"I reckon I ketch on," he sneered. "You know there's some one here with me, an' that they've got you covered. I know you, an' I knowed you'd come rushin' in here, just like you did, killin' mad. Bah! Did you think I'd give you a chance, you short-horned maverick! There's Selden behind that curtain, there—back of the cupboard. An' Krell watchin' you from the door of that room, on the side. They've got you between them, an' if you bat an eyewinker they'll down you. I'm goin' to gas to you—I'm goin' to tell you what I think of you for ropin' me an' draggin' me back to Willets, to show to the damned yaps on the station platform. An' after that I'm goin' to hog-tie you an'—Ah!"

Antrim's exclamation was a mere gasp. It escaped his lips as Lawler jumped backward, landing outside the door, overbalanced, trying to stand upright while he snapped a shot at Antrim.

Antrim, however, had reached for his gun. It came out before Lawler could steady himself, and Lawler saw it. Lawler saw the weapon belch smoke and fire as it cleared Antrim's hip; he felt a shock as the bullet struck him; felt still another sear his flesh near the arm as he let his own pistol off. He saw the outlaw plunge forward and fall prone, his arms outstretched. He was motionless, inert.

From inside the cabin came the sounds of steps—Antrim's confederates, Lawler supposed. He heard them approach the door and he leaped, swaying a little, toward the corner of the cabin nearest him. He had reached it, had just dodged behind it, when Selden and Krell rushed out. At the same instant Shorty thundered up, slipped out of the saddle and ran toward Lawler, drawing his guns.

Shorty had approached the cabin from the rear, having cut across the space behind the bunkhouses when he heard the shooting. He could not be seen by Selden and Krell as they plunged out of the door; but he had seen Lawler when the latter dodged behind the corner of the cabin, and as he ran toward Lawler he drew his guns.

As yet Shorty had seen no one but Lawler. He supposed Antrim and Lawler had exchanged shots and he knew Lawler had been hit—his swaying as he came around the corner of the cabin proved it. Knowing something of the terrible rage that had seized the man, he suspected Lawler had burst into the cabin, recklessly exposing himself to Antrim's fire.

And as Shorty ran toward the spot where Lawler was standing, he expected to see Antrim follow, to complete his work.

Within a dozen feet of Lawler he halted, facing the corner. He had not long to wait. For Selden and Krell, guns in hand, appeared almost instantly—their faces hideous with passion. As they rushed around the corner they saw Shorty. They saw Shorty first, because Shorty dominated the scene. A gun in each hand, he made a terrible figure. His eyes were blazing with the cold rage that had seized him at sight of Lawler, wounded—for Lawler was now leaning against the wall of the cabin, and his gun had dropped from his hand.

The unexpected appearance of Shorty startled Krell and Selden. Surprise showed in their faces as they paused for an infinitesimal space and looked at him.

And then their guns roared.

Shorty, however, had anticipated them. His guns went off simultaneously, slightly in advance of theirs, belching fire and smoke in a continuous stream.

Shorty did not seem to be hit by the bullets from the guns of the outlaws; he seemed to pay no attention to them whatever.

But the outlaws ceased shooting. Krell staggered, his guns dropped from his hands, and he stood, for an instant, looking foolishly at Shorty, his face becoming ashen. Then, without uttering a word, he lunged gently forward, his legs doubling at the knees, and sank into the dust in a huddled heap.

Selden had been hit hard, too. The shock of Shorty's first bullet striking him had turned him partially around, so that his left side was toward Shorty. He had lurched forward a little; and was turning, trying to use the gun in his left hand, when another bullet struck him. He grunted, stood slowly erect, and then fell backward stiffly.

Shorty ran to him and to Krell, scanning their faces with savage intentness. When he saw that neither of them would bother him again, he leaped around the corner of the cabin and cautiously peered into the doorway. He saw Antrim stretched out on the floor of the cabin, face down and motionless. He stepped into the cabin, turned the outlaw over, grinned saturninely, and then went out to where Lawler stood. His eyes were aglow with concern.

When he reached the corner he saw Lawler bending over, picking up the pistol that had dropped from his hand a few seconds before. Lawler's face was pale, but he grinned broadly at Shorty as the latter came up to him.

"I saw what was happening but I couldn't throw in with you. I reckon Antrim hit me mighty hard. In my right shoulder. I was trying to change my gun to the other hand, when I dropped it. I didn't seem to be able to get it again—just then." He grinned. "Lucky you came, Shorty," he added jocosely.

Shorty's lips grimmed. "I reckon it's lucky I'm here right now!" he said shortly. "You're hit bad, Lawler!"

He led Lawler into the cabin, where he tore away the latter's shirt and exposed the wound—high up on the shoulder.

After a swift examination, Shorty exclaimed with relief.

"It ain't so bad, after all. She bored through that big muscle. Must have struck like a batterin' ram. No wonder you was weak an' dizzy for a minute or so. There's a hole big enough to stick your hand through. But she ain't dangerous, Boss!"

Shorty had not been touched by the bullets the outlaws had sent at him. He was energy, personified. He got water, bathed the wound in Lawler's shoulder; bandaged it, and at last grinned widely as Lawler got up, saying he felt better.

A little later they went out and mounted their horses. Lawler was pale, though he sat steadily in the saddle; and Shorty, big, exuding elation, grinned broadly as he glanced at the cabin as they rode away from it.

They rode up the river trail; Shorty expressing his elation by emitting low chuckles of grim mirth; Lawler silent, riding steadily, his gaze straight ahead.

It took them long to reach the point on the plains where the trails diverged. And then Lawler spoke. "Shorty, you go back to Hamlin's and tell mother I killed Antrim. You needn't mention this scratch I've got."

"Where you goin'?" demanded Shorty.

"Shorty," said Lawler evenly; "you do as I say."

"I'll be damned if I do!" declared Shorty, his face flushing. "That's the kind of palaver Blackburn handed me when he sent me after Caldwell's outfit, makin' me miss the big scrap. I ain't missin' nothin' else. If this thing is to be a clean-up I'm goin' to be right close when the cleanin' is bein' done!

"I'm stayin' right here, as long as you stay! An' when you get goin', little Shorty will be taggin' along, achin' to salivate some more of the scum that's been makin' things howl in these parts. Get goin' where you're goin', Lawler!"

Shorty had not told Lawler all he knew of the wound in Lawler's shoulder. He knew that Lawler had lost much blood, and that he was losing more constantly; and that nothing but the man's implacable courage was keeping him up. And he did not intend to desert him.

Lawler laughed. But he said nothing as he urged Red King over the Willets trail, riding at a fair pace, not so steady in the saddle as he had been. His face was chalk white, but there was a set to his lips and a glow in his eyes that told Shorty there was no use in arguing.

Shorty permitted Lawler to hold the lead he had taken when they reached the Willets' trail. But Shorty kept a vigilant eye upon the big horse and his rider as they went over the plains toward town. Twice Shorty saw Lawler reel in the saddle, and both times Shorty urged his horse forward to be close to him when he fell. But each time Lawler stiffened and rode onward—silent, grimly determined, with Shorty riding behind him, watching him with awed admiration.

Lawler had not mentioned the purpose of his ride to town, and Shorty was lost in a maze of futile conjecture. Shorty knew, however, that a man in Lawler's condition would not ride to town to gratify a whim; and the longer he watched Lawler the deeper became his conviction that another tragedy was imminent. For there was something in Lawler's manner, in the steady, unflagging way he rode; in the set of his head and the cold gleam of his eyes, that suggested more of the kind of violence in which both had participated at the Dickman cabin.

The sun was low when Lawler and Shorty rode into town—Lawler riding ahead, as he had ridden all along; Shorty a few yards behind him, keenly watching him.

There were many men on the street; for word had been brought in regarding the big fight between the Circle L outfit and the rustlers—and a doctor had gone, summoned to the Hamlin cabin by a wild rider on a jaded horse—and Willets' citizens were eagerly curious. And when they saw Lawler coming, swaying in the saddle as he rode, they began to run toward him.

However, they were brought to a halt by Shorty—who waved a hand savagely at them, his face expressing a cold intolerance that warned them away. And so they retreated to the sidewalk, wonderingly, to watch Lawler and Shorty as they rode down the street—Lawler looking neither to the right nor left, but keeping his gaze straight ahead as though in that direction lay what he had come to seek.

Shorty's eyes gleamed with understanding when he saw Lawler halt Red King in front of the building in which was Warden's office. He was out of the saddle before Lawler clambered slowly out of his, and he stood near as Lawler walked to the door of the building and began to mount the stairs—going up slowly, swaying from side to side and placing his hands against the wall on either side of him for support. And when Lawler finally reached the top of the stairs and threw open the door of Warden's office, Shorty was so close to him that he might have touched his shoulder.

Warden was sitting at his desk when Lawler opened the door, and he continued to sit there—staring hard at Lawler as the latter swayed across the room to bring up with a lurch against Warden's desk, his hands grasping its edge.

"Warden," said Lawler—and Shorty marveled at the cold steadiness of his voice; "I have just killed Antrim. Antrim's men ran off three thousand head of my cattle and killed about twenty of my men—five at the Circle L and the rest in a fight on the plains not far from the Two Bar. Antrim burned my buildings. Twenty-five thousand dollars for the buildings, and ninety thousand for the cattle not to mention my men.

"I've got no proof that you were implicated in the deal; but I am convinced that you planned it—that you got Antrim and his gang to do the work. That evidence doesn't go in law, though, Warden—and you know it. But it's enough for the kind of law that I am representing right now. It's this!"

