After a glance at the cars, Lawler wheeled and faced Warden, who was still gazing meditatively downward.

“I see that cars came quickly enough when you ordered them, Warden,” he said.

Warden raised his head slowly and gazed straight at Lawler, his eyes gleaming challengingly.

“Yes,” he said:  “Simmons finally unearthed enough to take care of Caldwell’s cattle.  There’ll be more, as soon as Simmons can find them.  And he’ll have to find them pretty soon or his company will face a lawsuit.  You see, Lawler, I ordered these cars months ago—­got a written contract with the railroad company for them.  They’ve got to take care of me.”

“I reckon you knew they’d take care of you, Warden.  You were as certain of that as you were that they wouldn’t take care of any owner who wouldn’t sell to you.”

“What do you mean, Lawler?” demanded Warden, his face flushing.

“What I said, Warden.  It takes gall to do what you and your friends are doing.  But, given the power, any bunch of cheap crooks could do it.  You understand that I’m not complimenting you any.”

It was apparent to Warden, as it was apparent to Jordan—­who poised his pencil over the pad of papers and did not move a muscle—­that Lawler’s wrath was struggling mightily within him.  It was also apparent that Lawler’s was a cold wrath, held in check by a sanity that forbade surrender to it—­a sanity that sternly governed him.

It was the icy rage that awes with its intensity; the deliberate bringing to the verge of deadly action the nerves and muscles that yearn for violent expression—­and then holding them there, straining tensely, awaiting further provocation.

Both men knew what impended; both saw in the steady, unwavering gleam of Lawler’s eyes the threat, the promise of violence, should they elect to force it.

Jordan was chastened, nerveless.  The pencil dropped from his fingers and he slacked in his chair, watching Lawler with open mouth.

Warden’s face had grown dead white.  The hatred he bore for this man glared forth from his eyes, but the hatred was tempered by a fear that gripped him.

However, Warden was instinctively aware that Lawler would not force that trouble for which he plainly yearned; that he would not use the gun that swung from the leather at his hip unless he or Jordan provoked him to it.

And Warden wore no gun.  He felt secure, as he sat for an interval after considering the situation, and yet he did not speak at once.  Then, with the urge of his hatred driving him, he said, sneeringly: 

“Cheap crooks, eh?  Well, let me tell you something, Lawler.  You can’t intimidate anybody.  My business is perfectly legitimate.  I am not violating any law.  If I have the foresight to contract for cars in time to get them for shipment, that is my business.  And if I offer you—­or any man—­a price, and it doesn’t suit you, you don’t have to accept it.”