Simmons had worked himself into a near frenzy.  His face had become bloated with passion, he was breathing fast.  But Lawler noted that his eyes were shifty, that he turned them everywhere except upon Lawler.

Simmons now paused, seemingly having exhausted his breath.

“I’ve just left Gary Warden,” said Lawler, slowly.  “He offered his price for my stock.  He told me if I accepted, it meant there would be no delay, that they would be shipped immediately.  Warden seems to know where he can get cars.”

Simmons’ face reddened deeply, the flush suffusing his neck and ears.  He shot one swift glance at Lawler, and then looked down.  In that swift glance, however, Lawler had seen a fleeting gleam of guilt, of insincerity.

Lawler laughed shortly—­a sound that made Simmons shoot another swift glance at him.

“How is it that Gary Warden figures on getting cars, Simmons?” said Lawler.

Simmons got up, his face flaming with rage.

“You’re accusin’ me of holdin’ somethin’ back, eh?  You’re callin’ me a liar!  You’re thinkin’ I’m——­”

“Easy, there, Simmons.”

There was a chill in Lawler’s voice that brought Simmons rigid with a snap—­as though he had suddenly been drenched with cold water.  The flush left his face; he drew a deep, quick breath; then stood with open mouth, watching Lawler.

“Simmons,” said the latter; “it has been my experience that whenever a man is touchy about his veracity, he will bear watching.  You and Gary Warden have both flared up from the same spark.  I don’t know whether this thing has been framed up or not.  But it looks mighty suspicious.  It is the first time there has been a lack of cars after a round-up.  Curiously, the lack of cars is coincident with Gary Warden’s first season as a buyer of cattle.

“I don’t say that you’ve got anything to do with it, but it’s mighty plain you know something about it.  I’m not asking you to tell what you know, because if there is a frame-up, it’s a mighty big thing, and you are about as important a figure in it as a yellow coyote in a desert.  I reckon that’s all, Simmons.  You can tell your boss that Kane Lawler says he can go to hell.”

He wheeled, crossed the floor, went out of the room and left the door open behind him.  Simmons could hear his step on the stairs.  Then Simmons sat down again, drew a big red bandanna handkerchief from a hip pocket and wiped some big beads of perspiration from his forehead.  He was breathing fast, and his face was mottled with purple spots.  He got up, ran to a side window, and watched Lawler until the latter vanished behind a building opposite Gary Warden’s office.

Again Simmons mopped his brow.  And now he drew a breath of relief.

“Whew!” he said, aloud; “I’m glad that’s over.  I’ve been dreadin’ it.  He’s the only one in the whole bunch that I was afraid of.  An’ he’s wise.  There’ll be hell in this section, now—­pure, unadulterated hell, an’ no mistake!”