He
was tryin' to wallop her when Lawler come in. I ain't admirin' Ruth
Hamlin none, but I reckon she wasn't to blame for that. If you was
figgerin' to see Lawler, now, why that would be more to the point." He
grinned crookedly at Warden, slight mockery in his gaze.
Warden scowled. "That's your job, Singleton. If he tries to 'wallop' me
as he walloped you, I'll have something to say to him."
"It's safer to telegraph to the cuss," grinned Singleton, sourly.
Warden apparently did not hear Singleton's last words, for he was gazing
meditatively past him. He took leave of Singleton and walked to the
front of the saloon, where he stood for many minutes leaning on the bar,
thoughtfully looking out into the street.
The shadows of the buildings across the street from him had grown long,
and the light from the sun was mellowing when Warden walked to the
front door and stood for an instant on the threshold.
Down the street in front of his office stood Red King. Other horses were
hitched here and there, but there was no human being in sight. The quiet
peace of the waning afternoon had settled over town; it was the period
when human activity slackens.
Warden stepped down upon the sidewalk. There was a furtive gleam in his
eyes, his face was flushed; he was in the grip of a passion that
thoughts of Ruth Hamlin had brought to him.
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