The Trail Horde E-Book

Charles Alden Seltzer

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

If you enjoy the works of Charles Alden Seltzer then we highly recommend „The Trail Horde” for your book collection. A classic story that is considered to be Seltzer’s best work with action and romance trailing at every turn. After losing a ranch, a lone man battles against the rustlers and cattle thievin’ sidewinders who had grabbed the spread. Plot twists and detailed explanations of characters thoughts and motivations. Charles Alden Seltzer was one of the most successful and prolific Western writers of his day. His books are now lauded for their authenticity, and were widely reprinted and translated during his lifetime, and for several decades after. A number of his novels were adapted for the screen beginning in the silent-film era.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I. CONCERNING MORALS

CHAPTER II. DRIVING A BARGAIN

CHAPTER III. A WOMAN'S EYES

CHAPTER IV. REBELLION

CHAPTER V. A MAN'S WORD

CHAPTER VI. THE INVISIBLE POWER

CHAPTER VII. THE COALITION

CHAPTER VIII. A WOMAN'S MERCY

CHAPTER IX. THE ARM OF POWER

CHAPTER X. THE SECOND OBSTACLE

CHAPTER XI. THE LONG TRAIL

CHAPTER XII. THE NIGHT WIND'S MYSTERY

CHAPTER XIII. THE INVISIBLE MENACE

CHAPTER XIV. LAWLER'S "NERVE"

CHAPTER XV. CONCERNING AN OUTLAW

CHAPTER XVI. A "NORTHER"

CHAPTER XVII. THE LINE CABIN

CHAPTER XVIII. STORM-DRIVEN

CHAPTER XIX. DEATH AT A DOOR

CHAPTER XX. THE "KILLING"

CHAPTER XXI. CHANC. AND A MAN

CHAPTER XXII. THE WHITE WASTE

CHAPTER XXIII. A WOMAN'S WILES

CHAPTER XXIV. DELLA'S HANDKERCHIEF

CHAPTER XXV. IN WHICH A MAN PLOTS

CHAPTER XXVI. A MENACE APPEARS

CHAPTER XXVII. EVIDENCE

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE TRAIL HORDE

CHAPTER XXIX. ANTRIM STRIKES

CHAPTER XXX. A WOMAN LIES

CHAPTER XXXI. "JAIL'S EMPTY, KANE!"

CHAPTER XXXII. RED KING RUNS

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE FIGHT AT THE CABIN

CHAPTER XXXIV. "GOOD OLD SHORTY!"

CHAPTER XXXV. HAUNTING MEMORIES

CHAPTER XXXVI. A MAN MEDITATES VENGEANCE

CHAPTER XXXVII. THE TRAP

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE GOVERNOR'S GUNS

CHAPTER XXXIX. SLADE'S PRISONER

CHAPTER XL. PRIMITIVE INSTINCTS

CHAPTER XLI. THE CLEAN-UP

CHAPTER XLII. GOING EAST

CHAPTER XLIII. THE MAJESTY OF PEACE

CHAPTER I

CONCERNING MORALS

There were fifty thousand acres within view of the ranchhouse–virgin grass land dotted with sage, running over a wide level, into little hills, and so on to an upland whose rise was so gradual that it could be seen only from a distance, best from the gallery of the ranchhouse.

The first tang of autumn was in the sage-scented breeze that swept the county, and the tawny valley, basking in the warm sunlight that came down from a cloudless sky, showed its rugged beauty to advantage.

Kane Lawler paused at the edge of the gallery and filled his lungs from the sage-laden breeze, and then wheeled to face his mother.

She smiled at him.

“Have you seen Ruth Hamlin lately, Kane?”

Lawler’s lips opened, then closed again, tightly. And by that token Mrs. Lawler knew that something Kane had been on the point of saying never would be said. For she knew her son as no other person in the country knew him.

Kane Lawler was big. From the broad shoulders that bulged the gray flannel shirt, down the yellow corduroy trousers that encased his legs to the tops of the boots with their high heels and dull-roweled spurs, Lawler looked what he was, a man who asked no favors of his kind.

