The Trail Horde | Page 5

force that he
could see in Lawler; with the slumbering energy that Lawler's lithe,
sinewy body suggested; with the man's complete lack of fear and with
the cold confidence that swam in his steady eyes.
Hamlin did not know at this minute whether or not he had meant to
shoot Lawler. He believed that if Lawler had told him he had come to
take him for blotting out the Circle L brand in the arroyo the preceding
night he would have killed Lawler. But he was not sure. Something
about Lawler made the thought of shooting him seem ridiculous. It

would take a lot of provocation for any man to kill Lawler, for
something about Lawler seemed to hint that it couldn't be done.
"Meaning that you are old enough to know that you can't keep on
rustling my cattle without getting in trouble."
"Ah!" exclaimed Hamlin, his breath hissing through his teeth as he
sucked it in with a gasp; "you sneaked on me, damn you!"
He threw the muzzle of the pistol up, his body stiffening, his eyes
glittering with the malignance that had been in them when he had been
looking out at Lawler through the aperture in the door.
"You know about that deal, an' you've come for me. You tried to fool
me, eh--tellin' me that you didn't see Davies an' Harris. Well, damn
your hide you ain't goin' to take me; I'll blow you to hell first!"
Lawler's eyes were steady and unblinking as he watched Hamlin; they
bored into Hamlin's with a compelling intensity, that brought a
conviction of futility into Hamlin's soul. They were cold eyes--cold as
icebergs, Hamlin thought as he watched them; but they seemed to
flame also, to flame with a fire that was cold as the ice in them.
The terrible power of them, and the promise of volcanic action back in
them; the awful confidence that shone in them; the threat compelling
Hamlin against his will, deadening his muscles, jumbling his
thoughts--brought chaos into the man's brain, and he stood, his mouth
agape with wonder over the thing that was happening to him, as Lawler
walked steadily to him. He made no resistance as Lawler deliberately
wrenched the pistol from his hand and as deliberately walked to a side
wall and placed it upon a shelf.
Hamlin stood, nerveless and pallid, for an instant, watching Lawler's
movements--until Lawler turned and faced him again. Then he
staggered to a chair and dropped into it, lowering his head dejectedly,
sitting with his hands folded, completely subjected.
Lawler would hang him, now. Lawler would take him to the Circle L

and turn him over to Blackburn and the other men of the outfit. And
Blackburn would hang him, for Blackburn had told him he would. Or,
if Lawler didn't take him to Blackburn he would take him to the sheriff.
He would be hanged then, but he would go to the new prison at the
capital, and Ruth would have to stay on here to do the real suffering for
his misdeeds.
"You damned fool!" came Lawler's voice into the vacuumlike stillness
of the cabin. "You haven't got nerve enough to shoot a coyote!"
Hamlin knew it; he knew, now, at least, that he hadn't had nerve
enough to shoot Lawler. He cringed under Lawler's contemptuous tone.
And then he became aware that Lawler was speaking again.
"I'm giving you another chance. I'm letting you off, clean. For Ruth's
sake.
"Look here, Hamlin!"
Hamlin's chin was caught in an iron grasp and he found himself looking
into the terrible eyes. He saw grim pity in the eyes and he shuddered.
"Ruth knows you're stealing cattle. Everybody knows it, now. Who is
buying them?"
"Singleton."
"Singleton!" Lawler's voice snapped with astonishment. "Dave
Singleton, Lefingwell's old range boss?"
Hamlin nodded. And then the grip of Lawler's fingers on his chin
relaxed. He heard Lawler step back, but he did not lift his head for a
few minutes, during which a strained silence descended upon the room.
Then he covertly raised his head, to see Lawler standing with his arms
folded over his chest, watching him.
Lawler had not suspected Singleton. Between himself and Singleton
there had always been a lack of ordinary cordiality, a constraint closely

approaching dislike; but Lawler had never entertained a suspicion that
Lefingwell's range boss was dishonest.
Hamlin was a moral weakling, he knew. Everybody in the Wolf River
section knew it. Hamlin was lazy and shiftless, seemingly contented to
drift along in an aimless way, regardless of what happened to him.
There was at Hamlin's feet some of the wealth that other cattlemen of
the district were gaining. He had proved on a quarter-section of good
grass land amid plenty of water, and yet he chose to steal cattle rather