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

ma'am; I reckon it's a case of mistaken identity."

"Why," she returned, laughing; "I thought sure I knew you. Are you quite certain that I don't?"

There was guile in her eyes; so far back that he could not see it, or so cleverly veiled with something else that he was not aware of it. It seemed to him that the eyes were merely engaging, and frankly curious. He did not see the admiration in them, the elation, and the demure coquetry.

"I reckon you'll have to be the judge of that, ma'am. You certainly have the advantage of me."

"You are—" Her pause was eloquent.

"I am Kane Lawler, ma'am."

He looked into her eyes for the disappointment he expected to find there, and saw only eager interrogation.

"Oh, then I don't know you. I beg your pardon."

"I reckon there's no harm done," smiled Lawler.

He bowed again, noting that she looked intently at him, her eyes still wide and filled with something he could not fathom. And when halfway up the stairs he looked back, curious, subtly attracted to the woman, he saw her standing in the doorway, ready to go out, watching him over her shoulder. He laughed and opened the door of Gary Warden's office.

Warden was sitting at his desk. He turned at the sound of the door opening, and faced Lawler inquiringly.

Perhaps in Lawler's eyes there still remained a trace of the cold passion that had seized him in the schoolhouse; it may have been that what Lawler had heard of Gary Warden was reflected in his gaze—a doubt of Warden's honorableness. Or perhaps in Lawler's face he observed signs which told him that before him stood a man of uncommon character.

At any rate, Warden was conscious of a subtle pulse of antagonism; a quick dislike—and jealousy.

Warden could not have told what had aroused the latter emotion, though he was subconsciously aware that it had come when he had noted the rugged, manly strength of Lawler's face; that the man was attractive, and that he admired him despite his dislike.

That knowledge aroused a dull rage in him. His cheeks flushed, his eyes glowed with it.

But Warden's smile contradicted his thoughts. He managed that so cleverly that many men, watching him, might have been deceived.

In Lawler's keen eyes, however, glowed understanding—a knowledge of Warden's character that vindicated the things he had heard about the man—the tentative suggestions that Warden was not a worthy successor to Lefingwell.

That knowledge, though, would not have bothered him, had he not seen in Warden's eyes something that seemed to offer him a personal affront. As quickly as Warden had veiled his eyes from Lawler, the latter had seen the dislike in them, the antagonism, and the rage that had stained his cheeks.

He had come to Warden's office with an open mind; now he looked at the man with a saturnine smile in which there was amused contempt. Assuredly the new buyer did not "measure up" to Jim Lefingwell's "size," as Blackburn had suggested.

Therefore, aware that he could not meet this man on the basis of friendliness that had distinguished all his relations with Jim Lefingwell, Lawler's voice was crisp and businesslike:

"You're Gary Warden?"

At the latter's short, affirmative nod, Lawler continued:

"I'm Kane Lawler, of the Circle L. I've come to make arrangements with you about buying my cattle. I've got eight thousand head—good clean stock. They're above the average, but I'm keeping my word with Jim Lefingwell, and turning them in at the market price."

"That's twenty-five dollars, delivered at the railroad company's corral, in town here."

He looked straight at Lawler, his face expressionless except for the slight smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth—which might have been indicative of vindictiveness or triumph.

"Thirty," smiled Lawler. "That was the price Lefingwell agreed to pay."

Warden appeared to be blandly amused.

"Lefingwell agreed to pay thirty, you say? Well, Lefingwell always was a little reckless. That's why my company asked for his resignation. But if you have a written contract with Lefingwell—in which it appears that Lefingwell acted for the company, why, of course we'll have to take your stock at the contract price. Let me see it, if you please."

"There was no written contract; I had Jim Lefingwell's word—which was all I ever needed."

"Lefingwell's word," smiled Warden. "Unfortunately, a man's word is not conclusive proof."

"Meaning that Jim Lefingwell was lying when he told you he'd agreed to pay thirty dollars for my stock this fall?"

"Oh, no. I don't insinuate against Lefingwell's veracity. But the company requires a written agreement in a case like this—where the former representative——"

"We won't argue that," interrupted Lawler. "Jim Lefingwell told me he'd had a talk with you about my agreement with him, and Jim said you'd carry it out."

"Mr. Lefingwell did not mention the matter to me."

"I'd hate to think Jim Lefingwell lied to me," said Lawler, slowly.

Warden's face grew crimson. "Meaning that I'm a liar, I suppose," he said, his voice quavering with sudden passion.

Lawler's level gaze made him stiffen in his chair. Lawler's smile, cold and mirthless, brought a pulse of apprehension through him, and Lawler's voice, slow, clear, and distinct, forced the blood from his face, leaving it pale:

"I don't let any man twist my words so that they mean something I don't intend them to mean, Mister Man. If I intended to call you a liar, I'd have said it to you mighty plain, so there'd be no doubt in your mind about it. So far as I know, you are not a liar. I'm telling you this, though: A man's word in this country has got to be backed by his performances—and he's got to have memory enough to know when he gives his word.

"I reckon that where you come from men give their word without knowing it. Maybe that's what happened to you when Jim Lefingwell spoke to you about his agreement with me. Anyway, I feel that charitable enough toward you to advance that explanation. You can take that for what it seems worth to you. And I won't be bothered any, no matter which way you take it."

