Lawler had sat, grim and silent, listening to Shorty.  Twice had Shorty seen his eyes quicken—­when Shorty had mentioned his mother, and again when he had spoken of Antrim’s action in burning the Circle L buildings.

Now, he leaned forward and peered intently at Shorty, and Shorty marveled how his eyes bored into his own—­with a cold intensity that chilled the giant.

“Shorty,” he said, in a low, strained voice; “Mother hasn’t been hurt?”

“I forgot to tell you that,” said Shorty; “she said, ’tell Kane I am all right.’”

Shorty opened his mouth to speak further, but closed it again when he saw Red King leap down the trails—­a flaming red streak that flashed over the new grass at a speed that took him a hundred yards before Shorty could get his own horse turned.

The big red horse was lost in a dust cloud when Shorty urged his own animal southward.  And Shorty rode as he had never ridden before, in an effort to lessen the space between himself and the flying Red King.

To no avail, however.  Shorty’s horse was fast, but Red King seemed to have wings, so lightly did he skim over the green gulf of distance that stretched between his master and the vengeance for which Lawler’s soul was now yearning.  Shorty’s horse was tired, and Red King was fresh; and the distance between them grew greater—­always greater—­slowly, surely—­until the red horse was lost in the tiny dust cloud that moved with unbelievable velocity far down the trail toward the Rabbit Ear.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE FIGHT AT THE CABIN

When Red King struck the river trail he was traveling as strongly as when he began his long race.  The miles that had stretched between him and the destination at which his rider aimed had been mere play for him.  By the time he reached the river trail he was warmed to his work and his giant, spurning stride carried him along in the shade of the fringing trees at a speed that made the wind whine and moan in Lawler’s ears.

But Lawler did not offer to check Red King’s speed.  The big horse was traveling at a pace that was all too slow for Lawler, now in the clutch of that passion which for many months had been smoldering within him.  He was leaning a little forward in the saddle, riding the red horse as he had ridden few times; and then only in sport.

In Lawler’s eyes was still that intense light that had been in them when he had been watching Shorty as the latter had been relating what had happened during the night and the morning.

And yet Lawler betrayed no sign of excitement.  His face was pale, and his lips were stiff and white; but his muscles were tense, steady, and his brain clear.

He knew what to expect from Antrim.  If Antrim expected him to come to his cabin, Antrim would be ready for him.  He might expect craft and cunning from the outlaw—­an ambuscade, a trap—­anything but the cold, sheer courage that would be required for him to face an enemy upon equal terms.  And so as Lawler rode he kept an alert eye upon the coverts and the shelters, upon the huge rocks that littered the sides of the trail, upon the big trees that Red King flashed past.