He drew his gun with his left hand, taking it from the waistband of his trousers—where he had placed it when he had picked it up at the Dickman cabin—and held it on the desk top, so that its dark muzzle gaped at Warden.

For an instant Warden sat, staring in dread fascination into the muzzle of the weapon, his face dead white, his eyes wide with fear, naked, cringing. Then he spoke, his voice hoarse and quavering.

"This is murder, Lawler!"

"Murder, Warden?" jeered Lawler. "One of my men was worth a dozen of you!"

Lawler laughed—a sound that brought an ashen pallor to Warden's face; then he straightened, and turned, to face Shorty.

He lurched to Shorty's side, drew out one of the latter's big guns, and tossed it upon the desk within reach of Warden's hand.

"I gave Antrim the first shot, Warden," he said; "I gave him his chance. I didn't murder him, and I won't murder you. Take that gun and follow me to the street. There's people there. They'll see that it's a square deal. You're a sneaking polecat, Warden; but you—I'm going to give you——"

Lawler paused; he sagged. He tried to straighten, failed. And while both men watched him—Shorty with eyes that were terrible in their ineffable sympathy and impotent wrath; Warden in a paralysis of cold terror—Lawler lurched heavily against the desk and slid gently to the floor, where he leaned, his eyes closed, against the desk, motionless, unconscious.

Silently, his eyes aflame with passion, Shorty leaped to the desk and snatched the gun that Lawler had placed at Warden's hand. With almost the same movement he pulled Warden out of his chair and threw him against the rear wall of the room. He was after the man like a giant panther; catching him by the throat with his left hand as he reached him, crushing him against the wall so that the impact jarred the building; while he savagely jammed the muzzle of the pistol deep into the man's stomach, holding it there with venomous pressure, while his blazing eyes bored into Warden's with a ferocious malignance. "Damn you, Warden," he said hoarsely; "I ought to kill you!" He shook Warden with his left hand, as though the man were a child in his grasp, sinking his fingers into the flesh of his neck until Warden's eyes popped out and his face grew purple. Then he released him so suddenly that Warden sank to his knees on the floor, coughing, laboring, straining to draw his breath.

He stood, huge and menacing, until Warden swayed to his feet and staggered weakly to the chair in which he had been sitting when Lawler entered; and then he leaned over the desk and peered into Warden's face.

"This ain't my game, Warden! If it was, I'd choke the gizzard out of you and chuck you out of a window! I reckon I've got to save you for Lawler—if he gets over this. If he don't, I'm comin' for you!"

He holstered his gun, stooped, lifted Lawler and gently swung him over his shoulder; and without glancing back at Warden strode to the stairs, out into the street and made his way to the Willets Hotel, a crowd of curious citizens at his heels.



CHAPTER XXXIV

"GOOD OLD SHORTY!"

Della Wharton had watched from one of the windows of her room in the hotel. She had seen Lawler and Shorty ride down the street to Warden's office; she had seen Shorty come out carrying Lawler; and she heard Shorty's steps on the stairs as he brought his burden up, preceded by the proprietor.

She was standing in the hall when the proprietor and Shorty reached the upper landing, and when the proprietor looked inquiringly at her she silently motioned toward her room, and stood aside as Shorty entered and placed his limp burden upon the bed. Lawler was unconscious and ghastly pale.

Della instantly took charge of Lawler. Which means that she set seriously to work with him, while Shorty stood by, his arms folded over his huge chest, one hand caressing his chin, grimly watching.

Shorty continued to watch. For many days he stood guard over his "boss"—a somber, brooding figure, silent, imperturbable. When he moved it was only to walk slowly up and down the hall, or downstairs to take his meals. At other times he would stand at the bedside looking down at Lawler's closed eyes and ashen face; or he would sit on the edge of a chair and watch him, intently, with stoic calm, his face as expressionless as a stone image.

Mrs. Lawler came early the next morning—after the doctor had told Della and Shorty there was a fighting chance for Lawler; and Ruth Hamlin. Shorty's eyes grew moist as he watched Mrs. Lawler and Ruth as they stood by the unconscious man; and his voice was low and gruff when, during the day Mrs. Lawler asked him for particulars.

"That's all there was to it, ma'am," he said in conclusion. "The boss oughtn't to have busted in that shack like he did, knowin' Antrim was there—an' givin' the scum a chance to take the first shot at him. But he done it. An' he done the same thing to Warden—offered him the first shot. Ma'am, I never heard the beat of it! I've got nerve—as the sayin' is. But—Lordy!"

And Shorty became silent again.

For three days Lawler remained unconscious. And during that interval there were no disturbing sounds to agitate the deathlike quiet of the sickroom. Riders glided into town from various points of the compass and stepped softly as they moved in the street—whispering or talking in low tones. The universal topic was the fight, and Lawler's condition. On the second day of Lawler's unconsciousness a keen-eyed man stepped off the east-bound train and made his way to the hotel.

"I'm Metcalf of the News, in the capital," he told Keller, the proprietor. And Keller quietly ushered the newspaperman upstairs, where the latter stood for a long time until Mrs. Lawler opened the door of the sickroom for him. Metcalf entered, looked down at Lawler, and then drew Shorty aside where, in a whispered conversation he obtained the particulars of the fight and the wounding of Lawler. He took the west-bound train that night.

A pall seemed to have settled over Willets. The atmosphere was tense, strained. Riders from Caldwell's ranch, from Sigmund's, from Lester's—and from other ranches came in; and important-looking men from various sections of the state alighted from the trains at the station and lingered long in the dingy foyer of the hotel. One of these was recognized by Keller as McGregor, secretary of the State Central Committee of Lawler's party. And Keller noted that McGregor wore a worried look and that he scowled continually.

Willets waited; the riders who came into town waited; it seemed to the residents of Willets that the whole state waited, with its collective gaze upon the little room in the hotel where a man lay, fighting for his life.

Shorty waited—still silent, the somber brooding light in his eyes; his jaws set a little tighter, his eyes filled with a deeper glow. Shorty said no word to any man regarding the deadly intention that reigned in his heart. He merely waited, watching Lawler, grimly determined that if Lawler died he would keep his promise to "come for" Warden.

But Shorty would not have found Warden in town. On the night of the shooting Warden had taken the west-bound train, and the next day he was closeted with the governor and Hatfield—the three of them sitting in the governor's office, where, their faces pale, though expressing no regret, they sat and talked of the fight and conjectured over its probable consequences.

Singleton stayed close to the Two Diamond; and after the second day, Della Wharton rode to the ranch and sat brooding over the failure of her plans. When Lawler had been brought into the hotel she had entertained a hope that the situation might be turned to her advantage. But there had been something in Ruth Hamlin's clear, direct eyes that had convinced her of the futility of attempting to poison her mind against Lawler by referring to her stay in the line cabin with Lawler. She saw faith in Ruth's eyes—complete, disconcerting; and it had made her feel inferior, unworthy, cheap, and inconsequential.

On the fourth day Lawler regained consciousness. The doctor had told them all that the crisis was at hand; that if the fever broke, marking the end of the delirium which had seized him, he would awaken normal mentally, though inevitably weak. But if the fever did not break there would be no hope for him.

Mrs. Lawler, Ruth, and Shorty were in the room with Lawler when he opened his eyes. For a long time the three stood, breathlessly watching as Lawler lay, staring in bewilderment at the ceiling, at the walls, and out of the windows, through which came a soft, subdued light.

Presently Lawler raised his head a trifle, saw them all, and smiled. The clear light of reason was in his eyes.

"Mother, Ruth, and Shorty," he said, weakly smiling. "I've known for a long time that you were here. But I couldn't let you know. Mother and Ruth—and Shorty," he repeated; and then, in a lower voice, that trailed off into a murmur as he closed his eyes and appeared to be falling asleep: "Good old Shorty!"

Ruth and Mrs. Lawler were clasped in each other's arms, joy unutterable in their eyes. It was some time before they turned, to look at Shorty.

The tawny giant was standing near the foot of the bed. His lips were quivering, his eyes were wet, his whole body seemed to be racked with emotion that he could not suppress. He was making an heroic effort, though—an effort that made the cords of his neck stand out lividly; that swelled his muscles into knotty bunches.

"Damn it!" he growled as he turned his head away from Ruth and Mrs. Lawler, so that they might not see what was reflected there; "there ain't no sense of him gettin' mush-headed about it!"



CHAPTER XXXV

HAUNTING MEMORIES

It was many days before Lawler was strong enough to ride Red King to the Circle L; and many more days joined the regiments that have marched into the ages, before he forgot what he saw in Blackburn's eyes when one day, soon after his return to the Circle L, he listened to the range boss relate the story of the fight on the plains. Blackburn's cynical eyes had changed expression. They had become tragic, strained, as though the man was striving to blot out mental pictures that were detailed there—pictures that memory persisted in drawing.

He rode with Lawler to the scene of the fight, and showed him where the Circle L outfit had brought the rustlers to bay.

"After Shorty left," said Blackburn; "me insistin' on him goin', an' him blackguardin' me for sendin' him, there was a little time when nothin' happened. Then the day broke, an' everything seemed to happen at once.

"They rushed us, Lawler. There was more of 'em than there was of us, an' they circled around us, howlin' an' shootin' like Indians. They got us between 'em. But we fought 'em—Lawler, we fought 'em till there wasn't a man left standing. But there was too many of 'em. We planted twenty—afterward. But about that number got away. I was hit sort of hard, but I watched 'em scutterin' towards Kinney's canon. They'd been gone some time when Caldwell's outfit—an' Shorty—come up. Caldwell's outfit lit out after 'em; but Caldwell's men had rode pretty hard gettin' to us, an' it wasn't no go. Sigmund's men, though; an' Lester's an' the rest of 'em, had took a gorge trail that cuts into the big basin from the south, away the other side of Kinney's canon; an' they run plumb into the rustlers over at the edge of the basin on Sigmund's side.

