Whatever it was it seemed to be no secret from his mother, for she smiled understandingly, and with pride that must have been visible to anyone who watched her.
Massed in the big valley—at a distance of two or three miles from the big ranchhouse, was a herd of cattle. Circling them were a number of cowboys on horses. In the huge corral that spanned a shallow, narrow river, were other cattle. These were the result of the fall—or beef—round-up. For a month there had been intense activity in the section. Half the cattlemen in the county had participated in the round-up that had centered upon Lawler’s range, the Circle L: and the cattle had been herded down in the valley because of its natural advantages.
There the herd had been held while the neighboring cattlemen engaged in the tedious task of “cutting out”—which meant that each cattle owner took from the herd the steers that bore his “brand,” with the addition of a proportionate number of unbranded steers, and calves, designated as “mavericks.” Then the neighboring outfit had driven their stock home.
“It was a big round-up, Kane,” said Mrs. Lawler, watching the herd.
“Eight thousand head,” Lawler replied. “We’re starting a thousand toward Willets today.”
“Have you seen Gary Warden? I mean, have you arranged with Warden to have him take the cattle?”
Lawler smiled. “I had an agreement with Jim Lefingwell. We made it early last spring.”
“A written agreement?”
“Shucks—no. I never had a written agreement with Lefingwell. Never had to. Jim’s word was all I ever wanted from him—all I ever asked for.”
“But perhaps Gary Warden’s business methods are different?”
“I talked that over with Lefingwell when he sold out to Warden. Jim said he’d already mentioned our agreement to Warden and that Warden had agreed to carry it out.”
“But suppose Warden has changed his mind?”
Lawler spoke seriously. “No man goes back on his word in this country. But from what I’ve heard of Warden, he’s likely to. If he does, we’ll drive the stock to Keppler, at Red Rock. Keppler isn’t buying for the same concern, but he’ll pay what Lefingwell agreed to pay. We’ll ship them, don’t worry.”
“Red Rock means a five hundred mile drive, Kane.”
Lawler replied, “You’re anticipating, Mother. Warden will take them.”
Lawler grinned and stepped off the gallery. A few minutes later he emerged from the stable carrying a saddle, which he flung over one of the top rails of the corral fence. He roped a big, red bay, smooth, with a glossy coat that shone like a flame in the clear white light of the morning sun.
The bay was built on heroic lines. He was tall and rangy, and the spirit of a long line of thoroughbred ancestors was in him. It showed in the clear white of his gleaming, indomitable eyes, in his thin, sensitive nostrils and long, shapely muzzle; in the contour of his head and chest, and in his slender, sinewy legs.
Man and horse were big, capable, strong-willed. They were equipped for life in the grim, wild country that surrounded them. From the slender, powerful limbs of the big bay, to the cartridge-studded belt that encircled the man’s middle, with a heavy pistol at the right hip, they seemed to typify the ruggedness of the country, seemed to embody the spirit of the Wild.
Lawler mounted, and the big bay whistled as he pranced across the ranchhouse yard to the big corral where the cattle were confined. Lawler brought the bay to a halt at a corner of the corral fence, where his foreman, Blackburn, who had been breakfasting in the messhouse, advanced to meet him, having seen Lawler step down from the gallery.
Blackburn was of medium height, swarthy, with heavy brows under which were keen, deep-set eyes. His mouth was big, expressive, with a slightly cynical set in repose.
“We’re hittin’ the trail in about an hour,” said Blackburn. “Are you wantin’ me to put ’em through, or are we takin’ two days to it, as usual?”
“Two days,” advised Lawler. “There’s no hurry. It’s a bad trail in spots, and they’ll want to feed. They’ll stand the trip on the cars better if they’ve had plenty of grass.”
“Gary Warden is keeping Lefingwell’s agreement with you, I reckon?” asked Blackburn. He eyed Lawler intently.
“Of course.” Lawler caught the expression of his foreman’s eyes, and his brows drew together. He added: “Why do you ask?”
“Just wonderin’,” hesitated Blackburn; “just wonderin’. You seen this here man, Warden?”
