But it's enough for the kind of law that I am representing right
now. It's this!"
He drew his gun with his left hand, taking it from the waistband of his
trousers--where he had placed it when he had picked it up at the Dickman
cabin--and held it on the desk top, so that its dark muzzle gaped at
Warden.
For an instant Warden sat, staring in dread fascination into the muzzle
of the weapon, his face dead white, his eyes wide with fear, naked,
cringing. Then he spoke, his voice hoarse and quavering.
"This is murder, Lawler!"
"Murder, Warden?" jeered Lawler. "One of my men was worth a dozen of
you!"
Lawler laughed--a sound that brought an ashen pallor to Warden's face;
then he straightened, and turned, to face Shorty.
He lurched to Shorty's side, drew out one of the latter's big guns, and
tossed it upon the desk within reach of Warden's hand.
"I gave Antrim the first shot, Warden," he said; "I gave him his chance.
I didn't murder him, and I won't murder you. Take that gun and follow me
to the street. There's people there. They'll see that it's a square
deal. You're a sneaking polecat, Warden; but you--I'm going to give
you----"
Lawler paused; he sagged. He tried to straighten, failed. And while both
men watched him--Shorty with eyes that were terrible in their ineffable
sympathy and impotent wrath; Warden in a paralysis of cold
terror--Lawler lurched heavily against the desk and slid gently to the
floor, where he leaned, his eyes closed, against the desk, motionless,
unconscious.
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