"An' they brought back your cattle; though Slade an' twenty or thirty of his men got away, clean. I reckon you've heard about enough, an'—Well, Lawler, that's about all—exceptin' to tell you how the boys—an' I don't seem to want to go over that when I'm awake; I keep seein' it enough of nights."

But something of the deep emotion Blackburn felt was reflected in Lawler's eyes from the time he heard the story.

During the many days he had spent in the little hotel room recovering from his wound—and in the long interval of convalescence that followed—a small army of workmen had been engaged in rebuilding the Circle L ranchhouse, the bunkhouses, and the other structures. On the second day following his return to consciousness Lawler had called in a contractor and had made arrangements for reconstruction.

A temporary cabin—to be used afterward by Blackburn—had been erected near the site of the bunkhouses, and into this Lawler and his mother moved while the ranchhouse and the other buildings were being rebuilt. Blackburn was slowly engaging men to fill the depleted complement, and the work went on some way, though in it was none of that spirit which had marked the activities of the Circle L men in the old days.

In fact, the atmosphere that surrounded the Circle L seemed to be filled with a strange depression. There had come a cold grimness into Blackburn's face, a sullenness had appeared in the eyes of the three men who had survived the fight on the plains; they were moody, irritable, impatient. One of them, a slender, lithe man named Sloan, voiced to Blackburn one day a prediction.

"Antrim's dead, all O.K.," he said. "But Slade—who was always a damned sight worse than Antrim—is still a-kickin'. An' Slade ain't the man to let things go halfway. Them boys from the other outfits bested him, all right. But Slade will be back—you'll see. An' when he comes we'll be squarin' things with him—an' don't you forget it!"

* * * * *

It was after Lawler had been occupying the cabin for a month that Metcalf made his second visit. He rode down the slope of the valley on a horse he had hired at Willets, and came upon Lawler, who was standing at the corral gates, looking across the enclosure at the workmen who were bustling about the ranchhouse.

Metcalf regarded Lawler critically before he dismounted; and then he came forward, shook Lawler's hand and again looked him over.

"A little thin and peaked; but otherwise all right, eh?" he smiled. "It's hard to kill you denizens of the sagebrush."

He followed Lawler into the shade of the cabin, remarked to Mrs. Lawler that her son would need someone to guard him—if he persisted in meeting outlaws of the Antrim type single-handed; and then turned to Lawler—after Mrs. Lawler had gone inside—and said lowly:

"Lord, man! you've got this state raving over you! Your fight against the ring is talked about in every corner of the country. And that scrap with Antrim, Selden, and Krell in the old Dickman cabin will go down in history—it will be a classic! What made you rush in on Antrim that way—giving him the first shot?"

Lawler smiled faintly. "Shucks, Metcalf, there was nothing to that. Shorty told me what had happened, and as I recollect, now, I was pretty much excited."

"Excited, eh?" said Metcalf, incredulously; "I don't believe it. What about your going in to Warden's office, offering to give him the first shot? Were you excited then?"

Lawler reddened, and Metcalf laughed triumphantly.

"Lawler," he said; "you're too damned modest—but modesty becomes you. I believe you know it. Anyway, this state is raving over you. You're going to be the next governor. You've got to run! This state needs a man like you—it needs you! You know it. Everybody knows it—and everybody wants you. That is, everybody except Haughton, Hatfield, Warden—and that bunch—including the railroad company. Why, look here, Lawler!" he went on, when Lawler did not answer; "the fight you made last fall against the railroad company was made, with variations, by all the courageous cattlemen in the state. If a strong man isn't elected this fall the same fight will have to be made again. Haughton is so rotten that people are beginning to hold their noses!

"The people of this state trust you, Lawler—they swear by you. You've got to run—there's no way out of it!" He looked keenly at Lawler. "Man, do you know what McGregor told me the day before he left the capital to come down here and look you over, to see how badly you were hurt? He said: 'Metcalf, if Lawler dies we lose the governorship next fall. He is the only man who can beat Haughton!'"

"Metcalf," smiled Lawler; "I'll tell you a secret—your argument has had no effect upon me. I decided this thing as far back as the day following the last election. I am going to run."

"Then we've got Haughton licked!" declared Metcalf, enthusiastically.

Metcalf stayed at the Circle L throughout the day, and in the evening Lawler rode with him to Willets, where he saw him aboard the west-bound train.

"I'm telling you something, Lawler," grinned the newspaperman as he gripped Lawler's hand just before the train started. "McGregor came to me yesterday. He told me he intended to come to see you, but he was afraid you'd refuse to run. He asked me if I had any influence with you, and I told him you'd do anything I suggested. Now, don't get excited, Lawler," he laughed as Lawler looked sharply at him. "I've proved it, haven't I? You've agreed to run! Lord, man, I'd hate to be an evil-doer and have you look at me like that!" He laughed again, exultantly. "What was it you said to Warden one day, when Warden refused to keep that agreement you made with Lefingwell? Oh, don't look at me that way—that conversation has been printed all over the state. I saw to that. How did I hear of it? Somebody must have talked, Lawler. It wasn't you. You remember what you told Warden? It was this:

"'I'm telling you this, though: A man's word in this country has got to be backed by his performances—and he's got to have memory enough to know when he gives his word!'

"You've given yours, Lawler; and you can't back out. McGregor will be waiting for me in the capital. And when I tell him that I have persuaded you to run, he'll fall on my neck and weep tears of joy. Then he'll hire a special train and run down here to fall on your neck!"

McGregor came the next day. And he took Lawler back to the capital with him. Lawler stayed in the capital for a week, and when he returned he went directly to the Circle L.

No word came from him, to Willets, during the summer. He did not appear in town; though Willets heard that the new Circle L ranchhouse had at last been completed, and that Lawler was living in it. Also, the Circle L outfit had been recruited to full strength; Blackburn was occupying the new cabin.

When Corwin—who was chairman of the county committee—sent out calls for the county primary election—which convention was also to choose delegates to the state convention, to be held later—Lawler did not appear. He sent a note to Corwin, asking to be excused.

"I reckon he ain't entirely over that wound," Corwin told an intimate friend. "We'll have to get along without him, this time." But there was a light in Corwin's eyes which told that he was not unaware of the significance of Lawler's trip to the capital with McGregor.

There came a day when Corwin and his brother-delegates got on a train at Willets and were taken to the capital. And there came another day when they returned. They brought a brass band with them; and Willets closed its doors and went out into the street—and crowded the station platform, where the band was playing, and where the returned delegates, frenzied with joy, were shrieking above the din: "Hurrah for Kane Lawler! Lawler—our next governor! Hip, hip—HOORRAY!"

"We swamped 'em!" howled a crimson-faced enthusiast; "there was nothin' to it! Unanimous after the first vote! HOORRAY!"

In his office, Gary Warden heard the shouting; saw the crowd, and listened to the cheers. He stood at one of the windows, balefully watching; sneering at the delegates who had returned, flushed with victory. Singleton, scowling, stood beside Warden.

They saw half a dozen men draw apart from the others. Later the men—delegates, from the gay badges appended to them—rode out of town, southward.

"Reception committee," sneered Warden. "They're going to escort Lawler to town. Let's go to the Two Diamond. I'll be damned if I want to be in town to watch Lawler grin when he sees that crowd! There's a dozen big guns in that bunch, who have come down from the capital to watch the fun. Well, it's no fun for me!"

However, it was "fun" for the delighted citizens of Willets, who, some hours later, saw the reception committee returning with Lawler. They escorted him to a platform which had been erected in the middle of the street in the absence of the reception committee, where, after the crowd had cheered him many times, Lawler made his first speech as the candidate of his party.

Energetic citizens had gayly decorated the street with flags and bunting—taking Corwin's entire stock—and the varicolored decorations swathed the town from end to end.

Warden and Singleton had scurried out of town long before the coming of Lawler. But Jimmy Singleton, with a number of other children who had mercifully been dismissed by the school teacher, were close to the platform during the celebration.

"He's gonna be governor, Jimmy," whispered one of Jimmy's companions, awe in his voice as he indicated Lawler, who was just concluding his speech.

"I've knowed him a long time," went on Jimmy's friend, proudly.

"Huh!" said Jimmy; "I've knowed him longer than you. An' besides, he walloped me. An' he walloped my paw, too!"

Shorty had ridden to town with Lawler; and Shorty rode home with the candidate for governor—after the citizens of Willets had shouted themselves hoarse and the prominent men who had come down from the capital had taken the evening train home.

And Shorty said nothing when Lawler veered from the Circle L trail and headed eastward, toward Hamlin's cabin. And he waited with much patience outside the cabin while Lawler went in, to stay an unconscionably long time.

Ruth was alone. And her eyes were glowing with happiness when she saw Lawler.

"Oh, I know!" she said when Lawler essayed to break the news to her. "On his way to town, Blackburn rode over and told me. All of your men were in town—didn't you know that?"

"Ruth," said Lawler; "I will be elected. Won't you come to the capital with me—to be the first lady of the state?"

She looked straight at him, her face paling.

