The Trail Horde by Charles Alden Seltzer (i read book .TXT) 📖

penning a note to his mother, informing her that he was going to Red Rock with his men, he went out and rode down into the valley, where the other men of the outfit were guarding the main herd, which had been held in the valley at his orders.

Long before dawn the big herd was on the move, heading northward, toward Willets, the twenty men of the outfit flanking them, heading them up the great slope that led out of the valley.

The progress of the herd was slow, for there was good grazing and the cattle moved reluctantly, requiring the continued efforts of the men to keep them moving at all. And yet when darkness came that night they had reached the Rabbit Ear—where two nights before Blackburn had held the first herd.

It was late in the afternoon of the second day when Lawler and his men came within sight of Willets. They drove the second herd to where Blackburn and his men were holding the first. Leaving Blackburn to make arrangements for camp, Lawler rode on into Willets. From a distance he saw that the company corral was well filled with cattle; and when he saw Lem Caldwell talking with some other men in front of the hotel, he knew the cattle in the corral bore Caldwell's brand.

He waved a hand to Caldwell and the others as he rode past the hotel; but he kept on until he reached the station, where he dismounted, hitched Red King to a rail and crossed the railroad track.

A frame building, small, with a flat shedlike roof, stood near the corral fence—between the tracks and the big gates—and Lawler entered the open door, to find a portly, bald-headed man sitting at a rough, flat-top desk. The man was busy with a pencil and a pad of papers when Lawler entered, and he continued to labor with them, not seeming to notice his visitor.

Lawler halted just inside the door, to await the man's leisure. And then he saw Gary Warden lounging in a chair in a far corner. Warden did not appear to see Lawler, either; he was facing the back of the chair, straddling it, his elbows crossed on the back, his chin resting on his arms, his gaze on the rough board floor.

Lawler noted, his lips straightening a little, that in the movements of the man at the desk was a deliberation that was almost extravagant. The man was writing, and the pencil in his hand seemed to lag. He studied long over what he wrote, pursing his lips and scratching his head. But not once did he look up at Lawler.

"Wrestling with a mighty problem, Jordan?" finally asked Lawler, his patience strained, his voice in a slow drawl.

The bald man started and glanced up. Instantly, he reddened and looked down again, leaving Lawler to wonder how it was that every official with whom he had conversed within the past few days had exhibited embarrassment.

"Excuse me, Lawler," said Jordan; "I didn't know you was here. I'll be with you in a second—just as soon as I check up this tally. Caldwell drove in here not more'n two hours ago, an' I ain't got his tally straightened up yet."

Lawler turned his back to Warden and gazed out through the open doorway. On the siding was a long string of empty box cars, plainly awaiting Caldwell's cattle.

After a glance at the cars, Lawler wheeled and faced Warden, who was still gazing meditatively downward.

"I see that cars came quickly enough when you ordered them, Warden," he said.

Warden raised his head slowly and gazed straight at Lawler, his eyes gleaming challengingly.

"Yes," he said: "Simmons finally unearthed enough to take care of Caldwell's cattle. There'll be more, as soon as Simmons can find them. And he'll have to find them pretty soon or his company will face a lawsuit. You see, Lawler, I ordered these cars months ago—got a written contract with the railroad company for them. They've got to take care of me."

"I reckon you knew they'd take care of you, Warden. You were as certain of that as you were that they wouldn't take care of any owner who wouldn't sell to you."

"What do you mean, Lawler?" demanded Warden, his face flushing.

"What I said, Warden. It takes gall to do what you and your friends are doing. But, given the power, any bunch of cheap crooks could do it. You understand that I'm not complimenting you any."

It was apparent to Warden, as it was apparent to Jordan—who poised his pencil over the pad of papers and did not move a muscle—that Lawler's wrath was struggling mightily within him. It was also apparent that Lawler's was a cold wrath, held in check by a sanity that forbade surrender to it—a sanity that sternly governed him.

It was the icy rage that awes with its intensity; the deliberate bringing to the verge of deadly action the nerves and muscles that yearn for violent expression—and then holding them there, straining tensely, awaiting further provocation.

Both men knew what impended; both saw in the steady, unwavering gleam of Lawler's eyes the threat, the promise of violence, should they elect to force it.

Jordan was chastened, nerveless. The pencil dropped from his fingers and he slacked in his chair, watching Lawler with open mouth.

Warden's face had grown dead white. The hatred he bore for this man glared forth from his eyes, but the hatred was tempered by a fear that gripped him.

However, Warden was instinctively aware that Lawler would not force that trouble for which he plainly yearned; that he would not use the gun that swung from the leather at his hip unless he or Jordan provoked him to it.

And Warden wore no gun. He felt secure, as he sat for an interval after considering the situation, and yet he did not speak at once. Then, with the urge of his hatred driving him, he said, sneeringly:

"Cheap crooks, eh? Well, let me tell you something, Lawler. You can't intimidate anybody. My business is perfectly legitimate. I am not violating any law. If I have the foresight to contract for cars in time to get them for shipment, that is my business. And if I offer you—or any man—a price, and it doesn't suit you, you don't have to accept it."

