“Well, if it ain’t Kane Lawler!”

Simmons was a rotund man, bald, with red hair that had a faded, washed-out appearance.  His eyes were large, pale blue in color, with a singularly ingratiating expression which was made almost yearning by light, colorless lashes.

Simmons’ eyes, however, were unreliable as an index to his character.  One could not examine very far into them.  They seemed to be shallow, baffling.  Simmons did not permit his eyes to betray his thoughts.  He used them as masks to hide from prying eyes the things that he did not wish others to see.

“Come a-visitin’, Lawler?” asked Simmons as Lawler halted midway in the room and smiled faintly at the greeting he received.

“Not exactly, Simmons.”

“Not exactly, eh?  I reckon that means you’ve got some business.  I’ll be glad to help you out—­if I can.”

“I’m going to ship my stock East, Simmons, and I’m wanting cars for them—­eight thousand head.”

Simmons still sat in the chair beside the window.  He now pursed his lips, drew his brows together and surveyed Lawler attentively.

“Eight thousand head, eh?  Sort of whooped ’em up this season, didn’t you.  I reckon Gary Warden took ’em all?”

“Warden and I couldn’t get together.  I’m shipping them East, myself.”

“Consignin’ ’em to who?”

“They’ll go to Legget and Mellert.”

“H’m; they’re an independent concern, ain’t they?”

“Yes; that’s the firm my father shipped to before Jim Lefingwell opened an office here.”

Simmons locked his fingers together and squinted his eyes at Lawler.

“H’m,” he said.  Then he was silent, seemingly meditating.  Then he shook his head slowly from side to side.  Apparently he was gravely considering a problem and could find no solution for it.

He cleared his throat, looked at Lawler, then away from him.

“I reckon it’s goin’ to be a lot bothersome to ship that bunch of stock, Lawler—­a heap bothersome.  There’s been half a dozen other owners in to see me within the last week or so, an’ I couldn’t give them no encouragement.  There ain’t an empty car in the state.”

Lawler was watching him intently, and the expression in his eyes embarrassed Simmons.  He flushed, cleared his throat again, and then shot a belligerent glance at Lawler.

“It ain’t my fault—­not a bit of it, Lawler.  I’ve been losin’ sleep over this thing—­losin’ sleep, I tell you!  I’ve telegraphed every damned point on the line.  This road is swept clean as a whistle.  ‘No cars’ they wire back to me—­’no cars!’ I’ve read that answer until there ain’t no room for anything else in my brain.

“The worst of it is, I’m gettin’ blamed for it.  You’d think I was runnin’ the damned railroad—­that I was givin’ orders to the president.  Lem Caldwell, of the Star, over to Keegles, was in here yesterday, threatenin’ to herd ride me if I didn’t have a hundred cars here this day, week.  He’d been to see Gary Warden—­the same as you have—­an’ he was figgerin’ on playin’ her independent.  An’ some more owners have been in.  I don’t know what in hell the company is thinkin’ of—­no cars, an’ the round-up just over.”