"Wait, Kane," she said, gently. "I—I can't, just now. Oh, Kane, don't you see that the higher you go the harder it is for me. I can't have people say—what they might say—what your enemies would be sure to say! Father is all right now. But I can't depend upon him. We will wait, Kane—until we are sure."

Shorty rode with Lawler after they left the Hamlin cabin. And the gravity of Lawler's expression was noted by the giant, and duly commented upon the following morning, in Blackburn's presence.

"The boss's trail is sure hard to anticipate," said Shorty. "There's the state goin' loco over him—nominatin' him for governor, an' folks in Willets makin' more fuss over him than they did over the President—the time he stopped for two minutes in town. Well, you'd think a man would be sort of fussed up himself, over that kind of a deal. But what does the boss do? He rides home with me, sayin' nothin' pretty regular—with a face on him as long as the moral law—an' then some. I ain't got no rope on him—an' that's a fact. But he's all wool an' a yard wide—ain't he, Blackburn?"



CHAPTER XXXVI

A MAN MEDITATES VENGEANCE

It had always been lonely at the Hamlin cabin, and it grew more lonely after Kane Lawler left the Circle L. For the barrier between Ruth and the happiness she had a right to expect seemed to grow higher and more impassable daily.

After receiving official notification of his nomination, Lawler had gone away on a speaking tour of the state, and Ruth had seen little of him. He came home once, for a few days, just before the election, and had renewed his pleas to Ruth. But the girl, rigidly adhering to her determination not to permit the shadow of her father's reputation to embarrass him, had firmly refused to consent. And after the election, when he had gone to the capital to take the office to which he had been chosen by a record vote, she watched him ride away with a consciousness that the world had grown to gigantic proportions and that Lawler was going to its extreme farther limits, leaving behind him a gulf of space, endless and desolate.

Dorgan, the country prosecutor, had been defeated for re-election by a man named Carney—who was known to be friendly to Singleton. Moreton had also been defeated—by "Slim" McCray, who hailed from a little town called Keegles, southeast from Willets. It was rumored—after the election—that Slim McCray had been friendly to Antrim, though no one advanced any evidence in support of the rumor.

McCray—because Willets was the county seat—came to the office that had formerly been Moreton's, immediately following his election. He was slender, tall, and unprepossessing, and instantly created a bad impression.

This news came to Ruth through her father, for she had not visited town since she had gone there to help Mrs. Lawler care for her son. She felt that she did not dare to leave the cabin. For one night, after her father had acted strangely, he got up suddenly and went out of the door. And after a while, growing suspicious, she blew out the light and stepped softly outside, to see him, at a little distance from the house, talking with Singleton.

That incident had occurred shortly after Lawler had departed for the capital to assume his duties as governor. She suspected her father had talked with Singleton since, though she had never seen them together from that time until now.

Lawler had been gone a month. She had heard through various mediums—mostly from cowboys from nearby ranches who occasionally passed the cabin—that Lawler was "making good"—in the vernacular of the cowpuncher; and "makin' them all set up an' take notice." Those terms, of course, would seem to indicate that Lawler was a good governor and that he was attracting attention by the quality of his administration.

But it seemed that more than a month had passed since Lawler had gone to the capital. The days dragged and the weeks seemed to be aeons long. And yet the dull monotony of the girl's life was relieved by trips she made to the Circle L, to visit Lawler's mother—and by the presence of Mary Lawler, who had come home for her vacation, during the summer, and during Lawler's absence on his speaking tour.

Ruth had heard with satisfaction that the Circle L trail herd, attended by Blackburn, Shorty, and other Circle L men, had not been molested on the trip to Red Rock. Caldwell and the others had driven their cattle to Red Rock also—not one of them visiting Warden to arrange for cars. Lawler's influence, and the spirit he had revealed in undertaking the long drive the previous season, had had its effect upon the other owners.

It seemed to Ruth that the fight between the Circle L men and the rustlers had made the latter cautious; and that even Warden had decided that discretion was necessary. At any rate, the surface of life in Willets and the surrounding country had become smooth, no matter what forces were at work in the depths. It appeared that the men who had fought Lawler in the past, were now careful to do nothing that would bring upon them a demonstration of his new power.

* * * * *

Gary Warden, however, was not fearful of Lawler's official power. In fact, he was openly contemptuous when Lawler's name was mentioned in his presence. Face to face with Lawler, he was afflicted with an emotion that was akin to fear, though with it was mingled the passionate hatred he had always felt for the man.

While Lawler had been at the Circle L he had fought him secretly, with motives that arose from a determination to control the cattle industry. Warden had had behind him the secret power of the state government and the clandestine cooperation of the railroad company. His fight against Lawler had been in the nature of business, in which the advantage had been all on his side.

Now, however, intense personal feeling dominated Warden. Lawler had beaten him, so far, and the knowledge intensified his rage against his conqueror. The railroad company's corral had yawned emptily during the entire fall season. Not a hoof had been shipped through Willets. All the cattlemen of the district had driven their stock to Red Rock. And Warden no longer smiled at the empty corral.

Looking out of one of his office windows this morning, Warden scowled. He remembered a day, a year or so ago, when he had stood in one of the windows of his office watching Della Wharton wave a handkerchief at Lawler. She had been riding out of town in a buckboard, with Aunt Hannah beside her, and Lawler had just come from the railroad station. That incident had spread the poison of jealousy in Warden's veins; the recollection of it had caused him to doubt Della's story of what had happened at the line cabin during the blizzard of the preceding winter; it had filled him with the maddening conviction that Lawler had deliberately tried to alienate Della's affections—that Lawler, knowing Della to be vain and frivolous, had intentionally planned the girl's visit to the line cabin.

He did not blame Della for what had happened. Upon Lawler was the blame for the affair; Lawler had planned it all, merely to be revenged upon him for his refusal to keep the agreement that had been made with Lefingwell.

Warden sneered as his thoughts went to that day in Jordan's office when Lawler, a deadly threat in his eyes, had leaned close to him to warn him. Warden remembered the words—they had flamed in his consciousness since.

"But get this straight," Lawler had said. "You've got to fight me! Understand? You'll drag no woman into it. You went to Hamlin's ranch the other day. God's grace and a woman's mercy permitted you to get away, alive. Just so sure as you molest a woman in the section, just so sure will I kill you, no matter who your friends are!"

Apparently, in Lawler's code of morals, it was one thing to force one's attentions upon a pretty woman, and another thing to steal the affections of a woman promised to another man.

But Warden's passion permitted him to make no distinction. And his rage was based upon the premise that Lawler was guilty. Warden's thoughts grew abysmal as he stood at the window; and considerations of business became unimportant in his mind as the Satanic impulse seized him. He stood for a long time at the window, and when he finally seized hat and coat and went down into the street he was muttering, savagely:

"God's grace and a woman's mercy. Bah! Damn you, Lawler; I'll make you squirm!"



CHAPTER XXXVII

THE TRAP

For more than a month—or from a few days following the night on which she had seen her father talking with Dave Singleton—Ruth Hamlin had been aware that her parent was acting strangely. There had been an interval—directly after that night when he had told her about his talk with Lawler, when Lawler had offered to help him to regain his place among men—that Hamlin had seemed to "go straight," as he had promised. During that interval he had taken her into his confidence many times, to discuss with her the new prospects that the future seemed to offer, and to renew his assurances to her. It had seemed, then, that there was hope for him.

Of late, though, a change had come over him. He no longer confided in her; his eyes were beginning to take on again the expression of guilt she had seen in them in the old days; his glances at her were no longer direct, but furtive, as though he feared she might learn something of his actions should she meet his gaze.

In the old days Ruth had passively endured the shame that Hamlin's crimes had brought upon her. They had been so unexpected that they had stunned her—they had been so miserably mean that she had not dared to take anyone into her confidence.

However, the days of passive endurance were over. Lawler knew, and Lawler had helped her father. And now, she was certain, her father had again fallen.

She steeled herself against pity for him, determined that she would not stand idly by and watch him betray Lawler. She did not know what she intended to do, or what she could do, to prevent the stealing of the Circle L cattle; but she determined to watch her father, hopeful that she might devise some way to prevent the thefts.

She had passed many sleepless nights, having become aware that her father was habitually absenting himself after nightfall, but she had never been able to catch him in the act of leaving the cabin at those times, though many nights she had purposely stayed awake.

Tonight she had gone to her room, to lie awake on the bed, fully dressed. She had left the oil-lamp burning, for Hamlin had been sitting at a table reading. She heard him get up after a while; saw the light flicker and go out; heard her father cross the floor and go to his room.

There was a fire in the kitchen stove, for the weather during the day had been cold, and she could hear the embers crackling for more than an hour after her father went to his room. After that there followed a brief time when she heard nothing.

She drew a blanket over her, and its welcome warmth brought on a drowsiness to which she almost yielded. She was sure, however, that she would not go to sleep, and she lay there, comfortably for, it seemed merely a few minutes. And then a sound assailed her ears and she started up, realizing that she had been asleep. For a chill had come into the air of the cabin, and she knew the fire had gone out.

She sat up, breathing fast, and ran to her father's room. The bed had not been slept in; and she emerged from the room, her face pallid with resolution.

Running to the outside door she swung it open and looked out. Far out upon the clear, moonlit sweep of plain stretching toward Willets, she saw the shadowy figures of two horsemen.

Moving swiftly, she went to the corral, caught her pony, saddled it, threw on a bridle, mounted and rode after the two horsemen, urging the pony to its best efforts.

The speed at which the pony traveled did not equal the pace of the animals ahead of her, however, and she steadily lost ground, though the night was so clear that she did not lose sight of the figures in front of her until they reached the shadows of Willets' buildings. She did lose them there, though, and when she rode down the dimly lighted street she could see no sign of them.

