“Lawler, you’re the man to handle this thing.  You’ve got the most money, the most brains, an’ you’re known all over the state—­on account of them slick Herefords you’ve been raisin’, an’ on account of headin’ the delegation to the state convention last fall, from this county.  You can talk, for you mighty near stampeded that convention last fall.  If you’d said the word you’d have been governor today instead of that dumb coyote which is holdin’ down the office now.  You’ve got the reputation an’ the backbone—­an’ they’ve got to listen to you.  I’ve heard that cattle owners all over the state are gettin’ the same deal.”  Barthman’s eyes gleamed with passion.  “I propose that you be elected chairman of this meetin’, an’ that you be instructed to hop on the mornin’ train an’ go to the railroad commissioner at the capital an’ tell him that if he don’t give orders to bust up this thievin’ combination the cattle owners of this county will come down there an’ yank off his hide!”

CHAPTER VIII

A WOMAN’S MERCY

Gary Warden did not stand at the office window many minutes after he saw Lawler on the street.  He drew on his coat, took his hat from a hook, on the wall and descended the stairs.  At the street door he glanced swiftly around, saw Red King standing at the hitching rail in front of the building, and several other horses farther up the street.  There were several men on the sidewalks, but he did not see Lawler.

Grinning crookedly, Warden crossed the street and made his way to the station building, where a few minutes later he was talking with Simmons.  Simmons was visibly excited.  There was curiosity in Warden’s gaze.

“He’s wise,” said Simmons.  He was still wiping perspiration from his forehead, and he mechanically repeated to Warden the words he had uttered to himself immediately after Lawler left his office:  “I’m glad it’s over.  I’ve been dreadin’ it.  He’s the only one in the whole bunch that I was afraid of.  There’ll be hell to pay in this section, now—­pure, unadulterated hell, an’ no mistake!” And then he added something that had occurred to him afterward:  “If the big guys back of this thing knowed Kane Lawler as well as I know him, they’d have thought a heap before they started this thing!”

“Bah!” sneered Warden; “you’re raving!  We know what we are doing.  You do as you’re told—­that’s all.  And keep your mouth shut.  Just keep on telling them there are no cars.  That’s the truth, isn’t it?” He grinned gleefully at Simmons.

“So he’s wise, eh?” he added.  “Well, I’m damned glad of it—­the sagebrush rummie!  We’ll make him hump before we get through with him!”

Hatred of Lawler had seized Warden—­a passion that ran through his veins with the virulence of a strong poison.  It had been the incident of the fluttering handkerchief that had aroused him.  Until then he had merely disliked Lawler, aware of the latent strength of him, his rugged manliness, and his quiet confidence.  All those evidences of character had irritated him, for they had brought an inevitable contrast between himself and the man, and he knew he lacked those things which would have made him Lawler’s equal.  He felt inferior, and the malevolence that accompanied the conviction was reflected in his face as he faced Simmons.