Lawler had not met Warden; he had not even seen the man from a distance. That was because he had not visited Willets since Warden had bought Lefingwell’s ranch and assumed Lefingwell’s position as resident buyer for a big eastern live-stock company. Lawler had heard, though, that Warden seemed to be capable enough; that he had entered upon the duties of his position smoothly without appreciable commotion; he had heard that Warden, was quiet and “easy-going,” and that as a cattle buyer he seemed to “know his business.”
This information had reached Lawler’s ears through the medium of neighboring cattle owners, and he was willing to accept it as accurate, though he was not prepared to form an estimate of Warden until he had an opportunity to talk with him personally.
“Well,” went on Blackburn; “them that’s looked him over don’t hesitate to say he don’t measure up to Jim Lefingwell’s size.”
“Jim was a mighty big man—in size and principles,” said Lawler.
“Now you’re shoutin’! There wasn’t no man bigger’n Jim, sideways, edgeways, or up an’ down. I reckon any man would have a hard time measurin’ up to Jim Lefingwell. Mebbe that’s what’s wrong with Warden. Folks has got Jim Lefingwell on their minds, an’ they’re not givin’ Warden what’s comin’ to him, them bein’ biased.” He squinted at Lawler. “Folks is hintin’ that Warden don’t own Jim Lefingwell’s ranch a-tall; that some eastern guys bought it, an’ that Warden’s just managin’ it. Seems like they’s a woman at the Lefingwell’s old place, keepin’ Warden company. She’s eastern, too, they say. Got a old maid with her to keep her company—a chapper-own, they say—which ain’t in no ways illuminatin’ my think-tank none. Which is a chapper-own?”
“A kind of a moral monitor, Blackburn,” grinned Lawler. “Some folks need them. If you’re thinking of getting one—”
“Bah!” Blackburn’s eyes were vitriolic with disgust. “I sabe what you are hintin’ at when you gas of morals—which I’m a heap acquainted with because I ain’t got none to speak of. But I’m plumb flabbergasted when you go to connectin’ a battleship with anything that’s got a whole lot to do with morals. Accordin’ to my schoolin’, a monitor is a thing which blows the stuffin’ out of—”
“A monitor of morals could do that,” gravely said Lawler. “In fact, according to the best authorities, there have been many monitors who have blown the stuffing out of the reputations of their charges.”
Blackburn gulped. He was puzzled, and his eyes were glazed with the incomprehension which had seized him. Twice again as he watched Lawler’s grave face he gulped. And then he eyed Lawler belligerently.
“I reckon them monitors is eastern. I’ve never seen one galivantin’ around these parts.”
“They’re a lot eastern,” assented Lawler. “I’ve never seen one, but I’ve read about them in books. And once my mother saw one—she tells me the East raises them by the hundred.”
“That accounts for it,” declared Blackburn; “anything which comes from the East is likely to be a heap shy on hoss sense.”
He now squinted at Lawler, watching him keenly.
“Accordin’ to report Joe Hamlin ought to go around draggin’ one of them monitors.”
Blackburn shrewdly noted the quickening of Lawler’s eyes, and the dull red that stole into his face.
“What do you mean, Blackburn?”
“Davies an’ Harris hit town ag’in last night; an’ comin’ back they run plumb into Joe Hamlin. He was in the upper end of the box arroyo. He’d roped an’ hog-tied a Circle
L cow an’ was blottin’ our brand out.”
“What happened?” Lawler’s lips were set in grim lines.
“Nothin’—followin’ your orders regardin’ the cuss. Davies an’ Harris let him go—after warnin’ him. Somethin’ ought to be done. It ain’t addin’ a heap to the morals of the outfit for the men to know a man can rustle cattle that promiscuous—an’ the boss not battin’ an eyewinker. This is the fourth time he’s been caught with the goods—to say nothin’ of the times he’s done it without nobody gittin’ wise—an’ the boys is beginnin’ to ask questions, bein’ a heap puzzled because somethin’ don’t happen to Joe.”
