The Trail Horde Part 12

"You have disagreed with Gary Warden," she said. "He will not keep Lefingwell's agreement."

"Said he never heard of any agreement," said Lawler. "I rode in to tell the boys to hold the herd here until I got back from the capital. I'm going to see the railroad commissioner--about cars. Simmons says there isn't a car in the state. If we can't get cars, we'll drive to Red Rock." He took her face in his hands and patted her cheeks gently.

"Blackburn will probably bed the trail herd down on the Rabbit Ear. I'm joining him there, and then I'm going to the capital in the morning."

Mrs. Lawler was standing on the porch when he mounted Red King; she was still standing there when Lawler looked back after he had ridden half a mile.

Lawler found Blackburn and the herd on the Rabbit Ear, as he had antic.i.p.ated. The Rabbit Ear was an insignificant creek that intersected the Wolf at a distance of about fifteen miles from the Circle L; and the outfit had selected for a camp a section of plain that ran to the water's edge. It was a spot that had been used before by the men of the outfit, and when Lawler rode up the men were stretched out in their blankets around a small fire.

Blackburn grinned wickedly when informed of Gary Warden's refusal to keep Lefingwell's agreement.

"Didn't I hit him right," he sneered. "I aim to be able to tell a coyote first pop, whether he's sneakin' in the sagebrush or settin' in a office. They ain't no difference. No cars, eh? Bah! If you say the word, me an' the boys'll hit the breeze to town an' run Warden and Simmons out!

"You're wastin' your time, goin' to see Morgan Hatfield, the commissioner. Don't I know him? He tin-horned over at Laskar for two or three years before he got into politics; an' now he's tin-hornin' the cattle owners of the state. He'll grin that chessie-cat grin of his an'

tell you he can't do nothin'. An' he'll do it! Bah! This country is goin' plumb to h.e.l.l. Any country will, when there's too much law hangin'

around loose!"

He scowled and looked hard at Lawler. "We'll hold 'em at Willets, all right an' regular, until you give us the word to hit the Tom Long trail.

But while you're gone I'm gettin' ready to travel--for there won't be any cars, Lawler, an' don't you forget it!"

Lawler said nothing in reply to Blackburn's vitriolic speech. So unperturbed did he seem that Blackburn remarked to one of the men--after Lawler wrapped himself in a blanket and stretched out near the fire--that, "the more Lawler's got on his mind the less he talks."

Long before dawn Lawler saddled up and departed. When Blackburn awoke and rubbed his eyes, he cast an eloquent glance at the spot where Lawler had lain, grinned crookedly and remarked to the world at large: "Anyway, we're backin' his play to the limit--an' don't you forget it!"

Lawler left Red King at the stable from which, the day before, Gary Warden had ridden on his way to the Hamlin cabin; and when the west-bound train steamed in he got aboard, waving a hand to the friends who, the day before in the Willets Hotel had selected him as their spokesman.

It was afternoon when Lawler stepped from the train in the capital. He strode across the paved floor of the train shed, through a wide iron gate and into a barber-shop that adjoined the waiting-room.

There he gave himself to the care of a barber who addressed him as Mr.

Lawler in a voice of respect.

"I've shaved you before, Mr. Lawler," said the man. "I think it was when you was down here last year, to the convention. I heard the speech you made that time, nominating York Falkner for governor. Too bad you didn't run yourself. You'd have made it, saving the state from the tree-toad which is hanging to it now."

During his short stay at the Circle L the night before, Lawler had changed from his cowboy rigging to a black suit of civilian cut, with tight trousers that were stuffed into the tops of soft boots of dull leather. The coat was long, after the fashion of the period, cut square at the bottom, and the silk lapels matched the flowing tie that was carelessly bowed at the collar of a shirt of some soft, white material.

He wore a black, felt hat; and out of consideration for the custom and laws of the capital, he had shoved his six-shooter around so that it was out of sight on his right hip. However, the cartridge-studded belt was around his waist; he kept the black coat b.u.t.toned over it, hiding it.

He had been in the capital often, and had no difficulty in finding his way to the capitol building. It was at the intersection of two wide streets--a broad, s.p.a.cious structure of white stone, standing in the center of a well-kept gra.s.s plot. It was imposing, hinting of the greatness of the state that had erected it, suggesting broadness of vision and simple majesty.

The state was not at fault, Lawler reflected as he mounted the broad stone stairs that led upward to the interior of the building; the state was founded upon principles that were fundamentally just; and the wisdom of the people, their resources, their lives, were back of it all. This building was an expression of the desire of the people; it represented them; it was the citadel of government from which came the laws to which they bowed; it was the visible arm of power.

