He might expect craft and
cunning from the outlaw--an ambuscade, a trap--anything but the cold,
sheer courage that would be required for him to face an enemy upon equal
terms. And so as Lawler rode he kept an alert eye upon the coverts and
the shelters, upon the huge rocks that littered the sides of the trail,
upon the big trees that Red King flashed past.
Nothing happened. And Red King thundered down the trail where it doubled
half a mile from the Dickman cabin, and swept out upon the level that
surrounded the place, his speed unslackened, his rider still urging him.
Lawler had forgotten Shorty. Half a mile behind him the giant's horse
labored, making better time on the level river trail than he had made
over the plains. But Lawler did not even think of Shorty. His brain was
upon the work that was before him, his thoughts were definitely centered
upon Antrim and the Circle L men that Antrim and his men had killed. It
was concentration of a sinister character that had seized Lawler, and in
it was a single purpose, a single determination--to kill Antrim.
He saw the cabin as he crossed the level--a patch of bare, sandy earth
surrounding it; and the other buildings, with no sign of life near them.
His gaze swept the corral, and he saw no horse in it.
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