As he guided Red
King toward the cabin he peered vainly for sight of Antrim's horse.
Not a living thing was in sight. The buildings were silent, seemingly
deserted. And the atmosphere of the place seemed to be pregnant with a
lurking threat, a hint of hidden danger.
He grinned as he plunged Red King to the door of the cabin--a grin which
meant that he expected Antrim would be waiting for him, but which
expressed his contempt of ambuscades and traps.
As he slipped from Red King he drew his pistol and lunged forward,
bringing up against the cabin door and sending it crashing inward,
against the wall.
He halted just inside the door, his pistol rigid in his right hand,
which was pressed tightly to his side; for directly in front of him,
standing, his arms folded over his chest, was Antrim, a huge, venomous
grin on his face.
"Well, you got here, Lawler," he said, huskily. "You come a-runnin',
didn't you? Well, I had your cattle run off, an' I burned your
buildin's. What are you aimin' to do about it?"
Lawler did not move. He might have killed Antrim, for the man's weapon
was in the holster at his hip--Lawler could see the stock sticking above
the leather. He had expected Antrim would be in the cabin when he opened
the door; he anticipated that the outlaw would shoot on sight, and he
had been prepared to do the same.
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