Jimmy vanished. There was no doubt in Lawler’s mind, nor in Ruth’s, that he had gone to relate his trouble to his “paw;” and that “paw” would presently appear to exact the lurid punishment Jimmy desired.
But thoughts of imminent punishment were not in Lawler’s mind as he faced Ruth. There was nothing but humorous concern in his eyes and voice.
“Did he hurt you, Ruth?”
“I—I think not,” she smiled; “but I have no doubt that he would have thrashed me soundly if you hadn’t come when you did. I am sorry it happened, but I just had to discipline him. He was setting a bad example for the other pupils.”
“Teaching school isn’t the best job in the world, is it?”
“Decidedly not!” She looked quickly at Lawler, for something in his voice hinted of subtlety; and when she saw his eyes agleam with the whimsical humor that was always in them when he spoke of his hope of winning her, she knew that he had attacked her obliquely.
Her cheeks flushed, and she drooped her shining eyes from his, murmuring low:
“But I am going to keep at it for the present, Kane.”
“I was hoping—” he began. But he paused when she shook her head.
“Is that what you rode to town for?” she asked.
“That’s the big reason,” he returned. “The other is that I’m here to sell Gary Warden my cattle.”
“I don’t like Gary Warden!” she declared.
His eyes twinkled. “I’ve heard that before—two or three times. By the time I see him I’ll be disliking, him, myself.”
The class, Ruth now noted, had departed—undoubtedly to follow Jimmy Singleton; or perhaps seizing the opportunity so suddenly presented to play truant. At all events the school was deserted except for themselves.
But Ruth did not seem to mind, nor did Lawler express any regret for the absence of an audience. He grinned widely at Ruth.
“You’ll not get them back today, I reckon. If you’re riding back home I’d be pleased to—”
“But you have business with Gary Warden!” she reminded him.
“That can wait. Blackburn won’t have the herd here until tomorrow.”
Her eyes were glowing with pleasure, and the faint flush on her face betrayed her still more. But she looked at him resolutely.
“I shall stay the day out, whether the children come back or not,” she said. “And you must not permit me to interfere with business.”
It cost her something to tell him that, for the lure of him had seized her long ago—during the first days of their acquaintance, in fact—and she was deliberately refusing the happiness that was offered her—because she could not confess her father’s crimes to this man, and because she would not marry him unless he knew.
And not even then, perhaps. For she knew something of Lawler’s high ideals, the rugged honesty of him, his straightforwardness and his hatred for the thieves who stole cattle—thieves like her father. She couldn’t marry him, feeling that each time he looked at her she must feel that he would be thinking of the misdeeds of her parent. That would be unbearable.
He took a step, and stood beside her, looking down at her gravely. He took one of her hands, she permitting it, lifting her eyes to his as he drew the hand toward him. The hand lay inertly in his left; he covered it with his right and held it thus in a warm, firm grip. Then he met her eyes, his own swimming with a gentleness that made her draw a slow, deep breath of wonder.
This minute had been anticipated by both of them; for many months, when they had stood close together, they had felt the imminence of surrender to the longing that dwelt in both of them.
But the girl resisted, as she had resisted many times. Her breath came rapidly, and the captive hand trembled as she tried to withdraw it.
“No; not now, Kane!” she protested; “not now—please!”
Lawler laughed lowly, and held the hand for an instant longer, while he compelled the girl’s eyes to meet his.
“All right,” he said; “not now. But the time will come. Something is worrying you, Ruth. But you don’t trust me enough to tell me what it is. Some day—when you discover that nothing but your love means anything to me; when you realize that I love you enough to take you in spite of the thing that worries you—you’ll tell me. And then we’ll forget it.”
He stepped back, releasing her hand, for he had heard a commotion outside—Jimmy’s voice, high-pitched, carrying a note of savage triumph; and the voices of the other pupils in a shrill murmur, coming closer.
Ruth started, clenched her hands and backed to the desk, where she stood, her eyes wide, her breath coming fast, a picture of apprehension and dismay.