Lawler turned toward the door. On the threshold he paused, for Warden's voice reached him.

"You'd better sell at twenty-five, Mr. Lawler."

Warden's voice was low and smooth; he seemed to have decided to accept the "charity" offered him by Lawler. But there was mockery in his voice, and his eyes were alight with cunning. In the atmosphere about him was complacency which suggested that Warden knew exactly what he was doing; that he had knowledge unsuspected by Lawler, and that he had no doubt that, ultimately, Lawler would accept his offer.

"Not a steer at twenty-five," returned Lawler.

"That price means immediate shipment," pursued Warden. "The railroads are having some trouble with their rolling stock—it is hard to get cars. Some shippers are not getting them at all. And the shortage will grow."

"Perhaps it will. I don't blame you for buying as low as you can. That's business, Warden. I heard through Lew Brainard, of the Two Diamond, that owners in the South Basin, over at Shotwell, were offered forty just before the round-up. I was kicking myself for making that agreement with Lefingwell at thirty. But I intended to keep my word with him. But I feel mighty free, now, to sell where I can get the market price."

"Twenty-five is the market price," said Warden. "Just before the round-up there was some nervousness, it is true; and some buyers were offering forty—and they contracted for some at that price. But that was before we made—" He hesitated, reddened, and then went on quickly, plainly embarrassed, endeavoring to conceal his embarrassment by lighting a cigar.

"It was before the market broke," he went on. "The market is glutted. The West raised more cattle this season than ever before. There is no demand and the price had to tumble. A good many cattle owners will be glad to take twenty, and even fifteen, before long."

"But if there are no cars?" smiled Lawler.

Again he saw Warden's face redden.

"A shortage of cars would mean a shortage of cattle in the East, I reckon," went on Lawler. "And a shortage of cattle would mean higher prices for those that got through. But I'm not arguing—nor am I accepting twenty-five for my cattle. I reckon I'll have to ship my stock East."

"Well, I wish you luck," said Warden.

He turned his back to Lawler, bending over his desk.

Something in his voice—a hint of mockery tempered with rage—brought Lawler to a pause as he crossed the threshold of the doorway. He turned and looked back at Warden, puzzled, for it seemed to him that Warden was defying him; and he seemed to feel the atmosphere of complacence that surrounded the man. His manner hinted of secret knowledge—strongly; it gave Lawler an impression of something stealthy, clandestine. Warden's business methods were not like Lefingwell's. Lefingwell had been bluff, frank, and sincere; there was something in Warden's manner that seemed to exude craft and guile. The contrast between the two men was sharp, acute, startling; and Lawler descended the stairs feeling that he had just been in contact with something that crept instead of walking upright like a man.

A recollection of the woman he had met at the foot of the stairs came to Lawler as he descended, and thought of her did much to erase the impression he had gained of Warden. He grinned, thinking of how he had caught her watching him as he had mounted the stairs. And then he reddened as he realized that he would not have known she was watching him had he not turned to look back at her.

He found himself wondering about her—why she had been in Warden's office, and who she could be. And then he remembered his conversation with Blackburn, about "chapper-owns," and he decided she must be that woman to whom Blackburn had referred as "a woman at Lefingwell's old place, keepin' Warden company." He frowned, and crossed the street, going toward the railroad station building, in which he would find the freight agent.

And as he walked he was considering another contrast—that afforded by his glimpse of the strange woman and Ruth Hamlin. And presently he found himself smiling with pleasure, with a mental picture of Ruth's face before him—her clear, direct-looking, honest eyes, with no guile in them like that which had glowed in the eyes that had gazed into his at the foot of the stairs.

Over in Corwin's store, where "Aunt Hannah," had gone to make some small purchases, the woman who had encountered Lawler in the hall was talking with the proprietor. Aunt Hannah was watching a clerk.

"Della," she called; "do you want anything?"

"Nothing, Aunty," returned the woman. Then she lowered her voice, speaking to Corwin:

"So he owns the Circle L? Is that a large ranch?"

"One of the biggest in the Wolf River section," declared Corwin.

"Then Lawler must be wealthy."

"I reckon he's got wads of dust, ma'am."

The woman's eyes glowed with satisfaction.

"Well," she said; "I was just curious about him. He is a remarkably striking-looking man, isn't he?"

"You've hit it, ma'am," grinned Corwin. "I've been years tryin' to think up a word that would fit him. You've hit it. He's different. Looks like one of them statesmen with cowpuncher duds on—like a governor or somethin', which is out of place here."

The woman smiled affirmation. "So he does," she said, reflectively. "He is big, and imposing, and strikingly handsome. And he is educated, too, isn't he?"

"I reckon he is," said Corwin. "Privately, that is. His maw was a scholar of some kind back East, before she married Luke Lawler an' come out here to live with him. Luke's dead, now—died five years ago. Luke was a wolf, ma'am, with a gun. He could shoot the buttons off your coat with his eyes shut. An' he was so allfired fast with his gun that he'd make a streak of lightnin' look like it was loafin'. Luke had a heap of man in him, ma'am, an' Kane is just as much of a man