The Trail Horde by Charles Alden Seltzer (beautiful books to read TXT) 📕

bumped off this here planet them scum can't come back at you, sayin' this never came off!"

Lawler accompanied Moreton to the office of the prosecutor, who took the depositions of both men, attested the document and placed it in the office safe.

"So that's the kind of a dame she is—eh?" grinned the official. "Well, she don't look it. But you never can tell—can you?"

CHAPTER XXXII RED KING RUNS

Sheriff Moreton had left Red King at the livery stable, and after Lawler had thanked the sheriff for his part in the little drama that had just been played, he walked to the stable, saddled and bridled the big horse, mounted and rode out of town, toward the Circle L.

While grim tragedy had lurked over the incident that had just closed, the thing had had its humorous side. And as Lawler rode he reflected smilingly, though feeling a pulse of shame for Della Wharton.

In spite of the fact that the woman had charged Gary Warden with evolving the plot, Lawler felt nothing but contempt for the man. Warden's schemes, so far, had resulted only in discomfiture for Warden himself. And because Lawler was not vindictive, he entertained no thoughts of reprisal.

However, Lawler was now well equipped with evidence of Warden's misdeeds. Months before, he had sent to Metcalf, the editor of the News, in the capital, the story of the drive to Red Rock, embellished with an account of his adventure with Antrim's gang, his capture of Antrim and the subsequent bringing of the outlaw to Willets, where he had delivered him to Warden.

Metcalf had written him that the publication of the article had created a sensation in the state, and it appeared from the prominent position in which Metcalf had placed the story—on the front page, with a picture of Lawler dominating; and big, black headlines announcing:

"PROMINENT CATTLEMAN WORSTS TRAIL HORDE!"—that Metcalf had kept his promise to the effect that he intended to "feature" his fight against the power that was attempting to control the cattle industry.

So far, though, Lawler had no evidence that the governor's power had been used against them. He was convinced that Warden, Jordan, Simmons, and the others were employing their talents against him with the secret approval of the governor; but until he secured absolute, damning evidence he dared not openly charge it.

Lawler had been waiting patiently for such evidence. He had felt all along that sooner or later his enemies would over-reach themselves, leaving some weak spot through which he could attack, and he had been content to wait until that time, merely defending himself and his interests, planning no aggressive campaign.

The effect of the assaults of his enemies thus far had disturbed him little. He had been able to anticipate most of their attacks and they had resulted in little harm to himself. They had left him unperturbed, unharmed—like the attacks of an excitable poodle upon a giant, contemptuous mastiff.

Deep in his heart, though, lurked a spark of passion that, day by day, had been slowly growing, warming him, making his veins swell a little when his thoughts dwelt upon Warden and the others; bringing into his heart a savage longing that he often had yielded to in the old days—before he had learned to control his passions. There were times when he was almost persuaded to break the laws for which he had fought in the old days—moments when it seemed to him that further toleration of the attacks of his enemies would be a sign of weakness. But he had conquered those surges of passion, though the victory always left him with a smile on his face that would have awed Warden, had he seen it.

Something of that passion was in his heart now, as he rode toward the Circle L. It had become plain to him that Warden would adopt any means to destroy him; that in the man's heart was a malignant hatred that was driving him to a boldness that could mean nothing but that in the end they must settle their differences as man to man. Lawler would not always be able to control the passion that lurked in him. He knew it. One day Warden would press him too hard. And then—

His thoughts had made him oblivious to his surroundings. A whinney from Red King brought him out of his ruminations, and he looked swiftly up, and then directly ahead, to see a horseman racing toward him; the rider crouched in the saddle, the horse running low, coming toward him at a speed that brought him out of depressions with light, flying bounds, and over the crests of small hills with a velocity that was dizzying.

The running horse and the crouching rider were still a mile from Lawler; but even at that distance Lawler recognized Shorty, and he urged Red King on to meet him, suspecting that nothing but a stern emergency would make the man race his horse at that speed.

Lawler glanced back as he rode. He had come several miles, and the rolling character of the plains behind him had blotted Willets out. He saw, too, that he had reached a point where three trails converged. One—which Shorty was traveling—came westward from the Two Bar—Hamlin's ranch; the other, leading almost straight southward, was the Circle L trail; the third, leading southward also, though inclining in a westward direction, ran to the Rabbit Ear, near the Dickman cabin—the ranch where Antrim and his men had established themselves.

Shorty came on at cyclonic speed. When he reached a point within a hundred yards of Lawler, the latter observed that Shorty's face was pale; that his jaws were set and his eyes glowing with a wild, savage light.

Stiffening, his lips straightening, a responsive passion assailing him, Lawler drew Red King down and waited for Shorty to reach him. He knew Shorty did not permit himself to become excited without cause.

And when Shorty drew his horse to a sliding halt within half a dozen paces of Red King, Lawler saw that Shorty was in the grip of a cold, deadly passion. His eyes were glittering, his lips were stiff and white, and he was drawing great, long breaths that could be heard above the shuddering gasps of the horse he rode.