There was no one about, and she rode back and forth on the street, searching for Hamlin's horse, which would give her a clue to Hamlin's whereabouts. And at last, peering into a vacant space between two buildings she saw Hamlin's horse, and another, hitched to a rail near an outside stairway.

She got off the pony, threw the reins over its head and ran around to the front of the building, into the light of some oil-lamps that stabbed the semi-gloom of the street.

The building was occupied by the Wolf Saloon. She knew that, and it was that knowledge that caused her to hesitate as she stood in front of it. But her father was in there, she was certain. She had recognized the horse that had been hitched close to her father's as one that Singleton had ridden to the Hamlin cabin on several of his visits, and the cold determination that had seized her at last gave her courage to swing the front door of the saloon open. She hesitated on the threshold, white, shaking with dread, almost afraid, now that she had come this far, to face the terrible men she knew she would find inside. The ill-fame of the place was notorious.

But while she hesitated, she heard her father's voice—a sound that drove her to instant action, for it was high-pitched, and carried a note of anger.

She went inside, then, no longer thinking of herself; her heart a throb with concern, courage of a high order sustaining her. She pushed the outside door open, burst through the double-swing door that screened the barroom from the street, and stood in the front of the room blinking at the lights.

The room was full of men—she did not know how many. They made a great blur in front of her; and it seemed to her that all their faces were turned to her. She had a flashing view of a multitude of inquiring eyes; she noted the thick haze that hung over the room; her nostrils were assailed by mingled odors that were nauseating. The flashing glance showed her the long bar, a cluster of lights overhead; card tables; a low ceiling, and a stairway leading from the barroom to a platform.

All sound had ceased with her entrance. She saw her father standing near the center of the room.

He was standing alone, in sinister isolation. Singleton was facing him, about a dozen feet distant. A few feet from Singleton stood another man—dark of face, with cruel lips, and eyes that held a wanton light. A little farther away—close to the bar—stood Gary Warden.

Her father seemed to be the only man in the room who had not seen her. A terrible rage had gripped him; he seemed to have undergone a strange transformation since she had seen him last; that manhood which she had thought had departed from him appeared to have returned.

For he made a striking figure as he stood there. He was rigid, alert; he seemed to dominate every man that faced him, that stood within sound of his voice. He had been talking when Ruth entered; he was still talking, unaware of her presence.

His voice was pitched high, it carried a note of defiance; it was vibrant with passion. Fascinated by the change in him, Ruth stood motionless, listening.

"So that's what you brought me here for?" he said, his voice shaking with rage. He was looking at Singleton and the man who stood near the latter. "You brought me here because you wanted to be sure there'd be enough of you to down me. Well, damn you—get goin!"

His voice rose to a screech of awful rage; and while it still resounded through the room he dropped his right hand and dragged at the pistol at his hip.

It was done so swiftly that Ruth could make no movement to interfere. And yet as swiftly as her father's hand had dropped to the holster at his side, the dark-faced man who stood near Singleton anticipated the movement. His right hand moved like a streak of light. It went down, then up again with the same motion. The air rocked with a crashing report, mingled with Ruth's scream of terror. And Hamlin's gun loosened in his hand, his knees doubled and he tumbled headlong, to fall face down at the feet of the dark-faced man who stood, sneering, some blue-white smoke curling upward in mocking laziness from the muzzle of his pistol.

Ruth had moved with the report of the pistol; she was at Hamlin's side when he fell, grasping one of his arms; and she went down with him, to one knee, dazed from the suddenness of the thing; palzied with horror, the room reeling around her.

How long she knelt at her father's side she did not know. It seemed only a second or two to her when she raised her head and looked around with dumb, agonized grief at the faces that seemed to fill the place. Then she heard Warden's voice; he spoke to the dark-faced man who had killed her father, and his voice was vibrant with a mocking, Satanic satisfaction.

"You've wanted her, Slade—take her!"

The dark-faced man grinned at her, bestially. She leaped to her feet at the expression of his eyes, and started to run toward the door. But terror shackled her feet; it seemed that some power was dragging at her, holding her back from the door. She had not taken more than half a dozen steps when Slade was upon her.

His strength seemed to be prodigious, for despite her desperate resistance he lifted her from the floor, crushed her to him and started for the stairs. She screamed, begging the men in the room to help her. But through the haze she saw grinning faces turned to hers; heard loud laughter and coarse oaths. And then came oblivion.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE GOVERNOR'S GUNS

From his desk in the big, quiet room in the capitol building Lawler could look out upon a wide sweep of orderly landscape. There were trees—now stripped of their foliage—in serried array around the spacious grounds that surrounded the building; bushes arranged in attractive clusters; a low stone fence with massive posts that rose in simple dignity above white cement walks that curved gracefully toward the streets.

For nearly two months the huge building—representing the seat of government of a mighty state—had been Lawler's throne. And he had ruled with a democratic spirit and with a simple directness, that had indicated earnestness and strength. There had been a mass of detail which had required close attention; many conferences with the prominent men of his party—in which the prominent men had been made to understand that Lawler intended to be governor in fact as well as in name; and a gradual gathering up of all the loose ends of administration which had become badly tangled through the inefficiency of the former incumbent. And now the legislature was in session.

Lawler had not been able to seize time to visit the Wolf River section. Work, work—and more work had confronted him from the moment he had taken the oath of office on the capitol steps until this minute, when he sat at his desk looking out of a window at the bleak, artificial landscape.

There had been times when he had longed for a glance at the Wolf River section; and there had been many more times when he had sat where he was sitting now, thinking of Ruth Hamlin.

Something lacked—he was not satisfied. In the old days—when he had visited the capital and had entered the state building to sense immediately the majesty of it and to feel the atmosphere of solemn dignity that reigned within—he had felt that any man must experience the ultimate thrill—the tingling realization that he stood in a spot hallowed by the traditions of the republic.

The thought of serving the people of a great state had thrilled him mightily in the old days. It still thrilled him, but it brought with it a longing for Ruth to share it with him.

Thoughts of Ruth this morning brought Gary Warden into his mind. And he frowned as a man frowns who watches a pleasant scene turn into tragedy.

Only his collapse as he faced Warden that day in the latter's office had prevented him killing the man. He had left the Dickman cabin lusting for Warden's life. The passion that had surged through his veins during the long ride to Warden's office had been the only force that could have kept him going. It had burned within him like a raging fire, and it had upheld his failing strength until he had sunk beside the desk with his passion unsatisfied.

He had thought much of the incident during the days he had lain in the room at the Willets Hotel, and later, while convalescing at the Circle L. And he had been glad his strength had failed him before he did what he had set out to do. For while there was no doubt in his mind that Warden had been implicated in all the attacks that had been made upon him, he had no legal proof—except the confession, signed by Link and Givens—that Warden was guilty.

And, now that he had been elected, he intended to keep silent regarding the confession. He hated Warden, but it was with something of the passion a man feels who treads upon a poisonous reptile that attacks him.

He meant to be generous in the moment of victory. Those men—Warden, Perry Haughton, Hatfield, and the officials of the railroad company—had performed according to their lights, using whatever power and influence was at hand to gain their ends. But they had failed. Several bills now pending in the legislature would effectually curb the powers of those men and others of their kind; and he would see to it that there never would be another opportunity for that sort of practice.

Lawler got up after a time, and walked to one of the big windows, where he stood for some minutes looking out. Then he returned to his desk, dropped into the chair, pulled open a deep drawer and took therefrom a cartridge belt, completely studded with cartridges. Suspended from the belt were two ivory-handled pistols that had seen much service.

They had belonged to his father. Later, he had worn them himself—in the days when his character had been in process of developing, when he had earned, with them, a reputation which had made him respected throughout the state.

They were, he felt, symbols of an ancient time. The day was coming when men would ride the open range without guns, when the wearing of guns would bring upon a man the distrust and the condemnation of his kind. Law and order would supersede the rule of the gun, and the passions of men would have to be regulated by the statute books.

He had brought the two guns with him upon the impulse of a moment. He would be away from the Circle L for at least two years, and he wanted the guns where he could look at them occasionally. For they brought into his mind a picture of his father as he had seen him, many times, wearing them; and they reminded him of days when he, too, had worn them—days that had a romantic charm all their own.



CHAPTER XXXIX

SLADE'S PRISONER

When Ruth regained the use of her senses she was lying on a bed in a small, evil-smelling room. An oil-lamp burned upon a little stand in one corner. A door—the only one—was closed—locked. She saw the stout wooden bar in its sturdy side slots.

At first she thought she was alone; and with a hope that made her breathless she lifted herself, swinging around until her feet were on the floor, intending to leap to the door, open it, and escape. A sound arrested her, a chuckle, grim and sinister, in a man's voice. She flashed swiftly around, to see Slade sitting in a chair near the foot of the bed. He was bending forward, his elbows on his knees, his knuckles supporting his chin, watching her with a wide, amused grin.

For a long, breathless space she looked at him; noting the evil light in his eyes and the cruel, bestial curve of his lips. She saw how his gaze quickened as he watched her; how he had drawn one foot under him—obviously to be used as leverage for a rapid leap should she try to reach the door.

"It ain't no use, ma'am," he said; "you're here, an' you're goin' to stay for a while." He got up and walked to the door, placing his back against it and grinning widely as he looked down at her, as she yielded to a long shudder of dread.

