THE GOVERNOR'S GUNS
From his desk in the big, quiet room in the capitol building Lawler
could look out upon a wide sweep of orderly landscape. There were
trees--now stripped of their foliage--in serried array around the
spacious grounds that surrounded the building; bushes arranged in
attractive clusters; a low stone fence with massive posts that rose in
simple dignity above white cement walks that curved gracefully toward
the streets.
For nearly two months the huge building--representing the seat of
government of a mighty state--had been Lawler's throne. And he had ruled
with a democratic spirit and with a simple directness, that had
indicated earnestness and strength. There had been a mass of detail
which had required close attention; many conferences with the prominent
men of his party--in which the prominent men had been made to understand
that Lawler intended to be governor in fact as well as in name; and a
gradual gathering up of all the loose ends of administration which had
become badly tangled through the inefficiency of the former incumbent.
And now the legislature was in session.
Lawler had not been able to seize time to visit the Wolf River section.
Work, work--and more work had confronted him from the moment he had
taken the oath of office on the capitol steps until this minute, when
he sat at his desk looking out of a window at the bleak, artificial
landscape.
There had been times when he had longed for a glance at the Wolf River
section; and there had been many more times when he had sat where he was
sitting now, thinking of Ruth Hamlin.
Something lacked--he was not satisfied. In the old days--when he had
visited the capital and had entered the state building to sense
immediately the majesty of it and to feel the atmosphere of solemn
dignity that reigned within--he had felt that any man must experience
the ultimate thrill--the tingling realization that he stood in a spot
hallowed by the traditions of the republic.
The thought of serving the people of a great state had thrilled him
mightily in the old days. It still thrilled him, but it brought with it
a longing for Ruth to share it with him.
Thoughts of Ruth this morning brought Gary Warden into his mind. And he
frowned as a man frowns who watches a pleasant scene turn into tragedy.
Only his collapse as he faced Warden that day in the latter's office had
prevented him killing the man. He had left the Dickman cabin lusting for
Warden's life. The passion that had surged through his veins during the
long ride to Warden's office had been the only force that could have
kept him going. It had burned within him like a raging fire, and it had
upheld his failing strength until he had sunk beside the desk with his
passion unsatisfied.
He had thought much of the incident during the days he had lain in the
room at the Willets Hotel, and later, while convalescing at the Circle
L. And he had been glad his strength had failed him before he did what
he had set out to do. For while there was no doubt in his mind that
Warden had been implicated in all the attacks that had been made upon
him, he had no legal proof--except the confession, signed by Link and
Givens--that Warden was guilty.
And, now that he had been elected, he intended to keep silent regarding
the confession. He hated Warden, but it was with something of the
passion a man feels who treads upon a poisonous reptile that attacks
him.
He meant to be generous in the moment of victory. Those men--Warden,
Perry Haughton, Hatfield, and the officials of the railroad company--had
performed according to their lights, using whatever power and influence
was at hand to gain their ends. But they had failed. Several bills now
pending in the legislature would effectually curb the powers of those
men and others of their kind; and he would see to it that there never
would be another opportunity for that sort of practice.
Lawler got up after a time, and walked to one of the big windows, where
he stood for some minutes looking out. Then he returned to his desk,
dropped into the chair, pulled open a deep drawer and took therefrom a
cartridge belt, completely studded with cartridges. Suspended from the
belt were two ivory-handled pistols that had seen much service.
They had belonged to his father. Later, he had worn them himself--in
the days when his character had been in process of developing, when he
had earned, with them, a reputation which had made him respected
throughout the state.
They were, he felt, symbols of an ancient time. The day was coming when
men would ride the open range without guns, when the wearing of guns
would bring upon a man the distrust and the condemnation of his kind.
Law and order would supersede the rule of the gun, and the passions of
men would have to be regulated by the statute books.
He had brought the two guns with him upon the impulse of a moment. He
would be away from the Circle L for at least two years, and he wanted
the guns where he could look at them occasionally. For they brought into
his mind a picture of his father as he had seen him, many times, wearing
them; and they reminded him of days when he, too, had worn them--days
that had a romantic charm all their own.