Her big eyes went to Lawler, who grinned faintly at her.
“I reckon Jimmy’s coming with his ‘paw,’” he said.
A big man, massive, muscular, with heavy shoulders that seemed to droop with the weight of his great, long arms, stepped into the room.
The man’s head was big, like the rest of him, and covered with shaggy, tawny hair which seemed to bristle with truculence. His chin was huge, square, and sagging a little, his lips were in a hideous pout; and his eyes, small, black, with heavy brows that made them seem deep-set, were glittering with passion.
He paused just inside the door, seemingly to accustom his eyes to the subdued light of the room. His long arms were hanging at his sides, the fingers clenching and unclenching close to the heavy pistols he wore—one at each hip. As he stood there, blinking his eyes at Ruth and Lawler, Lawler spoke.
“Come in, Singleton,” he said.
Ruth was still standing at the desk. Her arms were now outstretched along it, her hands gripping its edge. She started at the sound of Lawler’s voice, amazed at the change that had come in it—wondering how—when it had been so gentle a few minutes before—it could now have in it a quality that made her shudder.
She saw the big man’s eyes widen, noted that his shoulders sagged a little when he heard Lawler’s voice; observed that there seemed to come an appreciable lessening of the tension of his taut muscles. She marveled that the sound of one man’s voice could have so calming an effect upon another—that it could, at a stroke, seemingly, cool the white-hot rage that had seized the man.
But there was no doubt that a change had come over the big man. His shoulders sagged further. A suggestion of a mirthless smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth; he unclenched the fingers of his hands.
“It’s you, eh?” he said, gruffly. “My kid was sayin’ someone in the schoolhouse had walloped him, an’ I was aimin’ to find out who it was. I reckon he’s gone.”
“I walloped him, Singleton.”
Lawler’s voice was gentle. In it was still a trace of that quality that Ruth had sensed, softened now slightly by the knowledge that Singleton’s rage had slightly cooled.
“There isn’t a heap to be said, I reckon,” Lawler resumed as Singleton stood rigid again. “Your boy was trying to ‘wallop’ his teacher. I happened to look in, and I had to take a hand in it, just to keep things even. He had it coming to him, Singleton.”
Lawler’s manner was conciliatory, even mildly placative. “I figured on saving you a job, Singleton.”
Singleton’s face reddened.
“Lawler, I figger to lick my own kid.”
“Singleton, I reckon it can’t be undone, and you’ll have to make the best of it. You and I have never got along well, but I want you to know I didn’t know it was your boy I punished.”
“Hell’s fire!” snarled Singleton; “what you interferin’ in the schoolhouse for? What business you got buttin’ in?” It was dear that Singleton’s rage was again rising. He must have noticed that the pupils had crowded around the door, and that Jimmy was watching him, no doubt disappointed that the salutary punishment for which he had hoped had been unnecessarily delayed.
Undoubtedly the presence of the children contributed to Singleton’s anger; but at bottom was his old dislike of Lawler—a dislike that the incident of the whipping
had increased to hatred.
It was plain that Singleton meditated violence. Yet it was equally plain that he feared Lawler. He never had seen Lawler draw a gun, but he had heard tales of the man’s ability with the weapon. There lingered in his mind at this minute—as it had dwelt during all the days he had known Lawler—the knowledge that Lawler’s father had been a gunman of wide reputation, and that he had taught his son the precision and swiftness that had made him famous in the deadly art.
That knowledge had always exerted a deterring influence upon Singleton; there had been times when he would have drawn a gun on Lawler had it not been that he feared the son might be as swift as the father.
So Singleton had assured himself; he was not afraid of Lawler, he was afraid of the reputation of Lawler’s father. Singleton was reluctant to admit that it was not Lawler’s gun that he was afraid of, but something that was in the man himself—in his confident manner, in the level glance of his eyes; in the way he looked at Singleton—seeming to hint that he knew the man’s thoughts, and that when the time came—if it ever came—he would convince Singleton that his fears were well founded.