The giant's fingers were working—clenching and unclenching near the butts of the two guns he wore; and his eyes were pools of icy rage that chilled Lawler.

Twice he tried to speak as Lawler shot a short question at him, and twice he failed, making guttural sounds that betrayed the awful agitation that had seized him. At the third attempt he blurted:

"Lawler, Antrim's gang has cleaned up the Circle L! Damn their sneakin', dirty hides! They've run off our cattle—takin' 'em through Kinney's cañon! They've wiped out the Circle L outfit! Blackburn's left—Blackburn an' three more poor fellows they plugged, an' didn't finish!

"Blackburn made me ride for help—damn him, anyway, Lawler! I wanted to stay with the bunch!" Shorty's voice broke; his lips quivered; his voice rose to a screech of impotent, awful rage. Brokenly, he told Lawler what had happened after the stampeding of the cattle by Antrim's men. He related, in tumbling, rapid, quavering sentences, how he had got the help Blackburn had sent him for—Caldwell's outfit—with the exception of two men who had been sent in different directions to other ranches. And how, later in the morning, he had returned to the shallow gulley on the plains where he had left Blackburn and the others, to find most of them dead. Blackburn and three more had been wounded, but had survived.

"Fifteen men, Lawler!" raged Shorty; "fifteen men wiped out by that miserable gang of coyotes! But damn them!" he added with a fierce, savage joy; "they didn't get away without payin' toll, either! There's twenty of them layin' out there, Lawler—twenty of them for the coyotes to find. For Caldwell an' his outfit wouldn't touch 'em. When I left, to come an' tell you—thinkin' you was in jail—Caldwell an' his boys was plantin' our fellows, an' takin' Blackburn and the three others to the Hamlin shack!"

He looked hard at Lawler, noted the paleness of the man's face, and then spoke less excitedly, and with deep regret in his voice.

"Lawler, I hate to tell you this. After I seen what happened to our boys, I rode this way, intendin' to tell you. The trail took me past the Hamlin shack. I wasn't intendin' to stop, but it seems like they heard me comin' an' run out to see what was up.

"It was your mother stopped me, Lawler—smiling kind of grim—like she always smiles when things go wrong.

"'Shorty,' she says; 'you go directly to town and find Kane. You know he's in jail, for I told you so last night. Tell Sheriff Moreton to release him; and then tell Kane that Antrim has stolen all the Circle L cattle and has burned all the Circle L buildings. Tell him that Antrim himself burned the buildings, and that Antrim said he would wait for Kane at Antrim's shack—and that he dared Kane to come there for him. 'Shorty,' she said, cold an' ca'm; 'you tell Kane to get out of jail and go to Antrim's cabin, and kill him!'"

Lawler had sat, grim and silent, listening to Shorty. Twice had Shorty seen his eyes quicken—when Shorty had mentioned his mother, and again when he had spoken of Antrim's action in burning the Circle L buildings.

Now, he leaned forward and peered intently at Shorty, and Shorty marveled how his eyes bored into his own—with a cold intensity that chilled the giant.

"Shorty," he said, in a low, strained voice; "Mother hasn't been hurt?"

"I forgot to tell you that," said Shorty; "she said, 'tell Kane I am all right.'"

Shorty opened his mouth to speak further, but closed it again when he saw Red King leap down the trails—a flaming red streak that flashed over the new grass at a speed that took him a hundred yards before Shorty could get his own horse turned.

The big red horse was lost in a dust cloud when Shorty urged his own animal southward. And Shorty rode as he had never ridden before, in an effort to lessen the space between himself and the flying Red King.

To no avail, however. Shorty's horse was fast, but Red King seemed to have wings, so lightly did he skim over the green gulf of distance that stretched between his master and the vengeance for which Lawler's soul was now yearning. Shorty's horse was tired, and Red King was fresh; and the distance between them grew greater—always greater—slowly, surely—until the red horse was lost in the tiny dust cloud that moved with unbelievable velocity far down the trail toward the Rabbit Ear.

CHAPTER XXXIII THE FIGHT AT THE CABIN

When Red King struck the river trail he was traveling as strongly as when he began his long race. The miles that had stretched between him and the destination at which his rider aimed had been mere play for him. By the time he reached the river trail he was warmed to his work and his giant, spurning stride carried him along in the shade of the fringing trees at a speed that made the wind whine and moan in Lawler's ears.

But Lawler did not offer to check Red King's speed. The big horse was traveling at a pace that was all too slow for Lawler, now in the clutch of that passion which for many months had been smoldering within him. He was leaning a little forward in the saddle, riding the red horse as he had ridden few times; and then only in sport.

In Lawler's eyes was still that intense light that had been in them when he had been watching Shorty as the latter had been relating what had happened during the night and the morning.

And yet Lawler betrayed no sign of excitement. His face was pale, and his lips were stiff and white; but his muscles were