He strode out, leaving Haughton to glare after him.  Ten minutes later he was in the editorial office of the News, detailing his conversation with Hatfield and the governor to a keen-eyed man of thirty-five, named Metcalf, who watched him intently as he spoke.  At the conclusion of the visit the keen-eyed man grinned.

“You’ve started something, Lawler,” he said.  “We’ve heard something of this, but we’ve been waiting to see just how general it was.  You’ll understand, now, why I was so eager to have you run last fall.  You’ll not escape so easily next time!”

Late that night Lawler got off the train at Willets; and a few minutes later he was talking with Caldwell and the others in the Willets Hotel.

“It’s a frame-up, men,” he told them.  “Hatfield and the governor both subscribe to the same sentiments, which are to the effect that this is a free country—­meaning that if you don’t care to accept what the buyers offer you can drive your cattle out of the state or let them starve to death on the open range.”

The big hanging-lamp swinging from the ceiling of the lounging-room flickered a dull light into the faces of the men, revealing lines that had not been in them some hours before.  Somehow, it had seemed to them, Lawler would straighten things out for them; they had faith in Lawler; they had trusted in his energy and in his mental keenness.  And when they had sent him to the capital they had thought that the governor would not dare to refuse his request.  He was too great a man to be trifled with.

It was plain to them, now, that the invisible power which they had challenged was a gigantic thing—­for it had not been impressed by their champion.

Their faces betrayed their disappointment; in their downcast eyes and in their furtive glances at one another—­and at Lawler—­one might have read evidence of doubt and uncertainty.  They might fight the powerful forces opposed to them—­and there was no doubt that futile rage against the power surged in the veins of every man in the group about Lawler.  But there seemed to be no way to fight; there seemed to be nothing tangible upon which to build a hope, and no way to attack the secret, subtle force which had so arrogantly thwarted them.

There was an uneasy light in Caldwell’s eyes when he finally looked up at Lawler.  He frowned, reddened, and spoke haltingly, as though ashamed: 

“Lawler, I reckon they’ve got us foul.  It’s late—­today’s the twenty-eighth of October.  Not anticipatin’ this deal, we delayed the round-up too long.  It’s a month’s drive to Red Rock, over the worst trail in the country.  We all know that.  If we’d happen to run into a storm on the Tom Long trail we wouldn’t get no cattle to Red Rock at all.  An’ if we winter them on the open range there wouldn’t be a sound hoof left by spring, for we’ve got no feed put by.  It’s too certain, men; an’ a bad year would bust me wide open.  I reckon I’ll sell my stock to Gary Warden.  I hate it like poison, but I reckon it’s the only thing we can do.”