t 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