“Why not hold your stock over the winter?” suggested Hatfield, with a faint, half-smile.

“Hatfield, you know that can’t be done.  There isn’t a cattle owner in the country who is prepared to winter his stock.  Had we known this situation was to develop we might have laid in some feed—­though that is an expensive method.  Nothing has been done, for we expected to ship by rail as usual.  Almost every owner has a stock of feed on hand, but that is for breeders, and for other stock that doesn’t grade up.  If we are forced to winter our stock on the ranges half of them would die of starvation and exposure before spring.”

Hatfield narrowed his eyes and studied Lawler’s face.  He half pursed his lips for a smile, but something in the grave, level eyes that looked into his dissuaded him, and he frowned and cleared his throat.

“It looks mighty bad, for a fact,” he said.  “The buyers seem to have you owners in something of a pocket.  The worst of it is, that the thing is general.  I have complaints from all over the state.  The railroad people say there is nothing they can do.  I’ve taken it up with them.  The explanation they offer is that during the summer they sent most of their rolling stock East, to take care of an unprecedented demand there.  For some reason or other—­which they don’t attempt to explain—­the cars haven’t been coming back as they should.  It looks to me, Lawler, like you owners are in for a bad winter.”

“What about the law, Hatfield; can’t we force them to supply cars?”

Hatfield’s smile came out—­it was sarcastic.

“The wise law-makers of the state, who gave the railroad company a franchise, neglected to provide a punitive clause.  There isn’t a tooth in the law—­I’ve looked it over from one end to the other, and so has the attorney-general.  This office is helpless, Lawler.  I would advise you to accept the offer of your resident buyer.  It may be that those fellows have an agreement with the railroad company, but we haven’t any evidence, and without evidence we couldn’t do anything, even if there were teeth in the law.”

Lawler smiled and went out.  As the door closed behind him Hatfield sank back into his chair and chuckled gleefully.

“Swallowed it!” he said in an undertone; “swallowed it whole.  And that’s the guy I was most afraid of!”

Lawler walked down the big corridor, across the rotunda, and into another corridor to the door of the governor’s office.  As he passed through the rotunda he was aware that several persons congregated there watched him curiously; and he heard one of them say, guardedly: 

“That’s Kane Lawler, of Wolf River.  He’d have been governor, right now, if he’d said the word last fall.  Biggest man in the state!”

There was truth in the man’s words, though Lawler reddened when he heard them.  Three times in the days preceding the convention which had nominated Perry Haughton, the present governor, delegations from various sections of the state had visited Lawler at the Circle L, endeavoring to prevail upon him to accept the nomination; and one day the editor of the most important newspaper in the capital had journeyed to the Circle L, to add his voice to the argument advanced by the delegations.