Mrs. Lawler had followed him out of the house, and she now stood near him, watching him.

There was in Lawler’s lean face as he turned from his mother and peered steadily out into the valley, a hint of volcanic force, of resistless energy held in leash by a contrary power. That power might have been grim humor–for his keen gray eyes were now gleaming with something akin to humor–it might have been cynical tolerance–for his lips were twisted into a curious, mirthless half-smile; it might have been the stern repression that had governed him all his days.

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.”

“Singleton!” Lawler’s voice snapped with astonishment. “Dave Singleton, Lefingwell’s old range boss?”

Hamlin nodded. And then the grip of Lawler’s fingers on his chin relaxed. He heard Lawler step back, but he did not lift his head for a few minutes, during which a strained silence descended upon the room. Then he covertly raised his head, to see Lawler standing with his arms folded over his chest, watching him.

Lawler had not suspected Singleton. Between himself and Singleton there had always been a lack of ordinary cordiality, a constraint closely approaching dislike; but Lawler had never entertained a suspicion that Lefingwell’s range boss was dishonest.

Hamlin was a moral weakling, he knew. Everybody in the Wolf River section knew it. Hamlin was lazy and shiftless, seemingly contented to drift along in an aimless way, regardless of what happened to him. There was at Hamlin’s feet some of the wealth that other cattlemen of the district were gaining. He had proved on a quarter-section of good grass land amid plenty of water, and yet he chose to steal cattle rather than raise them.

Lawler’s pity for the man was stronger than the resentment he felt. Hamlin was Ruth’s father, though looking at him as he sat dejectedly in the chair, Lawler found it hard to discern the relationship.

“How long has Singleton been buying cattle from you?”

“About a year. I sold him what stock I had, before–before I got to runnin’ my brand on other folks’ stock, an’ he hinted he wasn’t particular whose cattle I got, long as he could get ‘em under the market price.”

“Does Singleton come here?”

“Sometimes–mostly nights.”

Lawler’s quick conclusion was that Ruth must have seen Singleton at the cabin, must have noted that the visits seemed surreptitious. Perhaps she had watched, convincing herself of her father’s guilt. Lawler had wondered how she had gained the knowledge she seemed to have, and Singleton’s visits must be the explanation.

Hamlin had bowed his head again after a swift glance at Lawler. He stiffened when he felt Lawler at his side again, for there had come into the atmosphere of the cabin a premonitory chill which warned him that Lawler was on the verge of action.

But he was not prepared for what happened.

Lawler’s sinewy hands fell on his shoulders. The fingers bit deeply into the flesh, drawing a groan of pain from Hamlin. He was lifted to his feet–off his feet, so that he dangled in the air like a pendulum. He was suspended by the shoulders, Lawler’s fingers gripping him like iron hooks; he was shaken until his feet, powerless to retard the movement, were flopping back and forth wildly, and his teeth rattled despite his efforts to clench them. It seemed to him that Lawler would snap his head from his shoulders, so viciously did Lawler shake him. Then suddenly the terrible fingers relaxed, and Hamlin reeled and swayed, dizzy and weak from the violence of movement. He was trying to keep his feet solidly on the floor when he felt Lawler’s fingers at his throat.

To his astonishment, the fingers did not sink into the flesh. They touched his throat lightly, and he dazedly met Lawler’s eyes, burning, with a passion he never had seen in them before. And Lawler’s voice was dry and light, but steady–so steady and cold that Hamlin realized that only the man’s complete mastery of himself had kept him from committing murder.

“Hamlin, I ought to kill you. I’m letting you off on one condition–that you break off with Singleton, and that you keep silent about the things we both know. If you confess to Ruth that you’ve been rustling cattle, or if you tell her–or hint of it–that I know you’ve been rustling–I’ll tear you apart!

“You’re like a lot of other damned, weak-kneed polecats. You’ve got a girl who is good as gold, and you’re making a regular hell for her. She’s wise to what you’ve been doing–she suspects you. And from now on you’re going to show her that she was wrong–that you’re straight and square.