During the silence that followed Slade's words Ruth could hear faint sounds from below—the clinking of glasses, the scuffling of feet, a low murmur of voices. She knew, then, that they had brought her to a room above a saloon—the Wolf, she supposed, for that was where Warden said he intended to bring her.

She watched Slade fearfully, divining that he meant to attack her. She could see that determination in his eyes and in his manner. He was still grinning, but now the grin had become set, satyric, hideous. It was a mere smirk. No mirth was behind it—nothing but passion, intense, frightful.

She glanced swiftly around, saw a window beyond the foot of the bed with a ragged shade hanging over it. She knew the Wolf was only two stories in height, and she felt that if she threw herself out of the window she would suffer injury. But she meant to do it. She got her feet set firmly on the floor, and was about to run toward the window, when Slade leaped at her, seeing the reckless design in her eyes.

She had been moving when Slade leaped, and she evaded the arm he extended and slipped away from him. She heard Slade curse. She was almost at the window when he rushed at her again; and to keep him from grasping her she dodged, bringing up against the farther wall, while Slade, losing his balance, plunged against the window, crashing against the glass and sending a thousand broken fragments tinkling on the floor of the room and into the darkness outside.

She was alert to the advantage that had suddenly come to her, and she ran lightly to the door and tried to lift the bar. She got one end of it from a socket, but the other stuck. She pulled frantically at it. It finally came loose, with a suddenness that threw her off balance, and she reeled against the bed, almost falling.

She saw Slade coming toward her, a bestial rage in his eyes, and she threw herself again at the door, grasping it and throwing it wide open. She tried to throw herself out of the opening, to the stairs that led straight downward into the barroom. But the movement was halted at its inception by Slade's arms, which went around her with the rigidity of iron hoops, quickly constricting. She got a glimpse of the room below—saw the bar and the men near it—all facing her way, watching her. Then Slade drew her back and closed the door.

He did not bar the door, for she was fighting him, now—fighting him with a strength and fury that bothered him for an instant. His strength, however, was greater than hers, and at last her arms were crushed against her sides with a pressure that almost shut off her breath. Slade's face was close to hers, his lips loose; and his eyes were looking into hers with an expression that terrified her.

She screamed—once—twice—with the full power of her lungs. And then Slade savagely brought a big hand over her mouth and held it there. She fought to escape the clutch, kicking, squirming—trying to bite the hand. But to no avail. The terrible pressure on her mouth was suffocating her, and the room went dark as she continued to fight. She thought Slade had extinguished the light, and she was conscious of a dull curiosity over how he had done it. And then sound seem to cease. She felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing. She was conscious only of that terrible pressure over her mouth and nose. And finally she ceased to feel even that.



CHAPTER XL

PRIMITIVE INSTINCTS

Shorty and a dozen Circle L men—among them Blackburn and the three others who had been wounded in the fight with the rustlers on the plains the previous spring—had been waiting long in a gully at a distance of a mile or more from the Hamlin cabin. Shortly after dark they had filed into the gully, having come directly from the Circle L.

Hours before, they had got off their horses to stretch their legs, and to wait. And now they had grown impatient. It was cold—even in the gulley where the low moaning, biting wind did not reach them—and they knew they could have no fire.

"Hell!" exclaimed one man, intolerantly; "I reckon she's a whizzer!"

"Looks a heap like it," agreed Shorty. "Seems, if Hamlin couldn't get him headed this way—like he said he would—he ought to let us know."

"You reckon Hamlin's runnin' straight, now?" inquired Blackburn.

"Straight as a die!" declared Shorty. "If you'd been trailin' him like me an' the boys has, you'd know it. Trouble is, that Singleton is holdin' off. A dozen times we've been close enough to ketch Singleton with the goods—if he'd do the brandin'. But he don't, an' Hamlin has to do it—with Singleton watchin'. We've framed up on him a dozen times. But he lets Hamlin run the iron on 'em. Hamlin eased that bunch into the gully just ahead, especial for tonight. I helped him drive 'em. An' Hamlin said that tonight he'd refuse to run the iron on 'em—makin' Singleton do it. An' then we'd ketch him doin' it. But I reckon Hamlin's slipped up somewheres."

"It ain't none comfortable here, with that wind whinin' that vicious," complained a cowboy. "An' no fire. Hamlin said ten o'clock, didn't he? It's past eleven."

"It's off, I reckon," said Shorty. "Let's fan it to Hamlin's shack an' say somethin' to him."

Instantly the outfit was on the move. With Shorty leading they swept out of the gully to the level and rode northward rapidly.

When they came in sight of the Hamlin cabin there was no light within, and the men sat for a time on their horses, waiting and listening. Then, when it seemed certain there was no one stirring, Shorty glanced at the horse corral.

Instantly he whispered to the other men:

"Somethin's wrong, boys. Hamlin's horse is gone, an' Ruth's pony!"

He dismounted and burst into the cabin, looking into the two bedrooms. He came out again, scratching his head in puzzlement.

"I don't seem to sabe this here thing, boys. I know Ruth Hamlin ain't in the habit of wanderin' off alone at this time of the night. An' Hamlin was tellin' me that he sure was goin' with Singleton. It's a heap mysterious, an' I've got a hunch things ain't just what they ought to be!"

He turned toward the plain that stretched toward Willets. Far out—a mere dot in his vision—he detected movement. He straightened, his face paled.

"Somebody's out there, headin' for town. I'm takin' a look—the boss would want me to, an' I ain't overlookin' anything that'll do him any good!"

He leaped upon his horse, and the entire company plunged into the soft moonlight that flooded the plains between the cabin and Willets.

* * * * *

The ivory-handled pistols were still on Lawler's desk when his secretary softly opened a door and entered. The secretary smiled slightly at sight of the weapons, but he said no word as he advanced to the desk and placed a telegram before Lawler.

He stood, waiting respectfully, as Lawler read the telegram. It was from Moreton:

"Governor Lawler: There's something mighty wrong going on in Willets. Slade and his gang struck town this morning. He was with Warden all day in the Wolf. Don't depend on the new sheriff."

Lawler got up, his face paling. He dismissed the secretary and then stood for several minutes looking down at the pistols on the desk. They offered a quick solution of the problem that confronted him.

At this minute he was conscious of one thing only—that Slade was in Willets. Slade, who had led the gang that had killed his men—Slade, whose face haunted Blackburn's dreams—the man the Circle L outfit held responsible for the massacre that day on the plains above the big valley.

Lurking in the metal cylinders of the two weapons on the desk was that death which Warden, Singleton, Slade, and the others deserved at his hands. He took up the pistols, nestling their sinister shapes in his palms, while his blood rioted with the terrible lust that now seized him—the old urge to do violence, the primal instinct to slay, to which he had yielded when Shorty told him of the things Blondy Antrim had done.

Another minute passed while he fondled the weapons. Twice he moved as though to buckle the cartridge belt around his waist—shoving aside the black coat he wore, which would have hidden them. But each time he changed his mind.

He knew that if he wore them he would use them. The driving intensity of his desire to kill Warden, Singleton, and Slade would overwhelm him if he should find they had harmed Ruth. The deadly passion that held him in a mighty clutch would take no account of his position, of his duty to the state, or of the oath he had taken to obey and administer the laws.

While he silently fought the lust that filled his heart the secretary came in. He started and then stood rigid, watching Lawler, seeming to divine something of the struggle that was going on before his eyes. He saw how Lawler's muscles had tensed, how his chin had gone forward with a vicious thrust—noted the awful indecision that had seized the man. As the secretary watched, he realized that Lawler was on the verge of surrendering to the passions he was fighting—for Lawler had again taken up the cartridge belt and was opening his coat to buckle the belt around him.

"Governor."

It was the secretary's voice. It was low, conveying the respect that the man always used in addressing Lawler. But the sound startled Lawler like the explosion of a bomb in the room. He flashed around, saw the secretary—looked steadily at him for one instant, and then dropped the belt to the desk, tossed the pistols into the drawer and smiled mirthlessly.

"Governor," said the secretary; "your train is ready."

The secretary stood within three yards of Lawler, and before he could turn to go out, Lawler had reached him. He seized both the man's hands, gripped them tightly, and said, hoarsely:

"Thank you, Williams."

Then he released the secretary's hands and plunged out through the door, while the secretary, smiling wisely, walked to the desk and picking up the cartridge belt, dropped it into the drawer with the pistols.



CHAPTER XLI

THE CLEAN-UP

The Wolf Saloon was in a big frame building that stood at a little distance from the back of the street, with a wide, open space on each side of it. Lights were flickering from some of the upstairs windows of the building when Shorty and the other Circle L men reached town. Shorty and his men had ridden hard, and they had seen a horse and rider halt in front of the building while they were yet a mile or so out on the plains. And when Shorty's horse struck the edge of town Shorty headed him straight for the Wolf, veering when he reached it and passing to the open space from which ran an outside stairway. The other men followed Shorty's example, and they were close at his heels when he slipped off his horse and ran around to the front of the Wolf.

Warden had come out shortly before; he was now in his office farther down the street, congratulating himself upon the outcome of the incident in the saloon. He had struck a damaging blow at Lawler. At a stroke he was evening his score with the latter.

Several other men had emerged from the saloon. When Shorty reached the front door four men were just emerging, carrying another. Suspicious, alert, Shorty halted the men and peered closely at the face of the man they were carrying.

"It's Joe Hamlin!" he said as he recognized the other's face.

Shorty's eyes were glowing with rage and suspicion.

"What's happened?" he demanded of one of the men.

"Rukus," shortly replied one. "Hamlin, here, tried to draw on Slade, an' Slade——"

"Slade!"

