Warden did not move a muscle.  He tried to look steadily into Lawler’s eyes, found that he could not endure the terrible intensity of them—­and drooped his own, cursing himself for the surrender.

He heard Lawler laugh again, a sound that sent a cold shiver over him; and then he saw Lawler standing beside the desk at which Jordan sat.

“Jordan,” said Lawler, shortly; “I want you to vent my cattle.  There’s eight thousand head, approximately.  They’re being held just out of town—­about a mile.  I’d like to have you give me a certificate of ownership tonight, so we can start to drive before daylight.”

Jordan’s face whitened, and then grew crimson.  He essayed to look up, to meet Lawler’s eyes, raising his head and then lowering it again without achieving his desire.  He cleared his throat, shifted his body and scuffed his feet on the floor.  At last, after clearing his throat again, he spoke, huskily: 

“We ain’t ventin’ any trail herds this fall, Lawler.”

Lawler stiffened, looked from Jordan to Warden, and then back again at Jordan, who had taken up the pencil again and was nervously tapping with it upon the desk top.

“Not venting trail herds, eh?” said Lawler.  “Whose orders?”

“The state inspector—­headquarters,” replied Jordan, hesitatingly.

“Would you mind letting me see the order, Jordan?” asked Lawler, calmly.

Jordan succeeded in looking up at Lawler now, and there was rage in his eyes—­rage and offended dignity.

Both were artificial—­Lawler knew it.  And his smile as he looked into Jordan’s eyes told the other of the knowledge.

Jordan got up, stung by the mockery in Lawler’s eyes.

“Hell’s fire, Lawler!” cursed Jordan; “can’t you take a man’s word?” He stepped back, viciously pulled open a drawer in the desk, drew out a paper—­a yellow telegraph form, and slapped it venomously down on the desk in front of Lawler.

“It’s ag’in’ orders, but I’m lettin’ you see it.  Mebbe you’ll take a man’s word after this!” he sneered.

Lawler read the order.  Then he calmly placed it on the desk.  He looked at Jordan, whose gaze fell from his; he turned to Warden, who smiled jeeringly.

“There is nothing like thoroughness, whenever you do anything on a big scale, Warden,” he said.  “This order forces cattle owners in this section to drive cattle over a trail without proof of ownership.  We fought for that vent law for a good many years, as a weapon against rustlers.  This order leaves a cattle owner without protection against the horde of rustlers who infest the state.  And the order is dated yesterday.  This thing begins to look interesting.”

He turned and walked out, not glancing back at the two men inside, who stood for a long time looking at each other, smiling.

CHAPTER XI

THE LONG TRAIL