“There’s a job for you over at the Circle L–if you want it. I’ll throw things in your way; I’ll put you on your feet again–give you stock and tools, and pretend I’ve sold them to you. I’ll do anything to keep you square. But if you tell Ruth, I’ll kill you as sure as my name is Lawler!”

“I’m agreein’,” said Hamlin, thickly. “I ain’t wanted to do the things I’ve been doin’. But things didn’t go right, an’ Singleton–damn it, Lawler; I never liked the man, an’ I don’t know why I’ve been doin’ what I have been doin’. But I’ve wanted to do somethin’ for Ruth–so’s she could quit teachin’ an’ live like a lady. I thought if I could get a bunch of coin together that mebbe she’d have––”

“She’d see you dead before she’d touch it,” scoffed Lawler.

“Mebbe I’d be better off if I was dead,” said Hamlin, glumly.

“You’ll die, right enough, if you don’t keep your word to me,” grimly declared Lawler.

He strode to the door, leaped upon Red King and rode away.

Inside the cabin, Hamlin got to his feet and swayed toward the door, reaching it and looking out, to see Lawler riding rapidly toward Willets.

CHAPTER III

A WOMAN’S EYES

There had been a day when Willets was but a name, designating a water tank and a railroad siding where panting locomotives, hot and dry from a long run through an arid, sandy desert that stretched westward from the shores of civilization, rested, while begrimed, overalled men adjusted a metal spout which poured refreshing water into gaping reservoirs.

In that day Willets sat in the center of a dead, dry section, swathed in isolation so profound that passengers in the coaches turned to one another with awe in their voices and spoke of God and the insignificance of life.

But there was a small river near the water tank–the headwaters of the Wolf–or there had been no tank. And a prophet of Business, noting certain natural advantages, had influenced the railroad company to build a corral and a station.

From that day Willets became assured of a future. Cattlemen in the Wolf River section began to ship stock from the new station, rather than drive to Red Rock–another shipping point five hundred miles east.

From the first it became evident that Willets would not be a boom town. It grew slowly and steadily until its fame began to trickle through to the outside world–though it was a cattle town in the beginning, and a cattle town it would remain all its days.

Therefore, because of its slow growth, there were old buildings in Willets. The frame station had an ancient appearance. Its roof sagged in the center, its walls were bulging with weakness. But it stood defiantly flaunting its crimson paint above the wooden platform, a hardy pioneer among the moderns.

Business had strayed from the railroad track; it had left the station, the freighthouse, the company corral, and some open sheds, to establish its enterprises one block southward. There, fringing a wide, unpaved street that ran east and west, parallel with the gleaming steel rails, Business reared its citadels.

Willets buildings were not imposing. One-story frames predominated, with here and there a two-storied structure, or a brick aristocrat seeming to call attention to its substantial solidity.

Willets had plenty of space in which to grow, and the location of the buildings on their sites, seemed to indicate that their builders appreciated the fact that there was no need for crowding. Between each building was space, suggestive of the unending plains that surrounded the town. Willets sat, serene in its space and solitude, unhurried, uncramped, sprawling over a stretch of grass level–a dingy, dirty, inglorious Willets, shamed by its fringe of tin cans, empty bottles, and other refuse–and by the clean sweep of sand and sage and grass that stretched to its very doors. For Willets was man-made.

From the second story of a brick building that stood on the southern side of the street, facing the station, Gary Warden could look past the red station into the empty corrals beside the railroad track. Jim Lefingwell, Warden’s predecessor, had usually smiled when he saw the corral comfortably filled with steers. But Gary Warden smiled because the corral was empty.

Warden was standing beside a flat-topped desk at one of his office windows. Warden was big, though not massive. He seemed to have the frame of a tall, slender man, and had he stayed slender he might have carried his flesh gracefully. But Warden had lived well, denying himself nothing, and the flesh which had been added had formed in flabby bunches, drooping his shoulders, sagging his jaws, swelling the back of his neck.

And yet Warden was not old; he had told some new-made friends in Willets that he was thirty-five. But he looked older, for a certain blasé sophistication that shone from his eyes and sat on the curves of his lips, did much to create the impression of past maturity.

