The effect of the assaults of his enemies thus far had disturbed him little.  He had been able to anticipate most of their attacks and they had resulted in little harm to himself.  They had left him unperturbed, unharmed—­like the attacks of an excitable poodle upon a giant, contemptuous mastiff.

Deep in his heart, though, lurked a spark of passion that, day by day, had been slowly growing, warming him, making his veins swell a little when his thoughts dwelt upon Warden and the others; bringing into his heart a savage longing that he often had yielded to in the old days—­before he had learned to control his passions.  There were times when he was almost persuaded to break the laws for which he had fought in the old days—­moments when it seemed to him that further toleration of the attacks of his enemies would be a sign of weakness.  But he had conquered those surges of passion, though the victory always left him with a smile on his face that would have awed Warden, had he seen it.

Something of that passion was in his heart now, as he rode toward the Circle L. It had become plain to him that Warden would adopt any means to destroy him; that in the man’s heart was a malignant hatred that was driving him to a boldness that could mean nothing but that in the end they must settle their differences as man to man.  Lawler would not always be able to control the passion that lurked in him.  He knew it.  One day Warden would press him too hard.  And then——­

His thoughts had made him oblivious to his surroundings.  A whinney from Red King brought him out of his ruminations, and he looked swiftly up, and then directly ahead, to see a horseman racing toward him; the rider crouched in the saddle, the horse running low, coming toward him at a speed that brought him out of depressions with light, flying bounds, and over the crests of small hills with a velocity that was dizzying.

The running horse and the crouching rider were still a mile from Lawler; but even at that distance Lawler recognized Shorty, and he urged Red King on to meet him, suspecting that nothing but a stern emergency would make the man race his horse at that speed.

Lawler glanced back as he rode.  He had come several miles, and the rolling character of the plains behind him had blotted Willets out.  He saw, too, that he had reached a point where three trails converged.  One—­which Shorty was traveling—­came westward from the Two Bar—­Hamlin’s ranch; the other, leading almost straight southward, was the Circle L trail; the third, leading southward also, though inclining in a westward direction, ran to the Rabbit Ear, near the Dickman cabin—­the ranch where Antrim and his men had established themselves.

Shorty came on at cyclonic speed.  When he reached a point within a hundred yards of Lawler, the latter observed that Shorty’s face was pale; that his jaws were set and his eyes glowing with a wild, savage light.

Stiffening, his lips straightening, a responsive passion assailing him, Lawler drew Red King down and waited for Shorty to reach him.  He knew Shorty did not permit himself to become excited without cause.