Lawler crossed the big rotunda, where the light was subdued; and walked down a wide corridor, pausing before a door on which was the legend:  “State Railroad Commissioner.”  A few minutes later, after having given his name to an attendant, he was standing in a big, well-lighted and luxuriously furnished room—­hat in hand, looking at a tall, slender man who was seated in a swivel chair at a big, flat-top desk.

The man was older than Lawler, much older.  The hair at his temples was almost white, but heavy and coarse.  An iron-gray wisp straggled over his brow, where he had run a hand through it, apparently; his eyes were gray, keen, with a light in them that hinted of a cold composure equal to that which gleamed in Lawler’s.  The long, hooked nose, though, gave the eyes an appearance of craftiness, and the slightly downward droop at the corners of his mouth suggested cynicism.

He smiled, veiling an ironic flash in his eyes by drooping the lids, as he spoke to his visitor.

“Hello, Lawler,” he said, smiling faintly, “take a chair.”  He waved a hand toward one, on the side of the desk opposite him.  “It’s been a long time since you struck town, hasn’t it—­since the last state convention—­eh?”

There was a hint of laughter in his voice, a suggestion of mockery in the unspoken inference that he remembered the defeat of Lawler’s candidate.

Lawler smiled.  “Well, you did beat us, that’s a fact, Hatfield.  There’s no use denying that.  But we took our medicine, Hatfield.”

“You had to,” grinned the other.  “Whenever the people of a state——­”

“Hatfield,” interrupted Lawler, gravely, “it seems to me that the people of this state are always taking medicine—­political medicine.  That’s what I have come to talk with you about.”

Hatfield’s smile faded.  His eyes gleamed coldly.

“What’s wrong, Lawler?”

“It’s cars, Hatfield—­or rather no cars,” he added, grimly.  “Usually, at this season of the year, there will be a hundred or two empty cars on the siding at Willets—­with other hundreds on the way.  This year the siding is empty, and Jay Simmons says there are no cars to be had.  He tells me there isn’t an empty car in the state.  Caldwell, of the Star, and Barthman, Littlefield, Corts, Sigmund, and Lester—­who are ranch owners near Willets—­told me to come down here and ask you what can be done.  I’m asking you.”

Hatfield eyed Lawler steadily as the latter talked; his gaze did not waver as Lawler concluded.  But a slight stain appeared in his cheeks, which instantly receded, leaving them normal again.  But that slight flush betrayed Hatfield to Lawler; it told Lawler that Hatfield knew why there were no cars.  And Lawler’s eyes chilled as his gaze met Hatfield’s.

“I’ve talked that matter over with the railroad people several times,” said Hatfield, in an impersonal, snapping voice.  “They tell me that you cattle owners are to blame.  You seem to think that it is the business of the railroad company to guess how many cars you will want.  You wait until the round-up is over before you begin to think about cars, and then you want them all in a bunch.”