And, singularly, Singleton knew it; he knew that if he drew his gun on Lawler, Lawler would anticipate the movement; Singleton had become convinced of it—the conviction had become an obsession. That was why his rage had cooled so suddenly when he had entered the schoolroom.
But he knew, too, that Lawler never sought trouble; that within the past few years—or since Singleton had known him—he had never drawn the gun that reposed at his hip. And that knowledge brought the rage surging back into Singleton’s veins. He knew he could talk to Lawler; that he could say some of the things that were in his mind—that had been in his mind all along; and that he would be safe so long as he kept his hands away from his guns.
As he snarled his questions at Lawler he took a step toward him. His eyes were truculent again, his lips in the pout that had been on them when he had entered. If Lawler didn’t go for his gun he need have no fear of him. For he was bigger than Lawler, stronger. And if he could goad Lawler into using his fists instead of the dreaded gun he had no doubt of the outcome.
“Singleton,” replied Lawler, answering the questions that had been hurled at him; “what I am here for is my business. I don’t feel a heap like explaining it.”
“Business—bah!” sneered Singleton. “I reckon the business that brought you here could be carried on better with no kids around.”
Singleton saw a pin point of fire glow in Lawler’s eyes. But he noted with venomous satisfaction that Lawler’s hand did not move upward the slightest fraction of an inch toward his gun, and he laughed discordantly, taking another step toward Lawler, so that he would be close enough to strike when the time came.
“Lawler,” he said, sticking his face close to the other’s, his eyes glittering with the malignant triumph that had seized him over the conviction that Lawler would not try to draw his gun; “I’m figgerin’ on wallopin’ you like you walloped my kid. Understand? I’m aimin’ to make you fight—with your fists. I’m goin’ to knock hell out of you!”.
Lawler had not moved. Had Singleton not been so obsessed with thoughts of an easy victory he might have noted that the pin point of fire that had glowed in Lawler’s eyes had grown larger, and that his muscles had stiffened. Also, had Singleton been observant at this minute he must have seen a faint grin on Lawler’s lips.
“Hell’s fire!” snarled Singleton; “won’t anything make you fight! There’s that girl there—Ruth Hamlin. You think she’s got a right to be proud as she is. Lawler, you don’t know her; you don’t know what’s goin’ on over there at the Two Bar—Hamlin’s ranch. This here school teachin’ of hers is only a blind—a blind, I tell you! A blind for other things that her an’—”
Ruth’s sharp, protesting cry was drowned in a sodden swish as Lawler struck. His fist had shot upward with the weight of his body behind it, landing fairly on the point of Singleton’s chin, snapping his teeth shut with a clack.
Singleton’s head went back, his body rose from the floor. He came down with his knees unjointed, his head sagging on his chest; came down in a heap and tumbled forward upon his face, his arms limp, the fingers slowly spreading.
For an instant Lawler stood over him, pale, his eyes agleam. Then when Singleton did not move he turned to Ruth, smiling faintly.
“Go home, now, Ruth, before this beast comes to life. Go out and send the children away. I’ve got something to say to Singleton.”
Ruth looked intently at him, saw there would be no use of pleading with him, and walked to the door, dragging the children away from it, telling them to go home.
Jimmy Singleton, terrorized by the thing that had happened to his father, needed no urging. He ran, whimpering, toward town, the other children following.
Ruth went to the shed where she kept her pony, threw saddle and bridle on him and led him to the step, where she usually mounted.
The door of the schoolhouse was closed. Trailing the reins over the pony’s head, she ran to one of the windows—a small one in the center of the side wall, dust-begrimed, with one pane of glass missing.
Peering within, she saw Singleton sitting up, staring dazedly around, supporting himself with his hands, an expression of almost laughable, bewilderment on his face.
Lawler was standing near him—big, stern, seeming to wait for Singleton to rise before he spoke to him.
And while Ruth watched, Singleton staggered to his feet. He swayed uncertainly as he faced Lawler; and when Lawler advanced toward him he cringed and staggered back, raising one arm as though to ward off an expected blow.
