He lurched to Shorty’s side, drew out one of the latter’s big guns, and tossed it upon the desk within reach of Warden’s hand.

“I gave Antrim the first shot, Warden,” he said; “I gave him his chance.  I didn’t murder him, and I won’t murder you.  Take that gun and follow me to the street.  There’s people there.  They’ll see that it’s a square deal.  You’re a sneaking polecat, Warden; but you—­I’m going to give you——­”

Lawler paused; he sagged.  He tried to straighten, failed.  And while both men watched him—­Shorty with eyes that were terrible in their ineffable sympathy and impotent wrath; Warden in a paralysis of cold terror—­Lawler lurched heavily against the desk and slid gently to the floor, where he leaned, his eyes closed, against the desk, motionless, unconscious.

Silently, his eyes aflame with passion, Shorty leaped to the desk and snatched the gun that Lawler had placed at Warden’s hand.  With almost the same movement he pulled Warden out of his chair and threw him against the rear wall of the room.  He was after the man like a giant panther; catching him by the throat with his left hand as he reached him, crushing him against the wall so that the impact jarred the building; while he savagely jammed the muzzle of the pistol deep into the man’s stomach, holding it there with venomous pressure, while his blazing eyes bored into Warden’s with a ferocious malignance.  “Damn you, Warden,” he said hoarsely; “I ought to kill you!” He shook Warden with his left hand, as though the man were a child in his grasp, sinking his fingers into the flesh of his neck until Warden’s eyes popped out and his face grew purple.  Then he released him so suddenly that Warden sank to his knees on the floor, coughing, laboring, straining to draw his breath.

He stood, huge and menacing, until Warden swayed to his feet and staggered weakly to the chair in which he had been sitting when Lawler entered; and then he leaned over the desk and peered into Warden’s face.

“This ain’t my game, Warden!  If it was, I’d choke the gizzard out of you and chuck you out of a window!  I reckon I’ve got to save you for Lawler—­if he gets over this.  If he don’t, I’m comin’ for you!”

He holstered his gun, stooped, lifted Lawler and gently swung him over his shoulder; and without glancing back at Warden strode to the stairs, out into the street and made his way to the Willets Hotel, a crowd of curious citizens at his heels.

CHAPTER XXXIV

“GOOD OLD SHORTY!”

Della Wharton had watched from one of the windows of her room in the hotel.  She had seen Lawler and Shorty ride down the street to Warden’s office; she had seen Shorty come out carrying Lawler; and she heard Shorty’s steps on the stairs as he brought his burden up, preceded by the proprietor.

She was standing in the hall when the proprietor and Shorty reached the upper landing, and when the proprietor looked inquiringly at her she silently motioned toward her room, and stood aside as Shorty entered and placed his limp burden upon the bed.  Lawler was unconscious and ghastly pale.