“Settled!” Singleton laughed deeply.  “You might call it that.  Blondy an’ his gang are runnin’ this man’s town, right now!  They’ve got Moreton scared, looks like!  He’s layin’ mighty low, an’ keepin’ his trap shut.  Blondy’s got a mighty tough gang—­a bunch of hoppin’, howlin’ tarantulas, straight from hell!  Blondy’s still raw from that deal Lawler handed him when he brought him here an’ dumped him down on the platform, tellin’ you Blondy was his ‘vent.’  Blondy swears he’ll kill Lawler for that, an’ I’m bankin’ that he makes a strong play for a killin’.  There’s red in Blondy’s eyes when he talks about Lawler!”

Warden smiled evilly.  “That’s Lawler’s lookout,” he said, venomously; “he ought to be man enough to take care of himself.  Let’s take a look around.”

With Singleton beside him, Warden visited half a dozen saloons and dance halls; smiling as he noted the bepistoled cowboys who were swaggering in and out of doorways and on the sidewalk—­strangers to him, but not to Singleton, who grinned and nodded to them as they passed.

Warden spent the night in town.  And after midnight, in a room at the rear of the Wolf Saloon—­when the sounds of the night’s revelry were becoming fainter—­he sat at a table with Singleton and Blondy Antrim, talking in low tones.

* * * * *

At eight o’clock in the morning Warden stepped into the door of Sheriff Moreton’s office.

Warden’s face was pale, and he smiled mirthlessly at Moreton, who was standing near a desk looking over some papers.

Moreton looked keenly at his visitor.  “You’re back, eh?” he said, shortly.

“Back to perform a solemn duty, Moreton,” said Warden.  “I have the evidence I spoke to you about.  It’s too bad, but we are all bound to see that justice is done.  I don’t like to take this step, for Lawler is a distinguished citizen despite some mighty bad habits, and I don’t like to be the one to charge him with that crime.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Moreton; “I can see that you’re about ready to break down an’ bawl right out in meetin’.  But I wouldn’t do no more fourflushin’ in here—­it ain’t healthy.  Where’s your evidence?”

Warden laid Della Wharton’s written statement on the desk at the sheriff’s hand.  He watched while Moreton read; he saw Moreton’s face whiten; saw his hand tremble a little as he folded the paper and put it into a pocket.

Then he looked straight at Warden.

“I don’t believe a damned word of it, Warden!” he said, his eyes blazing.  “If that woman was in that cabin with Lawler durin’ the storm she kept it mighty quiet.  An’ Lawler didn’t say a word about it when I rode over to see him a couple of months ago!” He glared at Warden.  “Where’s that Wharton woman, now?”

“She’ll get to town this afternoon,” Warden said.

“Well, she’ll have to swear to this, Warden.  I can’t afford to act on this—­mebbe it ain’t her signature.”