“You’re wastin’ your time, goin’ to see Morgan Hatfield, the commissioner. Don’t I know him? He tin-horned over at Laskar for two or three years before he got into politics; an’ now he’s tin-hornin’ the cattle owners of the state. He’ll grin that chessie-cat grin of his an’ tell you he can’t do nothin’. An’ he’ll do it! Bah! This country is goin’ plumb to hell. Any country will, when there’s too much law hangin’ around loose!”
He scowled and looked hard at Lawler. “We’ll hold ’em at Willets, all right an’ regular, until you give us the word to hit the Tom Long trail. But while you’re gone I’m gettin’ ready to travel—for there won’t be any cars, Lawler, an’ don’t you forget it!”
Lawler said nothing in reply to Blackburn’s vitriolic speech. So unperturbed did he seem that Blackburn remarked to one of the men—after Lawler wrapped himself in a blanket and stretched out near the fire—that, “the more Lawler’s got on his mind the less he talks.”
Long before dawn Lawler saddled up and departed. When Blackburn awoke and rubbed his eyes, he cast an eloquent glance at the spot where Lawler had lain, grinned crookedly and remarked to the world at large: “Anyway, we’re backin’ his play to the limit—an’ don’t you forget it!”
Lawler left Red King at the stable from which, the day before, Gary Warden had ridden on his way to the Hamlin cabin; and when the west-bound train steamed in he got aboard, waving a hand to the friends who, the day before in the Willets Hotel had selected him as their spokesman.
It was afternoon when Lawler stepped from the train in the capital. He strode across the paved floor of the train shed, through a wide iron gate and into a barber-shop that adjoined the waiting-room.
There he gave himself to the care of a barber who addressed him as Mr. Lawler in a voice of respect.
“I’ve shaved you before, Mr. Lawler,” said the man. “I think it was when you was down here last year, to the convention. I heard the speech you made that time, nominating York Falkner for governor. Too bad you didn’t run yourself. You’d have made it, saving the state from the tree-toad which is hanging to it now.”
During his short stay at the Circle L the night before, Lawler had changed from his cowboy rigging to a black suit of civilian cut, with tight trousers that were stuffed into the tops of soft boots of dull leather. The coat was long, after the fashion of the period, cut square at the bottom, and the silk lapels matched the flowing tie that was carelessly bowed at the collar of a shirt of some soft, white material. He wore a black, felt hat; and out of consideration for the custom and laws of the capital, he had shoved his six-shooter around so that it was out of sight on his right hip. However, the cartridge-studded belt was around his waist; he kept the black coat buttoned over it, hiding it.
He had been in the capital often, and had no difficulty in finding his way to the capitol building. It was at the intersection of two wide streets—a broad, spacious structure of white stone, standing in the center of a well-kept grass plot. It was imposing, hinting of the greatness of the state that had erected it, suggesting broadness of vision and simple majesty.
The state was not at fault, Lawler reflected as he mounted the broad stone stairs that led upward to the interior of the building; the state was founded upon principles that were fundamentally just; and the wisdom of the people, their resources, their lives, were back of it all. This building was an expression of the desire of the people; it represented them; it was the citadel of government from which came the laws to which they bowed; it was the visible arm of power.
Lawler crossed the big rotunda, where the light was subdued; and walked down a wide corridor, pausing before a door on which was the legend: “State Railroad Commissioner.” A few minutes later, after having given his name to an attendant, he was standing in a big, well-lighted and luxuriously furnished room—hat in hand, looking at a tall, slender man who was seated in a swivel chair at a big, flat-top desk.
The man was older than Lawler, much older. The hair at his temples was almost white, but heavy and coarse. An iron-gray wisp straggled over his brow, where he had run a hand through it, apparently; his eyes were gray, keen, with a light in them that hinted of a cold composure equal to that which gleamed in Lawler’s. The long, hooked nose, though, gave the eyes an appearance of craftiness, and the slightly downward droop at the corners of his mouth suggested cynicism.