Lawler crossed the big rotunda, where the light was subdued; and walked down a wide corridor, pausing before a door on which was the legend: "State Railroad Commissioner." A few minutes later, after having given his name to an attendant, he was standing in a big, well-lighted and luxuriously furnished room--hat in hand, looking at a tall, slender man who was seated in a swivel chair at a big, flat-top desk.

The man was older than Lawler, much older. The hair at his temples was almost white, but heavy and coa.r.s.e. An iron-gray wisp straggled over his brow, where he had run a hand through it, apparently; his eyes were gray, keen, with a light in them that hinted of a cold composure equal to that which gleamed in Lawler's. The long, hooked nose, though, gave the eyes an appearance of craftiness, and the slightly downward droop at the corners of his mouth suggested cynicism.

He smiled, veiling an ironic flash in his eyes by drooping the lids, as he spoke to his visitor.

"h.e.l.lo, Lawler," he said, smiling faintly, "take a chair." He waved a hand toward one, on the side of the desk opposite him. "It's been a long time since you struck town, hasn't it--since the last state convention--eh?"

There was a hint of laughter in his voice, a suggestion of mockery in the unspoken inference that he remembered the defeat of Lawler's candidate.

Lawler smiled. "Well, you did beat us, that's a fact, Hatfield. There's no use denying that. But we took our medicine, Hatfield."

"You had to," grinned the other. "Whenever the people of a state----"

"Hatfield," interrupted Lawler, gravely, "it seems to me that the people of this state are always taking medicine--political medicine. That's what I have come to talk with you about."

Hatfield's smile faded. His eyes gleamed coldly.

"What's wrong, Lawler?"

"It's cars, Hatfield--or rather no cars," he added, grimly. "Usually, at this season of the year, there will be a hundred or two empty cars on the siding at Willets--with other hundreds on the way. This year the siding is empty, and Jay Simmons says there are no cars to be had. He tells me there isn't an empty car in the state. Caldwell, of the Star, and Barthman, Littlefield, Corts, Sigmund, and Lester--who are ranch owners near Willets--told me to come down here and ask you what can be done. I'm asking you."

Hatfield eyed Lawler steadily as the latter talked; his gaze did not waver as Lawler concluded. But a slight stain appeared in his cheeks, which instantly receded, leaving them normal again. But that slight flush betrayed Hatfield to Lawler; it told Lawler that Hatfield knew why there were no cars. And Lawler's eyes chilled as his gaze met Hatfield's.

"I've talked that matter over with the railroad people several times,"

said Hatfield, in an impersonal, snapping voice. "They tell me that you cattle owners are to blame. You seem to think that it is the business of the railroad company to guess how many cars you will want. You wait until the round-up is over before you begin to think about cars, and then you want them all in a bunch."

"You are mistaken, Hatfield. Along about the middle of the season every prudent cattle owner arranges with a buyer or with the railroad company for the necessary cars. In my case, I made arrangements with Jim Lefingwell, the buyer at Willets, as long ago as last spring. But Lefingwell isn't buyer any more, and Gary Warden, the present buyer, refuses to recognize my agreement with Lefingwell."

"A written agreement?"

"Unfortunately not. Lefingwell's word was always good."

Hatfield's smile was very near a sneer. "If you neglect the rudiments of business it seems to me that you have only yourselves to blame. In your case, Lawler, it is rather astonishing. You have quite a reputation for intelligence; you own one of the biggest ranches in the state; you are wealthy; and last year you tried to tell the people of the state how to run it. You even went so far as to make a speech in the convention, naming the man you preferred for governor."

Lawler smiled, though his gaze was level.

"Don't be unpleasant, Hatfield. You understand I am not here as a politician, but as a mere citizen pet.i.tioning you to act in this railroad case. What I have done or said has no bearing on the matter at all. The railroad company will not provide cars in which to ship our stock East, and I am here to ask you to do something about it."

Hatfield appeared to meditate.

"Warden offered to buy your cattle, you say?"

Lawler nodded. But he had not mentioned to Hatfield that Warden had offered to buy the cattle--Hatfield had either surmised that, or had received information through other sources. Lawler suspected that the railroad commissioner had been informed through the various mediums at his command, and this was evidence of collusion.

"And Simmons says there are no cars," mused Hatfield. "Well, that seems to leave you shippers in a bad predicament, doesn't it? Can't you drive to some other point--where you can arrange to get cars?"

"Five hundred miles, to Red Rock, over the Tom Long trail--the worst trail in the country."

"What price could you get at Red Rock?"

"The market price--about thirty dollars."

"And what did Warden offer?"

"Twenty-five."

"H'm. It seems to me, considering the inconvenience of driving over the Tom Long trail, you'd be better off taking Warden's offer. It's remarkable to what lengths you cattle owners will go for a few dollars."

"Five dollars a head on a herd of eight thousand amounts to forty thousand dollars, Hatfield," Lawler reminded him.