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 buttoned over it, hiding it.
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