He smiled, veiling an ironic flash in his eyes by drooping the lids, as he spoke to his visitor.
“Hello, Lawler,” he said, smiling faintly, “take a chair.” He waved a hand toward one, on the side of the desk opposite him. “It’s been a long time since you struck town, hasn’t it—since the last state convention—eh?”
There was a hint of laughter in his voice, a suggestion of mockery in the unspoken inference that he remembered the defeat of Lawler’s candidate.
Lawler smiled. “Well, you did beat us, that’s a fact, Hatfield. There’s no use denying that. But we took our medicine, Hatfield.”
“You had to,” grinned the other. “Whenever the people of a state—”
“Hatfield,” interrupted Lawler, gravely, “it seems to me that the people of this state are always taking medicine—political medicine. That’s what I have come to talk with you about.”
Hatfield’s smile faded. His eyes gleamed coldly.
“What’s wrong, Lawler?”
“It’s cars, Hatfield—or rather no cars,” he added, grimly. “Usually, at this season of the year, there will be a hundred or two empty cars on the siding at Willets—with other hundreds on the way. This year the siding is empty, and Jay Simmons says there are no cars to be had. He tells me there isn’t an empty car in the state. Caldwell, of the Star, and Barthman, Littlefield, Corts, Sigmund, and Lester—who are ranch owners near Willets—told me to come down here and ask you what can be done. I’m asking you.”
Hatfield eyed Lawler steadily as the latter talked; his gaze did not waver as Lawler concluded. But a slight stain appeared in his cheeks, which instantly receded, leaving them normal again. But that slight flush betrayed Hatfield to Lawler; it told Lawler that Hatfield knew why there were no cars. And Lawler’s eyes chilled as his gaze met Hatfield’s.
“I’ve talked that matter over with the railroad people several times,” said Hatfield, in an impersonal, snapping voice. “They tell me that you cattle owners are to blame. You seem to think that it is the business of the railroad company to guess how many cars you will want. You wait until the round-up is over before you begin to think about cars, and then you want them all in a bunch.”
“You are mistaken, Hatfield. Along about the middle of the season every prudent cattle owner arranges with a buyer or with the railroad company for the necessary cars. In my case, I made arrangements with Jim Lefingwell, the buyer at Willets, as long ago as last spring. But Lefingwell isn’t buyer any more, and Gary Warden, the present buyer, refuses to recognize my agreement with Lefingwell.”
“A written agreement?”
“Unfortunately not. Lefingwell’s word was always good.”
Hatfield’s smile was very near a sneer. “If you neglect the rudiments of business it seems to me that you have only yourselves to blame. In your case, Lawler, it is rather astonishing. You have quite a reputation for intelligence; you own one of the biggest ranches in the state; you are wealthy; and last year you tried to tell the people of the state how to run it. You even went so far as to make a speech in the convention, naming the man you preferred for governor.”
Lawler smiled, though his gaze was level.
“Don’t be unpleasant, Hatfield. You understand I am not here as a politician, but as a mere citizen petitioning you to act in this railroad case. What I have done or said has no bearing on the matter at all. The railroad company will not provide cars in which to ship our stock East, and I am here to ask you to do something about it.”
Hatfield appeared to meditate.
“Warden offered to buy your cattle, you say?”
Lawler
nodded. But he had not mentioned to Hatfield that Warden had offered to buy the cattle—Hatfield had either surmised that, or had received information through other sources. Lawler suspected that the railroad commissioner had been informed through the various mediums at his command, and this was evidence of collusion.
“And Simmons says there are no cars,” mused Hatfield. “Well, that seems to leave you shippers in a bad predicament, doesn’t it? Can’t you drive to some other point—where you can arrange to get cars?”
“Five hundred miles, to Red Rock, over the Tom Long trail—the worst trail in the country.”
“What price could you get at Red Rock?”