He saw a glint of humor in Lawler's eyes—a sign that the man's passions were not to be permitted to break the leash in which he held them—and he grew bolder, his voice taking on a vindictive note.

"And I want to tell you another thing, Lawler. As long as I am resident buyer at Willets you'll never ship a hoof through me. Understand that! You can drive to Red Rock and be damned! If you'd been halfway decent about this thing; if you hadn't come swaggering into my office trying to dictate to me, and calling me a liar, I'd have kept Lefingwell's agreement with you!"

"Then Lefingwell wasn't the liar," smiled Lawler; "you're admitting it."

Warden's face grew poisonously malevolent. He laughed, hoarsely.

"Bah!" he jeered. "We'll say I lied. What of it! I didn't want to antagonize you, then. Only a fool is truthful at all times." He laughed again, mockingly. "I'm truthful when I want to be."

He saw the frank disgust in Lawler's eyes, and the desire to drive it out, to make the man betray some sign of the perturbation that must be in him, drove Warden to an indiscretion.

"You're a wise guy, Lawler," he jeered. "A minute ago you hinted that this thing was being engineered by a bunch of cheap crooks. Call them what you like. They're out to break you—understand? You suspect it, and I'm telling you. You went around last fall with a chip on your shoulder, making trouble far Haughton and his friends. And now they're going to bust you wide open and scatter your remains all over the country. They're going to fix you so that you'll never shoot off your gab about conditions in the state again. Governor—hell! you'll be a bum before that gang gets through with you!"

He paused, breathing rapidly, his face pale with passion; his eyes glowing with hatred, naked and bitter.

He heard Lawler's short, mirthless laugh; he saw Lawler's eyes narrow and gleam with a cold flame as he took a step forward and stood over him.

"Get up, Warden," came Lawler's voice, low and vibrant. "You'll understand what I'm going to say a whole lot better if you're on your feet, like a man."

Warden got up, defiantly, and for an instant the two men stood looking into each other's eyes, both understanding the enmity that was between them, and both seemingly exulting in it.

"I'm thanking you, Warden, for telling me. But I've known, since I talked with Simmons about the cars, just what it all meant. My talks with Hatfield and Governor Haughton convinced me beyond all reasonable doubt. I'm the man they are after, of course. But incidentally, they're going to mulct every other cattle owner in the state. It's a mighty big scheme—a stupendous robbery. The man who conceived it should have been a pirate—he has all the instincts of one.

"But get this straight. You've got to fight me. Understand? You'll drag no woman into it. You went to the Hamlin ranch the other day. God's grace and a woman's mercy permitted you to get away, alive. Don't let it happen again. Just as sure as you molest a woman in this section, just so sure will I kill you no matter who your friends are! Do you understand that, Warden?"

Warden did not move a muscle. He tried to look steadily into Lawler's eyes, found that he could not endure the terrible intensity of them—and drooped his own, cursing himself for the surrender.

He heard Lawler laugh again, a sound that sent a cold shiver over him; and then he saw Lawler standing beside the desk at which Jordan sat.

"Jordan," said Lawler, shortly; "I want you to vent my cattle. There's eight thousand head, approximately. They're being held just out of town—about a mile. I'd like to have you give me a certificate of ownership tonight, so we can start to drive before daylight."

Jordan's face whitened, and then grew crimson. He essayed to look up, to meet Lawler's eyes, raising his head and then lowering it again without achieving his desire. He cleared his throat, shifted his body and scuffed his feet on the floor. At last, after clearing his throat again, he spoke, huskily:

"We ain't ventin' any trail herds this fall, Lawler."

Lawler stiffened, looked from Jordan to Warden, and then back again at Jordan, who had taken up the pencil again and was nervously tapping with it upon the desk top.

"Not venting trail herds, eh?" said Lawler. "Whose orders?"

"The state inspector—headquarters," replied Jordan, hesitatingly.

"Would you mind letting me see the order, Jordan?" asked Lawler, calmly.

Jordan succeeded in looking up at Lawler now, and there was rage in his eyes—rage and offended dignity.

Both were artificial—Lawler knew it. And his smile as he looked into Jordan's eyes told the other of the knowledge.

Jordan got up, stung by the mockery in Lawler's eyes.

"Hell's fire, Lawler!" cursed Jordan; "can't you take a man's word?" He stepped back, viciously pulled open a drawer in the desk, drew out a paper—a yellow telegraph form, and slapped it venomously down on the desk in front of Lawler.

"It's ag'in' orders, but I'm lettin' you see it. Mebbe you'll take a man's word after this!" he sneered.

Lawler read the order. Then he calmly placed it on the desk. He looked at Jordan, whose gaze fell from his; he turned to Warden, who smiled jeeringly.

"There is nothing like thoroughness, whenever you do anything on a big scale, Warden," he said. "This order forces cattle owners in this section to drive cattle over a trail without proof of ownership. We fought for that vent law for a good many years, as a weapon against rustlers. This order leaves a cattle owner without protection against the horde of rustlers who infest