Shorty almost screamed the words. He straightened, his face grew convulsed. Pausing on the verge of violent action, he heard Hamlin's voice:

"Shorty!"

Shorty leaned over. Straining, his muscles working, his eyes blazing, Shorty heard low words issuing from Hamlin's lips:

"Slade done it, Shorty. An' he's got Ruth—took her upstairs. Shorty—save her—for God's sake!"

Shorty straightened. "Take this man to the doctor—he's hit bad!" The words were flung at the four men; and Shorty was on the move before he finished.

Blackburn and the others were close behind him when he burst into the front door of the saloon.

The saloon occupied the entire lower floor. A bar ran the length of the room from front to rear. In the center of the room was a roulette wheel; near it was a faro table; and scattered in various places were other tables. Some oil-lamps in clusters provided light for the card and gambling tables; and behind the bar were several bracket lamps.

There were perhaps a score of men in the room when Shorty and the Circle L men burst in. Shorty had come to a halt in the glare of one of the big clusters of lights, and his friends had halted near him.

The giant made a picture that brought an awed hush over the place. He stood in the glaring light, a gun in each hand, the muscles of his face and neck standing out like whipcords; his legs a-sprawl, his eyes blazing with awful rage as they roved around the room, scanning the faces of every man there. The other Circle L men had drawn their weapons, too. But Shorty dominated. It was upon him that all eyes turned; it was upon his crimson, rage-lined face that every man looked. He was a figure of gigantic proportions—a mighty man in the grip of the blood-lust.

"You guys stand. Every damned one of you! Don't move a finger or bat an eyelash! I've come a-killin'!" he said in a low, tense voice, the words coming with a snap, jerkily, like the separate and distinct lashes of a whip.

Not a man in the room moved, nor did their fascinated eyes waver for an instant from Shorty's face.

"Where's Slade?"

He shot the words at them. He saw their eyes waver for an instant from his and they looked toward the stairs in the rear—the stairs that Ruth Hamlin had seen when for an instant after throwing the door of the room open she had glanced down to see the room full of men, all looking at her.

The concentrated gazing of the men at the stairs told Shorty what he wanted to know. He spoke to Blackburn, throwing the words back over his shoulder:

"Hold 'em right where they are—damn 'em!"

Then with a few gigantic bounds he was at the foot of the stairs. In a few more he had gained the top, where he pressed his huge shoulder against the door. It gave a little—enough to further enrage the giant. He drew back a little and literally hurled himself against it. It burst open, Shorty keeping his feet as the wreck fell away from him. And he saw Slade, with a hand over Ruth's mouth, standing near the foot of the bed.

Evidently Slade had been about to release Ruth when he heard the door crashing behind him; for at the instant Shorty emerged from the wreck he saw that the girl's body was already falling—toward the bed—as Slade drew away from her and reached for his guns.

They came out—both of them—streaking fire and smoke. But they never came to the deadly level to which Slade sought to throw them; for Shorty's guns were crashing at Slade's first movement, and the bullets from the outlaw's weapons thudded into the board floor, harmlessly, and Slade lurched forward—almost to Shorty's side—his guns loosening in his hands and falling, one after the other, to the floor. He grinned, with hideous satire, into Shorty's face as he tried, vainly, to steady himself.

"Warden—the damned skunk—said Lawler would come—first!" he said, with horrible pauses. He lurched again, still grinning satirically; and slumped to the floor, where he turned slowly over on his back and lay still.

Shorty glanced at Ruth, who was huddled on the bed; then he wheeled, and leaped for the stairs.

Before he reached the bottom, Ruth sat up and stared dazedly about. She had heard the crashing of the pistols, though the reports had seemed to come from a great distance—faintly, dully. But when she reeled to her feet and saw Slade lying on the floor, his upturned face ghastly in the feeble light from the oil-lamp, she knew that someone had saved her, and she yielded, momentarily, to a great joy that weakened her so that she had to sit on the edge of the bed to steady herself.

It was not for long; and presently she got up and swayed to the door at the top of the stairs, holding onto the jamb while she looked downward. When her eyes grew accustomed to the light she paled.

In the big room were many men. She saw Shorty standing among them—she recognized them as Circle L cowboys. Shorty's guns were out; in fact the men in the group near Shorty seemed to bristle with weapons.

At the rear of the room was another group of men. They stood motionless, silent, and had no weapons in their hands. But some of them were crouching, their faces grim and set.

And then Ruth heard Shorty's voice—hoarse, raucous with passion:

"You guys that don't belong to Slade's gang, get out! Fan it! You Slade men stand! I know every damned one of you!"

There was a short silence, during which several men slipped away from the group at the rear of the room and bolted for the rear door. And then, suddenly, as Shorty muttered words that Ruth did not hear, both groups of men leaped into action.

Ruth saw the men in the group at the rear reach, concertedly, for their weapons; she saw smoke streaks stabbing the heavy atmosphere of the big room; heard the roar and crash of pistols; saw men falling, to land in grotesque positions; saw Shorty, huge and terrible amid the billowing smoke, shoot a man who tried to leap over the bar, so that he fell across it limply, as though sleeping. She observed another man—one of Slade's—dodge behind a card table, rest his pistol for an instant on its top, and shoot at Shorty. She saw Shorty snap a shot at the man, saw the man's head wobble as he sank behind the table. And then she was suddenly aware that it was ended. A ghastly silence fell. Through the heavy smoke she saw Shorty, standing where he had stood all along—near the cluster of lights just inside the front door. It seemed to her that the room was full of motionless figures of men, strewing the floor.

She was sick and weak, but she knew she must get out into the air or she would faint; and so she began to descend the stairs, holding to the slender railing for support.

She got down without anyone seeing her. No one seemed to pay any attention to her. As she reached a side door—opening into the space from which the outside stairs ran—she looked back, to see Shorty and a number of Circle L men clustered around Blackburn—who was sitting in a chair, looking very white.

She got out into the open and ran toward the street, hardly knowing what she intended to do. Whatever happened, she did not want to stay longer in the Wolf. She had a feeling that if she could find Moreton she would be safe until Shorty and the Circle L men completed the grim work upon which they were engaged. For she knew that the Circle L men had sworn to square their account with the outlaws—and, knowing the circumstances of the fight on the plains the previous spring, she could not blame them for what they had done.

And yet she wanted to get away from the scene—anywhere.

She halted in front of the Wolf, and saw a number of men on the street—and others running toward the building. She moved down the street toward the station, and as she passed a group of men she saw a man running toward her, shouting loudly:

"Lawler's here! What in hell is comin' off? Lawler just got off a special train! He looks like he looked that day he rode into town lookin' for Gary Warden!"

Far down the street Ruth saw him coming. He was running, and she leaped to meet him, unaware that Shorty and the other Circle L men had emerged from the front door of the Wolf and were listening to the man who had brought the news of Lawler's arrival.

She was aware of nothing but the fact that Lawler was coming. And when, running toward him, she saw him stop dead short, she cried aloud with joy:

"O Kane! Kane!"

And then his big arms went around her, and she nestled close to him, shuddering, sobbing, laughing.

Excitedly, rapidly, as he held her, she related the story of the night's adventure. Then Shorty and the others came up. She and Lawler were standing in front of a store, in a glare of light that came through a big window; and she saw his lips straighten when she told him what Slade had done.

"Shorty," he said, grimly; "take care of her."

And then, despite her struggles—for she knew that he was going to seek Warden—she found herself a captive in the giant's arms, while Lawler ran down the street toward Warden's office.



CHAPTER XLII

GOING EAST

Within fifteen minutes after he had left Ruth Hamlin with Slade at the side door of the Wolf, Warden had sent a telegram to Lawler, at the capital, informing him that the girl might be found at the brothel with the outlaw. He had signed no name to the telegram, but that did not lessen the venomous satisfaction he felt over sending it.

It had been nearly eleven o'clock when Warden sent the wire and allowing for some minutes of waste time before the message could be delivered, and the space of time that must elapse before Lawler could reach Willets—even if he came on a special train—he knew that Lawler could not arrive before the early hours of the morning.

Lawler, Warden knew, would be in a killing mood when he reached Willets. And he knew, also, that Slade would be waiting for Lawler, and that he would kill Lawler on sight.

Slade would have to kill Lawler, for Lawler, as governor, had the power to be revenged upon the outlaw for the abduction of Ruth; and Slade would know that Lawler would use that power to the limit. If Slade killed Lawler, that would be another matter. The outlaw would have to hide, to evade the clutches of the law. But hiding was not more than Slade had been accustomed to for years, and that necessity would work no hardship upon him.

That was Warden's reasoning. Perhaps it was faulty, for it hinged upon the vagaries of a wanton character who could not be depended upon. But Warden had to take that chance.

And Warden's reasoning, of late, had been influenced by his passionate hatred of Lawler. That hatred had warped his judgment until he had become a creature guided by the savage impulses that filled his brain.

When he left Slade and Ruth at the door of the Wolf, he went directly to his office, taking Singleton with him. He lit a kerosene lamp, built a fire in the small stove that stood in a corner; seated himself in a chair, motioned Singleton to another, lit a cigar and smoked—his eyes gleaming with the vindictive joy he felt.

However, the cigar in his mouth was not half smoked, when from a distance, on the steady west wind, was borne to his ears the faint, wailing shriek of a locomotive whistle.

The cigar drooped from his lips and he looked swiftly at Singleton. Singleton had heard the sound, too, for his eyes had narrowed and his attitude had become tense.