“The market price—about thirty dollars.”
“And what did Warden offer?”
“Twenty-five.”
“H’m. It seems to me, considering the inconvenience of driving over the Tom Long trail, you’d be better off taking Warden’s offer. It’s remarkable to what lengths you cattle owners will go for a few dollars.”
“Five dollars a head on a herd of eight thousand amounts to forty thousand dollars, Hatfield,” Lawler reminded him.
“Hatfield, this isn’t a question of dollars, it’s a question of principle. This situation is a result of a scheme to hold up the cattle owners of the state. It’s mighty plain. The railroad company refuses cars to the cattle owners, but will supply them to buyers like Warden. The buyers must have some assurance of getting cars, or they wouldn’t buy a single hoof. What we want is to force the railroad to supply cattle owners with cars.”
“Why not hold your stock over the winter?” suggested Hatfield, with a faint, half-smile.
“Hatfield, you know that can’t be done. There isn’t a cattle owner in the country who is prepared to winter his stock. Had we known this situation was to develop we might have laid in some feed—though that is an expensive method. Nothing has been done, for we expected to ship by rail as usual. Almost every owner has a stock of feed on hand, but that is for breeders, and for other stock that doesn’t grade up. If we are forced to winter our stock on the ranges half of them would die of starvation and exposure before spring.”
Hatfield narrowed his eyes and studied Lawler’s face. He half pursed his lips for a smile, but something in the grave, level eyes that looked into his dissuaded him, and he frowned and cleared his throat.
“It looks mighty bad, for a fact,” he said. “The buyers seem to have you owners in something of a pocket. The worst of it is, that the thing is general. I have complaints from all over the state. The railroad people say there is nothing they can do. I’ve taken it up with them. The explanation they offer is that during the summer they sent most of their rolling stock East, to take care of an unprecedented demand there. For some reason or other—which they don’t attempt to explain—the cars haven’t been coming back as they should. It looks to me, Lawler, like you owners are in for a bad winter.”
“What about the law, Hatfield; can’t we force them to supply cars?”
Hatfield’s smile came out—it was sarcastic.
“The wise law-makers of the state, who gave the railroad company a franchise, neglected to provide a punitive clause. There isn’t a tooth in the law—I’ve looked it over from one end to the other, and so has the attorney-general. This office is helpless, Lawler. I would advise you to accept the offer of your resident buyer. It may be that those fellows have an agreement with the railroad company, but we haven’t any evidence, and without evidence we couldn’t do anything, even if there were teeth in the law.”
Lawler smiled and went out. As the door closed behind him Hatfield sank back into his chair and chuckled gleefully.
“Swallowed it!” he said in an undertone; “swallowed it whole. And that’s the guy I was most afraid of!”
Lawler walked down the big corridor, across the rotunda, and into another corridor to the door of the governor’s office. As he passed through the rotunda he was aware that several persons congregated there watched him curiously; and he heard one of them say, guardedly:
“That’s Kane Lawler, of Wolf River. He’d have been governor, right now, if he’d said the word last fall. Biggest man in the state!”
There was truth in the man’s words, though Lawler reddened when he heard them. Three times in the days preceding the convention which had nominated Perry Haughton, the present governor, delegations from various sections of the state had visited Lawler at the Circle L, endeavoring to prevail upon him to accept the nomination; and one day the editor of the most important newspaper in the capital had journeyed to the Circle L, to add his voice to the argument advanced by the delegations.
But Lawler had refused, because previously to their visits he had given his word to York Falkner. And he had championed Falkner’s candidacy with such energy and enthusiasm that in the end—on the day of the convention—his name was better known than that of his candidate. And at the last minute the convention was in danger of stampeding to him, threatening to nominate him despite his protests. He had been forced to tell them plainly that he would not serve, if nominated and elected, because he had pledged his support to Falkner. And Falkner, at home in a distant county while the convention was in session, remained silent, refusing to answer the frantic requests that he withdraw in favor of Lawler. That attitude had defeated Falkner, as his loyalty to his friend had increased his popularity.
