CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE GOVERNOR'S GUNS
From his desk in the big, quiet room in the capitol building Lawlercould look out upon a wide sweep of orderly landscape. There weretrees--now stripped of their foliage--in serried array around thespacious grounds that surrounded the building; bushes arranged inattractive clusters; a low stone fence with massive posts that rose insimple dignity above white cement walks that curved gracefully towardthe streets.
For nearly two months the huge building--representing the seat ofgovernment of a mighty state--had been Lawler's throne. And he had ruledwith a democratic spirit and with a simple directness, that hadindicated earnestness and strength. There had been a mass of detailwhich had required close attention; many conferences with the prominentmen of his party--in which the prominent men had been made to understandthat Lawler intended to be governor in fact as well as in name; and agradual gathering up of all the loose ends of administration which hadbecome 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 hadtaken the oath of office on the capitol steps until this minute, whenhe sat at his desk looking out of a window at the bleak, artificiallandscape.
There had been times when he had longed for a glance at the Wolf Riversection; and there had been many more times when he had sat where he wassitting now, thinking of Ruth Hamlin.
Something lacked--he was not satisfied. In the old days--when he hadvisited the capital and had entered the state building to senseimmediately the majesty of it and to feel the atmosphere of solemndignity that reigned within--he had felt that any man must experiencethe ultimate thrill--the tingling realization that he stood in a spothallowed by the traditions of the republic.
The thought of serving the people of a great state had thrilled himmightily in the old days. It still thrilled him, but it brought with ita longing for Ruth to share it with him.
Thoughts of Ruth this morning brought Gary Warden into his mind. And hefrowned 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 hadprevented him killing the man. He had left the Dickman cabin lusting forWarden's life. The passion that had surged through his veins during thelong ride to Warden's office had been the only force that could havekept him going. It had burned within him like a raging fire, and it hadupheld his failing strength until he had sunk beside the desk with hispassion unsatisfied.
He had thought much of the incident during the days he had lain in theroom at the Willets Hotel, and later, while convalescing at the CircleL. And he had been glad his strength had failed him before he did whathe had set out to do. For while there was no doubt in his mind thatWarden had been implicated in all the attacks that had been made uponhim, he had no legal proof--except the confession, signed by Link andGivens--that Warden was guilty.
And, now that he had been elected, he intended to keep silent regardingthe confession. He hated Warden, but it was with something of thepassion a man feels who treads upon a poisonous reptile that attackshim.
He meant to be generous in the moment of victory. Those men--Warden,Perry Haughton, Hatfield, and the officials of the railroad company--hadperformed according to their lights, using whatever power and influencewas at hand to gain their ends. But they had failed. Several bills nowpending in the legislature would effectually curb the powers of thosemen and others of their kind; and he would see to it that there neverwould be another opportunity for that sort of practice.
Lawler got up after a time, and walked to one of the big windows, wherehe stood for some minutes looking out. Then he returned to his desk,dropped into the chair, pulled open a deep drawer and took therefrom acartridge belt, completely studded with cartridges. Suspended from thebelt were two ivory-handled pistols that had seen much service.
They had belonged to his father. Later, he had worn them himself--inthe days when his character had been in process of developing, when hehad earned, with them, a reputation which had made him respectedthroughout the state.
They were, he felt, symbols of an ancient time. The day was coming whenmen would ride the open range without guns, when the wearing of gunswould 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 ofmen would have to be regulated by the statute books.
He had brought the two guns with him upon the impulse of a moment. Hewould be away from the Circle L for at least two years, and he wantedthe guns where he could look at them occasionally. For they brought intohis mind a picture of his father as he had seen him, many times, wearingthem; and they reminded him of days when he, too, had worn them--daysthat had a romantic charm all their own.
The Trail Horde Page 39