Warden dressed well. He was coatless, but he wore a shirt of some soft, striped material, with a loose, comfortable-looking collar and a neat bow tie. His hair was short, with bristles in the roll of fat at the back of his neck; while at his forehead it was punctiliously parted, and plastered down with precision.

Warden was not alone. At another window, her elbows on the sill, her hands crossed, her chin resting on the knuckles of the upper one, sat a woman.

She was young, slender, lissom. There was grace in every line of her, and witchery in the eyes that watched Warden with a steady gaze. She too, was hatless, seemingly conscious of the beauty of her hair, which was looped and twisted into glistening strands that fell over her temples and the back of her neck.

As she watched Warden, who was smiling at the empty corral, she withdrew her elbows from the window-sill, twisted around, so that she faced Warden, and idly twirled the felt hat that she took from her lap.

“Does something please you, Gary?” she asked with slight, bantering emphasis.

Warden’s smile broadened. “Well, I’m not exactly displeased.”

“With Willets–and the rest of it?”

“With that corral–over there.” He pointed.

“Why, it’s empty!”

“That’s why.”

“Why you are pleased! That is odd. As a buyer, I should think you would be more pleased if the corral were full–had cows in it. That is what you are here for, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” grinned Warden; “to keep it empty until it is filled with steers at my price.”

“Oh, bother!” The woman yawned. “I am glad it is you and not I who is to deal with these clod-hoppers. I should turn sour–or laugh myself to death.”

“Getting tired of it already, Della?”

“Dreadfully tired, Gary. If I could see one interesting person, or a good-looking man with whom I could flirt––”

“Don’t forget our engagement, Della,” warned Warden.

She laughed, shooting a mischievous glance at him. “Oh, it would be harmless, I assure you–mere moral exercise. Do you imagine I could lose my heart to one of these sagebrush denizens?”

“Not you, Della,” grinned Warden; “that isn’t your style.”

The girl yawned again, and got to her feet, smoothing her ruffled skirts. Then she walked to a mirror on a wall near the door, and spent some time placing the felt hat on her head at a precise angle, making certain that the coils of hair under it were arranged in the most effective manner. She tucked a stray wisp into the mass at the nape of her neck, patted the glistening coils so that they bulged a little more–smiling with smooth serenity at the reflection in the glass.

“Well, good-bye, Gary. I left Aunt Hannah at Corwin’s store. She’ll be afraid I’ve eloped with you. No,” she added, as Warden advanced toward her; “no kisses now. I’ll look in again before we leave town.”

She opened the door, and as it closed she flashed a smile at Warden. Then he heard her descending the stairs. He watched the closed door for an instant, frowning disappointedly; then he strode again to one of the front windows, grinning as his gaze rested on the empty corral.

CHAPTER IV

REBELLION

Accident or design had placed the schoolhouse at the eastern edge of town. The invisible power which creates the schoolhouse seemingly takes no account of time or place. It comes, unheralded, unsung, and squats in the place where the invisible power has placed it, and instantly becomes as indispensable as the ungainly youth that occupies it.

All youth is not ungainly. Ruth Hamlin was considering the negative proposition as she stood on the little platform in front of the blackboard just before noon, calmly scrutinizing the faces of the score of pupils who composed her “class.”

About half of her pupils, she decided, were worthy of the affection she had bestowed upon them. The remainder were ungrateful, incorrigible hoodlums. There had been times when Ruth wondered if the task of teaching was worth while.

A good teacher must not be vindictive; and Ruth was trying her best to keep alive the spark of mercy and compassion that threatened to burn itself out.

Despite her apparent calm–the outward sign of cold self-control–Ruth’s face revealed indications of the terrific struggle that was going on within her. Her face was pale, and though her eyes seemed to smile, there was a gleam far back in them that suggested thoughts of force, instant, vicious. Also there was wrath in them–wrath that threatened to break with volcanic fury.

The girl was of medium height, and yet she seemed to be almost tall as she stood on the platform. She was erect, her head was held high. She was slender, with a gracefully rounded figure, but as she stood there, her muscles straining, her chest swelling with the passion she was trying to suppress, she must have appeared Amazonic to the culprits whose crimes had goaded her to thoughts of corporal punishment.

