The Trail Horde. Charles Alden Seltzer
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That power might have been grim humor—for his keen gray eyes were now gleaming with something akin to humor—it might have been cynical tolerance—for his lips were twisted into a curious, mirthless half-smile; it might have been the stern repression that had governed him all his days.
Whatever it was it seemed to be no secret from his mother, for she smiled understandingly, and with pride that must have been visible to anyone who watched her.
Massed in the big valley—at a distance of two or three miles from the big ranchhouse, was a herd of cattle. Circling them were a number of cowboys on horses. In the huge corral that spanned a shallow, narrow river, were other cattle. These were the result of the fall—or beef—round-up. For a month there had been intense activity in the section. Half the cattlemen in the county had participated in the round-up that had centered upon Lawler's range, the Circle L: and the cattle had been herded down in the valley because of its natural advantages.
There the herd had been held while the neighboring cattlemen engaged in the tedious task of "cutting out"—which meant that each cattle owner took from the herd the steers that bore his "brand," with the addition of a proportionate number of unbranded steers, and calves, designated as "mavericks." Then the neighboring outfit had driven their stock home.
"It was a big round-up, Kane," said Mrs. Lawler, watching the herd.
"Eight thousand head," Lawler replied. "We're starting a thousand toward Willets today."
"Have you seen Gary Warden? I mean, have you arranged with Warden to have him take the cattle?"
Lawler smiled. "I had an agreement with Jim Lefingwell. We made it early last spring."
"A written agreement?"
"Shucks—no. I never had a written agreement with Lefingwell. Never had to. Jim's word was all I ever wanted from him—all I ever asked for."
"But perhaps Gary Warden's business methods are different?"
"I talked that over with Lefingwell when he sold out to Warden. Jim said he'd already mentioned our agreement to Warden and that Warden had agreed to carry it out."
"But suppose Warden has changed his mind?"
Lawler spoke seriously. "No man goes back on his word in this country. But from what I've heard of Warden, he's likely to. If he does, we'll drive the stock to Keppler, at Red Rock. Keppler isn't buying for the same concern, but he'll pay what Lefingwell agreed to pay. We'll ship them, don't worry."
"Red Rock means a five hundred mile drive, Kane."
Lawler replied, "You're anticipating, Mother. Warden will take them."
Lawler grinned and stepped off the gallery. A few minutes later he emerged from the stable carrying a saddle, which he flung over one of the top rails of the corral fence. He roped a big, red bay, smooth, with a glossy coat that shone like a flame in the clear white light of the morning sun.
The bay was built on heroic lines. He was tall and rangy, and the spirit of a long line of thoroughbred ancestors was in him. It showed in the clear white of his gleaming, indomitable eyes, in his thin, sensitive nostrils and long, shapely muzzle; in the contour of his head and chest, and in his slender, sinewy legs.
Man and horse were big, capable, strong-willed. They were equipped for life in the grim, wild country that surrounded them. From the slender, powerful limbs of the big bay, to the cartridge-studded belt that encircled the man's middle, with a heavy pistol at the right hip, they seemed to typify the ruggedness of the country, seemed to embody the spirit of the Wild.
Lawler mounted, and the big bay whistled as he pranced across the ranchhouse yard to the big corral where the cattle were confined. Lawler brought the bay to a halt at a corner of the corral fence, where his foreman, Blackburn, who had been breakfasting in the messhouse, advanced to meet him, having seen Lawler step down from the gallery.
Blackburn was of medium height, swarthy, with heavy brows under which were keen, deep-set eyes. His mouth was big, expressive, with a slightly cynical set in repose.
"We're hittin' the trail in about an hour," said Blackburn. "Are you wantin' me to put 'em through, or are we takin' two days to it, as usual?"
"Two days," advised Lawler. "There's no hurry. It's a bad trail in spots, and they'll want to feed. They'll stand the trip on the cars better if they've had plenty of grass."
"Gary Warden is keeping Lefingwell's agreement with you, I reckon?" asked Blackburn. He eyed Lawler intently.
"Of course." Lawler caught the expression of his foreman's eyes, and his brows drew together. He added: "Why do you ask?"
"Just wonderin'," hesitated Blackburn; "just wonderin'. You seen this here man, Warden?"
Lawler had not met Warden; he had not even seen the man from a distance. That was because he had not visited Willets since Warden had bought Lefingwell's ranch and assumed Lefingwell's position as resident buyer for a big eastern live-stock company. Lawler had heard, though, that Warden seemed to be capable enough; that he had entered upon the duties of his position smoothly without appreciable commotion; he had heard that Warden, was quiet and "easy-going," and that as a cattle buyer he seemed to "know his business."
This information had reached Lawler's ears through the medium of neighboring cattle owners, and he was willing to accept it as accurate, though he was not prepared to form an estimate of Warden until he had an opportunity to talk with him personally.
"Well," went on Blackburn; "them that's looked him over don't hesitate to say he don't measure up to Jim Lefingwell's size."
"Jim was a mighty big man—in size and principles," said Lawler.
"Now you're shoutin'! There wasn't no man bigger'n Jim, sideways, edgeways, or up an' down. I reckon any man would have a hard time measurin' up to Jim Lefingwell. Mebbe that's what's wrong with Warden. Folks has got Jim Lefingwell on their minds, an' they're not givin' Warden what's comin' to him, them bein' biased." He squinted at Lawler. "Folks is hintin' that Warden don't own Jim Lefingwell's ranch a-tall; that some eastern guys bought it, an' that Warden's just managin' it. Seems like they's a woman at the Lefingwell's old place, keepin' Warden company. She's eastern, too, they say. Got a old maid with her to keep her company—a chapper-own, they say—which ain't in no ways illuminatin' my think-tank none. Which is a chapper-own?"
"A kind of a moral monitor, Blackburn," grinned Lawler. "Some folks need them. If you're thinking of getting one——"
"Bah!" Blackburn's eyes were vitriolic with disgust. "I sabe what you are hintin' at when you gas of morals—which I'm a heap acquainted with because I ain't got none to speak of. But I'm plumb flabbergasted when you go to connectin' a battleship with anything that's got a whole lot to do with morals. Accordin' to my schoolin', a monitor is a thing which blows the stuffin' out of——"
"A monitor of morals could do that," gravely said Lawler. "In fact, according to the best authorities, there have been many monitors who have blown the stuffing out of the reputations of their charges."
Blackburn gulped. He was puzzled, and his eyes were glazed with the incomprehension which had seized him. Twice again as he watched Lawler's grave face he gulped. And then he eyed Lawler belligerently.
"I reckon them monitors is eastern. I've never seen one galivantin' around these parts."
"They're a lot eastern," assented Lawler. "I've never seen one, but I've read about them in books. And once my mother saw one—she tells me the East raises them by the hundred."
"That accounts for it," declared Blackburn; "anything which comes from the East is likely to be a heap shy on hoss sense."
He now squinted at Lawler, watching him keenly.
"Accordin' to report Joe Hamlin ought to go around draggin' one of them monitors."
Blackburn shrewdly noted the quickening of Lawler's eyes, and the dull red that stole into his face.
"What do