Instantly he whispered to the other men: 

“Somethin’s wrong, boys.  Hamlin’s horse is gone, an’ Ruth’s pony!”

He dismounted and burst into the cabin, looking into the two bedrooms.  He came out again, scratching his head in puzzlement.

“I don’t seem to sabe this here thing, boys.  I know Ruth Hamlin ain’t in the habit of wanderin’ off alone at this time of the night.  An’ Hamlin was tellin’ me that he sure was goin’ with Singleton.  It’s a heap mysterious, an’ I’ve got a hunch things ain’t just what they ought to be!”

He turned toward the plain that stretched toward Willets.  Far out—­a mere dot in his vision—­he detected movement.  He straightened, his face paled.

“Somebody’s out there, headin’ for town.  I’m takin’ a look—­the boss would want me to, an’ I ain’t overlookin’ anything that’ll do him any good!”

He leaped upon his horse, and the entire company plunged into the soft moonlight that flooded the plains between the cabin and Willets.

* * * * *

The ivory-handled pistols were still on Lawler’s desk when his secretary softly opened a door and entered.  The secretary smiled slightly at sight of the weapons, but he said no word as he advanced to the desk and placed a telegram before Lawler.

He stood, waiting respectfully, as Lawler read the telegram.  It was from Moreton: 

“Governor Lawler:  There’s something mighty wrong going on in Willets.  Slade and his gang struck town this morning.  He was with Warden all day in the Wolf.  Don’t depend on the new sheriff.”

Lawler got up, his face paling.  He dismissed the secretary and then stood for several minutes looking down at the pistols on the desk.  They offered a quick solution of the problem that confronted him.

At this minute he was conscious of one thing only—­that Slade was in Willets.  Slade, who had led the gang that had killed his men—­Slade, whose face haunted Blackburn’s dreams—­the man the Circle L outfit held responsible for the massacre that day on the plains above the big valley.

Lurking in the metal cylinders of the two weapons on the desk was that death which Warden, Singleton, Slade, and the others deserved at his hands.  He took up the pistols, nestling their sinister shapes in his palms, while his blood rioted with the terrible lust that now seized him—­the old urge to do violence, the primal instinct to slay, to which he had yielded when Shorty told him of the things Blondy Antrim had done.

Another minute passed while he fondled the weapons.  Twice he moved as though to buckle the cartridge belt around his waist—­shoving aside the black coat he wore, which would have hidden them.  But each time he changed his mind.

He knew that if he wore them he would use them.  The driving intensity of his desire to kill Warden, Singleton, and Slade would overwhelm him if he should find they had harmed Ruth.  The deadly passion that held him in a mighty clutch would take no account of his position, of his duty to the state, or of the oath he had taken to obey and administer the laws.