Ruth heard his voice; it was a whine, tremulous with fear.
“Don’t hit me again, Lawler; I wasn’t meanin’ anything!”
And then Ruth saw that Singleton must have been struck a second time, for high up on his left cheek was a huge gash that had suffused his chin and neck with blood. She remembered that while saddling and bridling her pony she had heard a sound from within the schoolhouse, but she had thought then that it must have been Lawler moving a chair. Plainly, Singleton had recovered from the first blow, and had received another.
Lawler’s voice again reached her. It was low, vibrant with passion.
“Singleton, I ought to kill you. I will kill you if you ever tell that girl that you know her father is a rustler. Damn your hide, she knows it now—and it’s breaking her heart!
“I’m warning you. Don’t you ever go near the Two Bar again. Don’t you ever buy another steer from Hamlin. Don’t even speak to him. I’ll kill you sure as hell if you do!”
Ruth reeled away from the window. She got on her pony somehow, taking care to make no sound, for she did not want Lawler to know that she had heard. Once on the pony she sent the little animal rapidly away, toward the Two Bar—away from Lawler and from that happiness for which she had hoped despite the hideous knowledge which for months had tortured her.
Inside the schoolhouse Singleton was standing, beaten by the man over whom he had thought to triumph easily; by a man whose pallid face and blazing eyes conveyed to Singleton something of the terrible power and energy of him when aroused.
Singleton did not think of his guns, now; he was aware of nothing but the great awe that had seized him. And as Lawler watched, saying nothing more, Singleton turned from him and slunk out through the door.
CHAPTER V
A MAN’S WORD
When Lawler finally emerged from the schoolhouse door there was no one about. Far down the street, in front of a building, he saw a group of children. Lawler recognized the building as the Wolf Saloon—so named because of the river that ran through the town. He had no doubt that Singleton had entered the building—that would explain the presence of the children in front of it.
But Lawler merely glanced toward town; he turned instantly and gazed long into the great stretch of plain that ran eastward. He caught sight of a dot on his right, so far away that it was dim in the haze of
distance, and he knew Ruth had followed his advice.
Lawler watched the dot until it vanished, and when he turned again—to mount Red King—his color had returned, though something of the mighty passion that had gripped him was still swimming in his eyes.
He sent Red King into town at a slow lope, not even looking toward the Wolf as he passed it, but hearing subdued voices that seemed to die away as he drew close.
He brought Red King to a halt in front of the brick building in which Gary Warden had his office, dismounted, tied the horse to a hitching rail and strode to an open doorway from which ran the stairs that led to the second floor. A gilt sign on the open door advised him of the location of Warden’s office.
With one foot on the stairs, ready to ascend, Lawler heard a woman’s voice, floating downward, coming from the landing above:
“Well, good-bye Gary,” said the voice; “I’ll see you tonight.”
Lawler heard a man’s voice answering, the words unintelligible to him; then the woman laughed, banteringly.
Then came the sound of a door closing, and the light tread of a woman’s foot on the stairs.
Lawler had halted when he heard the woman’s voice; he now stepped back in the narrow hallway, against the open door, to give the woman room to pass him.
Turning his back to the stairs, unconcernedly waiting, subconsciously realizing that the woman was descending, he gazed past the station building to see the empty corrals on the other side of the railroad track. His eyes narrowed with satisfaction—for there would be room for the thousand head of cattle that Blackburn and the other men of the Circle L outfit would bring to Willets in the morning. There would be no delay, and no camp on the edge of town, awaiting the emptying of the corral.
When he heard the woman’s step on the bottom of the stairs he turned and faced her. She was looking straight at him, and as their eyes met he saw hers widen eloquently. She half paused as she started to pass him, and it seemed to him that she was about to speak. He smiled gravely, puzzled, hesitant, for her manner indicated that she knew him, or was mistaking him for another. He paused also, and both stood for a fleeting instant face to face, silent.
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 90
