval of the governor; but until he secured absolute, damning evidence he dared not openly charge it.

Lawler had been waiting patiently for such evidence. He had felt all along that sooner or later his enemies would over-reach themselves, leaving some weak spot through which he could attack, and he had been content to wait until that time, merely defending himself and his interests, planning no aggressive campaign.

The effect of the assaults of his enemies thus far had disturbed him little. He had been able to anticipate most of their attacks and they had resulted in little harm to himself. They had left him unperturbed, unharmed—like the attacks of an excitable poodle upon a giant, contemptuous mastiff.

Deep in his heart, though, lurked a spark of passion that, day by day, had been slowly growing, warming him, making his veins swell a little when his thoughts dwelt upon Warden and the others; bringing into his heart a savage longing that he often had yielded to in the old days—before he had learned to control his passions. There were times when he was almost persuaded to break the laws for which he had fought in the old days—moments when it seemed to him that further toleration of the attacks of his enemies would be a sign of weakness. But he had conquered those surges of passion, though the victory always left him with a smile on his face that would have awed Warden, had he seen it.

Something of that passion was in his heart now, as he rode toward the Circle L. It had become plain to him that Warden would adopt any means to destroy him; that in the man's heart was a malignant hatred that was driving him to a boldness that could mean nothing but that in the end they must settle their differences as man to man. Lawler would not always be able to control the passion that lurked in him. He knew it. One day Warden would press him too hard. And then——

His thoughts had made him oblivious to his surroundings. A whinney from Red King brought him out of his ruminations, and he looked swiftly up, and then directly ahead, to see a horseman racing toward him; the rider crouched in the saddle, the horse running low, coming toward him at a speed that brought him out of depressions with light, flying bounds, and over the crests of small hills with a velocity that was dizzying.

The running horse and the crouching rider were still a mile from Lawler; but even at that distance Lawler recognized Shorty, and he urged Red King on to meet him, suspecting that nothing but a stern emergency would make the man race his horse at that speed.

Lawler glanced back as he rode. He had come several miles, and the rolling character of the plains behind him had blotted Willets out. He saw, too, that he had reached a point where three trails converged. One—which Shorty was traveling—came westward from the Two Bar—Hamlin's ranch; the other, leading almost straight southward, was the Circle L trail; the third, leading southward also, though inclining in a westward direction, ran to the Rabbit Ear, near the Dickman cabin—the ranch where Antrim and his men had established themselves.

Shorty came on at cyclonic speed. When he reached a point within a hundred yards of Lawler, the latter observed that Shorty's face was pale; that his jaws were set and his eyes glowing with a wild, savage light.

Stiffening, his lips straightening, a responsive passion assailing him, Lawler drew Red King down and waited for Shorty to reach him. He knew Shorty did not permit himself to become excited without cause.

And when Shorty drew his horse to a sliding halt within half a dozen paces of Red King, Lawler saw that Shorty was in the grip of a cold, deadly passion. His eyes were glittering, his lips were stiff and white, and he was drawing great, long breaths that could be heard above the shuddering gasps of the horse he rode.

The giant's fingers were working—clenching and unclenching near the butts of the two guns he wore; and his eyes were pools of icy rage that chilled Lawler.

Twice he tried to speak as Lawler shot a short question at him, and twice he failed, making guttural sounds that betrayed the awful agitation that had seized him. At the third attempt he blurted:

"Lawler, Antrim's gang has cleaned up the Circle L! Damn their sneakin', dirty hides! They've run off our cattle—takin' 'em through Kinney's canon! They've wiped out the Circle L outfit! Blackburn's left—Blackburn an' three more poor fellows they plugged, an' didn't finish!

"Blackburn made me ride for help—damn him, anyway, Lawler! I wanted to stay with the bunch!" Shorty's voice broke; his lips quivered; his voice rose to a screech of impotent, awful rage. Brokenly, he told Lawler what had happened after the stampeding of the cattle by Antrim's men. He related, in tumbling, rapid, quavering sentences, how he had got the help Blackburn had sent him for—Caldwell's outfit—with the exception of two men who had been sent in different directions to other ranches. And how, later in the morning, he had returned to the shallow gulley on the plains where he had left Blackburn and the others, to find most of them dead. Blackburn and three more had been wounded, but had survived.

"Fifteen men, Lawler!" raged Shorty; "fifteen men wiped out by that miserable gang of coyotes! But damn them!" he added with a fierce, savage joy; "they didn't get away without payin' toll, either! There's twenty of them layin' out there, Lawler—twenty of them for the coyotes to find. For Caldwell an' his outfit wouldn't touch 'em. When I left, to come an' tell you—thinkin' you was in jail—Caldwell an' his boys was plantin' our fellows, an' takin' Blackburn and the three others to the Hamlin shack!"

He looked hard at Lawler, noted the paleness of the man's face, and then spoke less excitedly, and with deep regret in his voice.

"Lawler, I hate to tell you this. After I seen what happened to our boys, I rode this way, intendin' to tell you. The trail took me past the Hamlin shack. I wasn't intendin' to stop, but it seems like they heard me comin' an' run out to see what was up.

"It was your mother stopped me, Lawler—smiling kind of grim—like she always smiles when things go wrong.

"'Shorty,' she says; 'you go directly to town and find Kane. You know he's in jail, for I told you so last night. Tell Sheriff Moreton to release him; and then tell Kane that Antrim has stolen all the Circle L cattle and has burned all the Circle L buildings. Tell him that Antrim himself burned the buildings, and that Antrim said he would wait for Kane at Antrim's shack—and that he dared Kane to come there for him. 'Shorty,' she said, cold an' ca'm; 'you tell Kane to get out of jail and go to Antrim's cabin, and kill him!'"