Lawler’s face was expressionless. Except for the flush in his cheeks he seemed to be unaffected by Blackburn’s words. His voice was a trifle cold when he spoke:
“I’ll attend to Hamlin. I’ll stop at the Two Bar on my way to Willets. By the time you reach town with the cattle I’ll have the deal with Warden clinched.”
Blackburn nodded, and Lawler wheeled the bay, heading him northward.
As he rode, Lawler’s face changed expression. He frowned, and his lips set stiffly.
What he had been almost on the point of telling his mother was that he knew why Ruth Hamlin had refused him. It was pride, nothing less. Lawler suspected that Ruth knew her father was a rustler. In fact, there had been times when he had seen that knowledge lying naked in her eyes when she looked at her parent. Accusation and disgust had been there, but mingling with them was the persistent loyalty that had always governed the girl; the protective instinct, and a hope of reformation.
The pride that Mrs. Lawler had exhibited was not less strong in the girl’s heart. By various signs Lawler knew the girl loved him; he knew it as positively as he knew she would not marry him while the stigma of guilt rested upon her parent. And he was convinced that she was ignorant of the fact that Lawler shared her secret. That was why Lawler had permitted Hamlin to escape; it was why he had issued orders to his men to suffer Hamlin’s misdeeds without exacting the expiation that custom provided. Lawler did not want Ruth to know that he knew.
He sent the big bay forward at a steady, even pace, and in an hour he had crossed the sweep of upland and was riding a narrow trail that veered gradually from the trail to Willets. The character of the land had changed, and Lawler was now riding over a great level, thickly dotted with bunch grass, with stretches of bars, hard sand, clumps of cactus and greasewood.
He held to the narrow trail. It took him through a section of dead, crumbling lava and rotting rock; through a little stretch of timber, and finally along the bank of a shallow river—the Wolf—which ran after doubling many times, through the Circle L valley.
In time he reached a little grass level that lay close to the river. A small cabin squatted near the center of the clearing, surrounded by several outbuildings in a semi-dilapidated condition, and a corral, in which there were several horses.
Lawler sent Red King straight toward the cabin. When he reached the cabin he swung off and walked toward the door, his lips set in straight lines, his manner decisive.
He had taken only several steps when a voice greeted him, coming from the interior of the cabin—a man’s voice, snarling, venomous:
“You come another step, Kane Lawler, an’ I’ll bore you!”
Lawler halted, facing the door. The door was closed, but a little slide in the upper part of it was open. Through the aperture projected the muzzle of a rifle, and behind the rifle appeared a man’s face—dark, bearded, with eyes that gleamed with ferocious malignancy.
CHAPTER II
DRIVING A BARGAIN
Lawler stiffened. There was no mistaking the deadly threat of the rifle and the man’s menacing manner. Lawler’s face was pale, but his eyes were unwavering as they looked into those that glared out at him through the aperture in the door.
Guilt and fear were the emotions that had driven Hamlin to this rather hysterical threat. Lawler resisted an impulse to laugh, though he felt a pulse of grim humor shoot through him.
To his knowledge—excepting Hamlin’s predilection to rustle cattle—the man was harmless. He never had been known to draw a gun, even in self-defense, and Lawler was convinced that there was not sufficient provocation for him to break one of the rules that had governed him until now. Hamlin might be goaded, or frightened, into using the rifle, but Lawler had no intention of goading or frightening him. In fact, being aware of the reason for Hamlin’s belligerence, he had no intention of acquainting the man with the knowledge of what had happened the night before. At least, not at this instant.
Lawler’s lips wore a shadowy smile.
“I reckon you don’t know me, Hamlin?” he said.
“I know you mighty well, Lawler,” snapped Hamlin; “you heard me mention your name!”
“Then you’ve got a new way of greeting your friends, eh—with a rifle. Well, put it down and open the door. There’s some things I want to say to you.”
“What about?” asked Hamlin, suspiciously. Overwhelming every other thought in his mind was the conviction that Davies and Harris had apprised Lawler of what had happened the night before, and that Lawler had come to capture him, single-handed.
“About Ruth.”
The wild gleam in Hamlin’s eyes began to dull. However, he was still suspicious.
“You seen any of your men this mornin’—Davies or Harris?” he asked.