Now, pausing before the door of the governor’s office, Lawler was aware of the completeness of the sacrifice he had made for Falkner. His face paled, his eyes glowed, and a thrill ran over him. At this moment—if he had not made the sacrifice—he might have been sitting in the governor’s office, listening to Caldwell, or Sigmund, or others from his own section,—perhaps from other sections of the state—advising them, seeking to help them. For one thing, Morgan Hatfield would not have been his railroad commissioner!
As it was, he was going to enter the governor’s office as a mere petitioner, not sure of his reception—for Perry Haughton had beaten Falkner, and owed Lawler nothing. Indeed, after his election, Haughton had referred sarcastically to Lawler.
When Lawler found himself in the presence of the governor he was in a grimly humorous mood. For despite the sarcastic flings he had directed at Lawler, the governor ponderously arose from a big chair at his desk and advanced to meet him, a hand outstretched.
“Hello, Lawler!” he said; “glad to see you. Where have you been keeping yourself?”
Lawler shook the governor’s hand, not replying to the effusive greeting. Lawler smiled, though, and perhaps the governor saw in the smile an answer to his question. He led Lawler to a chair, and returned to his own, where he sat, leaning back, watching his visitor with a speculative gaze.
Perry Haughton was a big, florid man with sleek, smooth manners, a bland smile and an engaging eye, which held a deep gleam of insincerity. The governor posed as a genial, generous, broad-minded public official—and it had been upon that reputation that he had been nominated and elected—but the geniality had been adopted for political reasons. The real man was an arrogant autocrat, lusting for power and wealth.
He disliked Lawler—feared him. Also, since the convention he had felt vindictive toward Lawler, for Lawler had offended him by his tenacious championship of Falkner. He had almost lost the nomination through Lawler’s efforts.
“Been in town long?” he queried.
“Just long enough to have a talk with Hatfield.”
The governor smiled wanly. “Hatfield has been having his troubles, Lawler. An unprecedented situation has developed in the state. The railroad company seems to be unable to supply cars for cattle shipments. We have investigated, and so far we have been unable to discover whether the shortage is intentional or accidental. Whatever the cause, it is a bad situation—very bad. We’ve got to take some action!”
“Whatever action you take ought to be immediate, Governor,” said Lawler. “The round-up is over and cattle must move. That is why I am here—to ask you what can be done.”
“That will be in January,” said Lawler. “Half the cattle in the state will starve before that time.”
The governor flushed. “That’s the best we can do, Lawler.”
“Why not call a special session, Governor?”
Haughton laughed. “Do you keep yourself informed, Lawler?” he said, a suspicion of mockery in his voice. “If you do, you will remember that the legislature has just adjourned, after acting upon some important matters.”
“This matter is important enough to demand another session immediately!” declared Lawler.
The governor cleared his throat and gazed steadily at Lawler, his eyes gleaming with a vindictive light that he tried to make judicial.
“As a matter of fact, Lawler, this question of shipping cattle is not as important as you might think—to the state at large, that is. If you take all the packing out of the case you will find at the bottom that it is merely a disagreement between cattle owners and cattle buyers. It seems to me that it is not a matter for state interference. As I understand, the cattle buyers have offered a certain price. The owners ask another; and the owners want the state to force the buyers to pay their price. I can’t see that the state has any business to meddle with the affair at all. The state can’t become a clearing-house for the cattle industry!”
“We are not asking the state to act in that capacity, Haughton. We want the state to force the railroad company to provide cars.”
“It can’t be done, Lawler! There is no provision in the law under which we can force the railroad company to provide cars.”
Lawler laughed mirthlessly and got to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at the governor. For a time there was silence in the big room, during which the governor changed color several times, and drooped his eyes under Lawler’s grimly humorous gaze. Then Lawler spoke:
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 94
