"It's Lawler! I'd know him among a million! An' somethin's happened at
the Wolf. That's where the shootin' is! Warden," he said, nervously; "it
looks like there's goin' to be hell to pay!"
Warden's face was ashen, but he laughed.
"Don't worry, Singleton; Slade will take care of Lawler," he said. But
the words carried no conviction with them--they had been uttered without
expression.
Warden walked to the door and gazed down the dimly lighted stairway.
There was suppressed excitement in his manner, nervous anxiety in his
eyes. He walked back into the room, threw his cigar into a cuspidor, and
stood with his back to the stove, listening.
Singleton said nothing; though his lips had settled into a pout and his
eyes had a sullen, malignant expression. He, too, was wishing--what
Warden was wishing--that Slade would kill Lawler. The death of Lawler
would make the future safe for both of them; it would remove a menace to
their lives and a barrier to their schemes for the autocratic control of
the cattle industry.
But they doubted. Deep in their hearts lurked a fear that something had
gone wrong--which thought was suggested by the sounds of the shooting
they had heard.
Singleton had become afflicted with the nervousness that had seized
Warden.
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