“Davies and Harris went to town last night. I reckon they didn’t get back yet. What’s Davies and Harris got to do with me visiting you?”
“Nothin’.” There was relief in Hamlin’s voice. The muzzle of the rifle wavered; the weapon was withdrawn and the slide closed. Then the door slowly opened, and Hamlin appeared in it, a six-shooter in hand.
“If you’re foolin’ me, Kane Lawler, I’ll sure bore you a-plenty!” he threatened.
“Shucks!” Lawler advanced to the door, ignoring the heavy pistol, which was shoved close to his body as he walked into the cabin, Hamlin retreating before him.
“Hamlin, you’re losing whatever sense you had,” said Lawler as he halted near the center of the big room. There were three rooms, their doors opening from the one in which Lawler and Hamlin stood.
“Meanin’ what?” demanded Hamlin, nervously fingering the six-shooter.
It was clear that Hamlin was impressed with the repressed force that he could see in Lawler; with the slumbering energy that Lawler’s lithe, sinewy body suggested; with the man’s complete lack of fear and with the cold confidence that swam in his steady eyes.
Hamlin did not know at this minute whether or not he had meant to shoot Lawler. He believed that if Lawler had told him he had come to take him for blotting out the Circle L brand in the arroyo the preceding night he would have killed Lawler. But he was not sure. Something about Lawler made the thought of shooting him seem ridiculous. It would take a lot of provocation for any man to kill Lawler, for something about Lawler seemed to hint that it couldn’t be done.
“Meaning that you are old enough to know that you can’t keep on rustling my cattle without getting in trouble.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Hamlin, his breath hissing through his teeth as he sucked it in with a gasp; “you sneaked on me, damn you!”
He threw the muzzle of the pistol up, his body stiffening, his eyes glittering with the malignance that had been in them when he had been looking out at Lawler through the aperture in the door.
“You know about that deal, an’ you’ve come for me. You tried to fool me, eh—tellin’ me that you didn’t see Davies an’ Harris. Well, damn your hide you ain’t goin’ to take me; I’ll blow you to hell first!”
Lawler’s eyes were steady and unblinking as he watched Hamlin; they bored into Hamlin’s with a compelling intensity, that brought a conviction of futility into Hamlin’s soul. They were cold eyes—cold as icebergs, Hamlin thought as he watched them; but they seemed to flame also, to flame with a fire that was cold as the ice in them.
The terrible power of them,
and the promise of volcanic action back in them; the awful confidence that shone in them; the threat compelling Hamlin against his will, deadening his muscles, jumbling his thoughts—brought chaos into the man’s brain, and he stood, his mouth agape with wonder over the thing that was happening to him, as Lawler walked steadily to him. He made no resistance as Lawler deliberately wrenched the pistol from his hand and as deliberately walked to a side wall and placed it upon a shelf.
Hamlin stood, nerveless and pallid, for an instant, watching Lawler’s movements—until Lawler turned and faced him again. Then he staggered to a chair and dropped into it, lowering his head dejectedly, sitting with his hands folded, completely subjected.
Lawler would hang him, now. Lawler would take him to the Circle L and turn him over to Blackburn and the other men of the outfit. And Blackburn would hang him, for Blackburn had told him he would. Or, if Lawler didn’t take him to Blackburn he would take him to the sheriff. He would be hanged then, but he would go to the new prison at the capital, and Ruth would have to stay on here to do the real suffering for his misdeeds.
“You damned fool!” came Lawler’s voice into the vacuumlike stillness of the cabin. “You haven’t got nerve enough to shoot a coyote!”
Hamlin knew it; he knew, now, at least, that he hadn’t had nerve enough to shoot Lawler. He cringed under Lawler’s contemptuous tone. And then he became aware that Lawler was speaking again.
“I’m giving you another chance. I’m letting you off, clean. For Ruth’s sake.
“Look here, Hamlin!”
Hamlin’s chin was caught in an iron grasp and he found himself looking into the terrible eyes. He saw grim pity in the eyes and he shuddered.
“Ruth knows you’re stealing cattle. Everybody knows it, now. Who is buying them?”
“Singleton.”
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 88