That both men had the same thought was evidenced by the glance they exchanged—incipient apprehension.

"It's a freight, likely," muttered Singleton.

Warden took a nervous puff at his cigar. Then he got up, walked to a window and stood, looking out into the night. He stood there for a few minutes, Singleton watching him—until the whistle shrieked again and a muffled roar reached their ears. Then Warden turned, his face ashen.

"Singleton, it's a special!" he said, jerkily; "an engine and one car!"

Singleton got up and walked to the window, beside Warden. As they stood there, they saw the train stop at the station. They saw, in the dim light from the coach, the figure of a tall man alight and dart across the platform, to vanish in the shadow of the station. Simultaneously, there came to their ears the staccato reports of pistols, the sounds rendered faint and muffled by distance.

Singleton flashed around, his face pale and his eyes bulging.

"It's Lawler! I'd know him among a million! An' somethin's happened at the Wolf. That's where the shootin' is! Warden," he said, nervously; "it looks like there's goin' to be hell to pay!"

Warden's face was ashen, but he laughed.

"Don't worry, Singleton; Slade will take care of Lawler," he said. But the words carried no conviction with them—they had been uttered without expression.

Warden walked to the door and gazed down the dimly lighted stairway. There was suppressed excitement in his manner, nervous anxiety in his eyes. He walked back into the room, threw his cigar into a cuspidor, and stood with his back to the stove, listening.

Singleton said nothing; though his lips had settled into a pout and his eyes had a sullen, malignant expression. He, too, was wishing—what Warden was wishing—that Slade would kill Lawler. The death of Lawler would make the future safe for both of them; it would remove a menace to their lives and a barrier to their schemes for the autocratic control of the cattle industry.

But they doubted. Deep in their hearts lurked a fear that something had gone wrong—which thought was suggested by the sounds of the shooting they had heard.

Singleton had become afflicted with the nervousness that had seized Warden. The pout on his lips grew; he cast startled, inquiring glances toward the door. And at last, as they stood silent, looking at each other, there came a sound—close; the sound of a man walking in the street. As they listened the sound came closer, reached the front of the building. Then they heard it on the stairs. Warden stiffened, and Singleton drew his gun. An instant later the door crashed inward, and Lawler stood in the opening, his eyes flaming with the cold wrath that had been in them on the day when, after he had killed Antrim, he had come to Warden's office for a like purpose.

There was no word spoken. Lawler saw the gun in Singleton's hand. He leaped quickly to one side as Singleton pulled the trigger—the smoke streak touching his clothing as he moved. He leaped again as Singleton shot at him a second time. This time he was so close to Singleton that the powder burned his face. And before Singleton could shoot again Lawler struck—with the precision and force that he had put into his blows that day in the schoolhouse.

Singleton reeled headlong across the room, bringing up against the farther wall, striking it with his head and tumbling to the floor beside it.

Then, his lips set stiffly, his eyes flaming with a fire that brought terror into Warden's heart, he faced the other.

"Now, damn you; I'll teach you to make war on women!" He leaped forward, striking at Warden with terrific energy.

* * * * *

Still struggling in Shorty's arms, Ruth heard Singleton's shots. She broke away from Shorty, noting with dull astonishment that Shorty seemed almost to have permitted it, and ran down the street toward Warden's office. As she ran she heard a tumult behind her, and steps close beside her. She glanced swiftly over her shoulder, to see Shorty beside her. The giant was taking steps that dwarfed hers, and while she looked at him he drew past her. She heard him muttering as he passed—caught his words:

"Lawler ain't got no gun—I seen that!"

She ran faster than ever at that, and when Shorty reached the foot of the stairs leading to Warden's office she was at his heels.

There were other men behind her—a multitude. She felt them pressing close behind her as she ran up the stairs. But she did not look back, for she heard sounds of a conflict in Warden's office—the thud and jar of blows, the crashing of furniture overturned and smashed; the scuffling of feet on the floors—and screams of rage—in Warden's voice.

When she reached the top of the stairs and looked into the room between Shorty's shoulder and the door jamb, she screamed with apprehension. For she saw Singleton, with blood dripping from a huge gash in his cheek, in the act of picking up a pistol that, evidently, had fallen on the floor during the fight that must have raged in the room.

Singleton's face was hideous with rage. It was evident that he did not see Shorty and herself at the door—and that he had not heard the tramping of the many feet on the stairs. He was apparently oblivious to everything but the fact that the pistol was there and that he had an opportunity to use it.

Ruth saw Warden and Lawler fighting in a corner. Warden's back was against the wall, near the stove. He was facing the door. His lips were lacerated, drooling blood, his eyes were puffed and blackened, and he was screaming and cursing insanely.

As Ruth watched, her gaze taking in the wreck of the room—and Singleton picking up the pistol—she saw Lawler strike Warden—a full sweeping blow that sent forth a sodden deadening sound as it landed.

Warden sagged, his eyes closing as he slid to the floor and sat in the corner his legs doubled under him, his chin on his chest.

The scene had held only for an instant—merely while Ruth screamed. The sound had hardly died away when Singleton succeeded in grasping the pistol. Ruth tried to squeeze past Shorty, to prevent the tragedy that seemed imminent. But Shorty's quick, flashing motion checked her—made interference by her unnecessary. There was a flash at Shorty's side, and the crash of his pistol rocked the air in the room and the hallway. Singleton straightened, turned slowly, looked full at Shorty. Then without uttering a sound he pitched forward, almost at Lawler's feet.

The roar of the pistol brought Lawler around so that he faced the door. He saw Shorty and Ruth and the others behind them, but gave no sign. His rage had left him; he seemed coldly deliberate. The only sign of passion about him was in his eyes. They were narrowed, and pin points of fire appeared to flame in them. As though there were no witnesses to what he was doing, he stooped, lifted Warden and threw him over his shoulder. The crowd gave way before him as he started for the stairs—even Ruth and Shorty stepping aside to let him pass. They watched him wonderingly as he carried his burden down the stairs and out into the street. And then as he walked they followed him.

He went straight across the street, past some low buildings, and over a vacant stretch between the buildings and the station. The crowd followed him—Ruth and Shorty closely, silently watching.

The special train in which he had come was still standing beside the station platform, the engine panting as though from its long run eastward. Ruth noted that the train crew was on the platform near the engine, interestedly watching the approach of Lawler carrying his burden.

Lawler walked to the rear end of the coach and threw Warden bodily upon it. Then he turned and motioned toward the conductor. The latter approached him warily, seeming doubtful of what might be in store for him from a man, who though governor—thus carried the body of a man on his shoulder. But he listened respectfully when he observed the clear sanity of Lawler's eyes.

"This man is leaving Willets—immediately!" said Lawler. "He's going East, to the end of this line—at my expense. When he regains consciousness you will tell him what I have said."

"It's Warden, ain't it?" grinned the conductor. "Well, I'll be glad to take him. But I'll have to wire for orders. This guy ain't a bona fide passenger."

He strode to the telegraphers window. There was a short wait; and during the interval Warden stirred and sat up, swaying from side to side and staring about him in bewilderment. Lawler stepped forward, leaned over the platform.

"Warden," he said; "you are going East. You are not coming back. If you ever step a foot into this state again I will send you to prison for a term that will make you wish you were dead. I have a signed confession from Link and Givens that convicts you of a crime for which this state provides an adequate penalty. Do you understand?"

Warden nodded, wearily, and dropped his chin to his chest. After an interval, during which the crowd watched him intently, he staggered to his feet and reeled into the coach, and the crowd saw him no more. An instant later the conductor went toward the coach, grinning, signaling the engineer.

A low cheer rose from the crowd as the train started, and a man far back toward the station shouted, loudly:

"If they hadn't been in such a damned hurry, we'd have raised a collection to send him to hell!"

A little later Lawler and Ruth and Shorty formed the van of the crowd that walked down the street toward the Wolf—where the Circle L men had left their horses. Ruth walked between Lawler and Shorty. Ruth was very pale, and her lips were trembling. In front of the Willets Hotel—in the flood of light that came through the windows, she clutched at Lawler's sleeve.

"Hurry, Kane," she begged; "they have killed daddy!"

"Don't you believe it, Miss Ruth," said Shorty, softly, into her ear. "When I left Joe Hamlin he was a whole lot alive—an' gettin' more alive right along. I left Andy Miller with him—an' Andy's got more sabe of medicine than any doctor in these parts!"

"Shorty!" she breathed, springing around in front of him and catching him by the shoulders—standing on tip-toe to do it. "Shorty, you don't mean it?"

Shorty laughed lowly. "I'm reckonin' to mean it, Miss Ruth."

"But how," she questioned, her hands still on his shoulders, her eyes wide and questioning; "how did you happen to go to the Two Bar?"

"Well, you see, Miss Ruth," laughed the giant—while the crowd which had followed them stood off at a little distance and watched—"it was like this. Me an' the boys—an' your dad—had been tryin' for a long time to ketch Singleton runnin' an iron on the Circle L cattle. Your dad an' me had run a bunch into that gully near the Two Bar, an' tonight me an' the boys was waitin' in the gully for your dad to bring Singleton there. Your dad had been brandin' stolen stock—at my orders—an' tonight he was goin' to refuse—makin' Singleton do it. For Singleton was really doin' the rustlin'. An' your dad——"

"Was doing it all for you? Is that what you mean, Shorty?"

"Why, I reckon, Miss Ruth. You see——"

Ruth had to leap upward to do it. But somehow the height was achieved. Two arms went around Shorty's neck and Ruth's lips were pressed against his with a resounding smack.