Lawler’s level gaze made him stiffen in his chair.  Lawler’s smile, cold and mirthless, brought a pulse of apprehension through him, and Lawler’s voice, slow, clear, and distinct, forced the blood from his face, leaving it pale: 

“I don’t let any man twist my words so that they mean something I don’t intend them to mean, Mister Man.  If I intended to call you a liar, I’d have said it to you mighty plain, so there’d be no doubt in your mind about it.  So far as I know, you are not a liar.  I’m telling you this, though:  A man’s word in this country has got to be backed by his performances—­and he’s got to have memory enough to know when he gives his word.

“I reckon that where you come from men give their word without knowing it.  Maybe that’s what happened to you when Jim Lefingwell spoke to you about his agreement with me.  Anyway, I feel that charitable enough toward you to advance that explanation.  You can take that for what it seems worth to you.  And I won’t be bothered any, no matter which way you take it.”

Lawler turned toward the door.  On the threshold he paused, for Warden’s voice reached him.

“You’d better sell at twenty-five, Mr. Lawler.”

Warden’s voice was low and smooth; he seemed to have decided to accept the “charity” offered him by Lawler.  But there was mockery in his voice, and his eyes were alight with cunning.  In the atmosphere about him was complacency which suggested that Warden knew exactly what he was doing; that he had knowledge unsuspected by Lawler, and that he had no doubt that, ultimately, Lawler would accept his offer.

“Not a steer at twenty-five,” returned Lawler.

“That price means immediate shipment,” pursued Warden.  “The railroads are having some trouble with their rolling stock—­it is hard to get cars.  Some shippers are not getting them at all.  And the shortage will grow.”

“Perhaps it will.  I don’t blame you for buying as low as you can.  That’s business, Warden.  I heard through Lew Brainard, of the Two Diamond, that owners in the South Basin, over at Shotwell, were offered forty just before the round-up.  I was kicking myself for making that agreement with Lefingwell at thirty.  But I intended to keep my word with him.  But I feel mighty free, now, to sell where I can get the market price.”

“Twenty-five is the market price,” said Warden.  “Just before the round-up there was some nervousness, it is true; and some buyers were offering forty—­and they contracted for some at that price.  But that was before we made—­” He hesitated, reddened, and then went on quickly, plainly embarrassed, endeavoring to conceal his embarrassment by lighting a cigar.

“It was before the market broke,” he went on.  “The market is glutted.  The West raised more cattle this season than ever before.  There is no demand and the price had to tumble.  A good many cattle owners will be glad to take twenty, and even fifteen, before long.”