Lawler had sat, grim and silent, listening to Shorty. Twice had Shorty seen his eyes quicken—when Shorty had mentioned his mother, and again when he had spoken of Antrim's action in burning the Circle L buildings.

Now, he leaned forward and peered intently at Shorty, and Shorty marveled how his eyes bored into his own—with a cold intensity that chilled the giant.

"Shorty," he said, in a low, strained voice; "Mother hasn't been hurt?"

"I forgot to tell you that," said Shorty; "she said, 'tell Kane I am all right.'"

Shorty opened his mouth to speak further, but closed it again when he saw Red King leap down the trails—a flaming red streak that flashed over the new grass at a speed that took him a hundred yards before Shorty could get his own horse turned.

The big red horse was lost in a dust cloud when Shorty urged his own animal southward. And Shorty rode as he had never ridden before, in an effort to lessen the space between himself and the flying Red King.

To no avail, however. Shorty's horse was fast, but Red King seemed to have wings, so lightly did he skim over the green gulf of distance that stretched between his master and the vengeance for which Lawler's soul was now yearning. Shorty's horse was tired, and Red King was fresh; and the distance between them grew greater—always greater—slowly, surely—until the red horse was lost in the tiny dust cloud that moved with unbelievable velocity far down the trail toward the Rabbit Ear.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE FIGHT AT THE CABIN

When Red King struck the river trail he was traveling as strongly as when he began his long race. The miles that had stretched between him and the destination at which his rider aimed had been mere play for him. By the time he reached the river trail he was warmed to his work and his giant, spurning stride carried him along in the shade of the fringing trees at a speed that made the wind whine and moan in Lawler's ears.

But Lawler did not offer to check Red King's speed. The big horse was traveling at a pace that was all too slow for Lawler, now in the clutch of that passion which for many months had been smoldering within him. He was leaning a little forward in the saddle, riding the red horse as he had ridden few times; and then only in sport.

In Lawler's eyes was still that intense light that had been in them when he had been watching Shorty as the latter had been relating what had happened during the night and the morning.

And yet Lawler betrayed no sign of excitement. His face was pale, and his lips were stiff and white; but his muscles were tense, steady, and his brain clear.

He knew what to expect from Antrim. If Antrim expected him to come to his cabin, Antrim would be ready for him. He might expect craft and cunning from the outlaw—an ambuscade, a trap—anything but the cold, sheer courage that would be required for him to face an enemy upon equal terms. And so as Lawler rode he kept an alert eye upon the coverts and the shelters, upon the huge rocks that littered the sides of the trail, upon the big trees that Red King flashed past.

Nothing happened. And Red King thundered down the trail where it doubled half a mile from the Dickman cabin, and swept out upon the level that surrounded the place, his speed unslackened, his rider still urging him.

Lawler had forgotten Shorty. Half a mile behind him the giant's horse labored, making better time on the level river trail than he had made over the plains. But Lawler did not even think of Shorty. His brain was upon the work that was before him, his thoughts were definitely centered upon Antrim and the Circle L men that Antrim and his men had killed. It was concentration of a sinister character that had seized Lawler, and in it was a single purpose, a single determination—to kill Antrim.

He saw the cabin as he crossed the level—a patch of bare, sandy earth surrounding it; and the other buildings, with no sign of life near them. His gaze swept the corral, and he saw no horse in it. As he guided Red King toward the cabin he peered vainly for sight of Antrim's horse.

Not a living thing was in sight. The buildings were silent, seemingly deserted. And the atmosphere of the place seemed to be pregnant with a lurking threat, a hint of hidden danger.

He grinned as he plunged Red King to the door of the cabin—a grin which meant that he expected Antrim would be waiting for him, but which expressed his contempt of ambuscades and traps.

As he slipped from Red King he drew his pistol and lunged forward, bringing up against the cabin door and sending it crashing inward, against the wall.

He halted just inside the door, his pistol rigid in his right hand, which was pressed tightly to his side; for directly in front of him, standing, his arms folded over his chest, was Antrim, a huge, venomous grin on his face.

"Well, you got here, Lawler," he said, huskily. "You come a-runnin', didn't you? Well, I had your cattle run off, an' I burned your buildin's. What are you aimin' to do about it?"

Lawler did not move. He might have killed Antrim, for the man's weapon was in the holster at his hip—Lawler could see the stock sticking above the leather. He had expected Antrim would be in the cabin when he opened the door; he anticipated that the outlaw would shoot on sight, and he had been prepared to do the same.

But there was something in the outlaw's manner, in the cold, measured tone of his voice, in his nonchalant disregard of the pistol in Lawler's hand that brought a swift suspicion into Lawler's mind. It was a presentiment that the outlaw was not alone in the cabin; that he had carefully laid his plans, and that they did not include a gun fight in which he would have to face Lawler upon equal terms.

Lawler did not look around. He kept his gaze unwaveringly upon the outlaw, knowing that if other men were in the cabin with him they were waiting for Antrim to give the word to shoot him. Otherwise they would have shot him down when he had entered.

"Not sayin' anything, eh?" jeered Antrim. "Well, come a-shootin'. You bust in here, seein' red, with a gun in your hand; an' then stand there, like you was wonderin' if you was welcome." He peered close at Lawler, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, and then, finally, with savage amusement.