It was not difficult to single out the culprits. There were two, and they sat defiantly in their seats, sneering their contempt of the teacher’s wrath, advertising their entire disregard for the restraining influence of rules.

Both were boys. The larger, freckle-faced, with an uptilted nose and belligerent eyes, was fully as tall as Ruth. He was broad and muscular, and it was evident that consideration for his size was one influence that had thus far delayed the punishment he no doubt merited.

It was evident, too, that the culprit suspected this, for as Ruth’s hesitation continued he grew bolder and more contemptuous. And now, having divined that Ruth would not attempt to inflict the punishment she meditated, the young man guffawed loudly.

“Shucks,” he sneered, winking piratically at his brother-culprit; “she’s tryin’ to run a whizzer in on us. She ain’t goin’ to do nuthin’!”

“Jimmy Singleton; you advance to the platform!” Ruth’s voice came sharply, quavering with the passion she had been suppressing until now.

She stood rigid until “Jimmy” got out of his seat with elephantine deliberation, and shuffled to the edge of the platform, where he stood, grinning defiantly.

Ruth raised the lid of her desk and took out a formidable willow branch, which she had cut only the day before from a tree that grew beside the Wolf near her cabin, in anticipation of the present incident.

She had known for many days that she would have to punish Jimmy Singleton, for Jimmy had been growing daily less amenable to discipline. But she had hoped that she would not be compelled to punish him–she had escaped that disagreeable task so far.

But there was no alternative, and though she grew deadly white and her legs grew weak as she drew out the willow switch, she advanced on Jimmy, her eyes flaming with desperate resolution.

As she reached Jimmy’s side, he lunged toward her. He struck viciously at her with his fist, the blow landing on her shoulder near the neck. It had been aimed at her face, but she had somehow dodged it. The force of the blow brought Jimmy against her, and he seized her around the waist and attempted to throw her. She brought the switch down sharply on Jimmy’s legs as they struggled, and the sting of the blow enraged the boy. He deliberately wrenched himself loose; then leaped forward, swinging his arms viciously.

He had not struck the girl fairly, but she was in a daze from the rapid movement, and she was not aware of what was going on around her, centering all her energy in an attempt to keep the boy from striking her face.

But she suddenly became conscious that a big form had loomed close to her; she heard a deep, angry voice saying:

“I’ll attend to you–you young pirate!”

And then Jimmy was jerked backward, away from her; and she saw Kane Lawler standing not more than two or three paces from her. His right hand was twisted in Jimmy’s collar; and there was an expression of cold rage on his face–despite the smile he gave her when she looked at him–that chilled her.

But she made no objection when Lawler walked to a chair that stood on the platform, dragging the now protesting Jimmy after him by the scruff of the neck. There was something of majestic deliberation in Lawler’s movements, she thought, as he seated himself in the chair and placed the struggling Jimmy across his knees.

Ruth had never entertained a bloodthirsty thought, but her passions were very near that point when she saw Lawler’s large, capable right hand begin to descend upon Jimmy’s anatomy. She gasped at first, at Lawler’s temerity; and then she stepped back and watched him, her heart singing with approval.

Lawler’s capable right hand descended many times with a force that brought dismal howls from the unlucky culprit–so many times and with such force that the girl began to fear that Jimmy would be fatally injured. Jimmy likewise entertained that fear, for his howls grew more shrill, laden with mingled terror and pain, until the piercing appeal of them sent the other pupils out of their seats and into the open shouting that Jimmy was being “killed.”

Then, just when Ruth decided to protest, Lawler swung Jimmy around and placed him upright upon the platform. What Lawler said to Jimmy, Ruth did not hear, so low was his voice. But she heard Jimmy’s reply, as did some of the children who still lingered outside the door:

“You’ve walloped me, damn you; you’ve walloped me!”

Jimmy ran frenziedly to the door, plainly in fear that he would be “walloped” again if he did not make his escape; and when he reached the door he shrieked through unmanly tears:

“My paw will wallop you; you locoed maverick–you see if he don’t!”

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.