PRIMITIVE INSTINCTS
Shorty and a dozen Circle L men--among them Blackburn and the three
others who had been wounded in the fight with the rustlers on the plains
the previous spring--had been waiting long in a gully at a distance of a
mile or more from the Hamlin cabin. Shortly after dark they had filed
into the gully, having come directly from the Circle L.
Hours before, they had got off their horses to stretch their legs, and
to wait. And now they had grown impatient. It was cold--even in the
gulley where the low moaning, biting wind did not reach them--and they
knew they could have no fire.
"Hell!" exclaimed one man, intolerantly; "I reckon she's a whizzer!"
"Looks a heap like it," agreed Shorty. "Seems, if Hamlin couldn't get
him headed this way--like he said he would--he ought to let us know."
"You reckon Hamlin's runnin' straight, now?" inquired Blackburn.
"Straight as a die!" declared Shorty. "If you'd been trailin' him like
me an' the boys has, you'd know it. Trouble is, that Singleton is
holdin' off. A dozen times we've been close enough to ketch Singleton
with the goods--if he'd do the brandin'. But he don't, an' Hamlin has to
do it--with Singleton watchin'. We've framed up on him a dozen times.
But he lets Hamlin run the iron on 'em. Hamlin eased that bunch into the
gully just ahead, especial for tonight. I helped him drive 'em. An'
Hamlin said that tonight he'd refuse to run the iron on 'em--makin'
Singleton do it. An' then we'd ketch him doin' it. But I reckon Hamlin's
slipped up somewheres."
"It ain't none comfortable here, with that wind whinin' that vicious,"
complained a cowboy. "An' no fire. Hamlin said ten o'clock, didn't he?
It's past eleven."
"It's off, I reckon," said Shorty. "Let's fan it to Hamlin's shack an'
say somethin' to him."
Instantly the outfit was on the move. With Shorty leading they swept out
of the gully to the level and rode northward rapidly.
When they came in sight of the Hamlin cabin there was no light within,
and the men sat for a time on their horses, waiting and listening. Then,
when it seemed certain there was no one stirring, Shorty glanced at the
horse corral.
Instantly he whispered to the other men:
"Somethin's wrong, boys. Hamlin's horse is gone, an' Ruth's pony!"
He dismounted and burst into the cabin, looking into the two bedrooms.
He came out again, scratching his head in puzzlement.
"I don't seem to sabe this here thing, boys. I know Ruth Hamlin ain't in
the habit of wanderin' off alone at this time of the night. An' Hamlin
was tellin' me that he sure was goin' with Singleton. It's a heap
mysterious, an' I've got a hunch things ain't just what they ought to
be!"
He turned toward the plain that stretched toward Willets. Far out--a
mere dot in his vision--he detected movement. He straightened, his face
paled.
"Somebody's out there, headin' for town. I'm takin' a look--the boss
would want me to, an' I ain't overlookin' anything that'll do him any
good!"
He leaped upon his horse, and the entire company plunged into the soft
moonlight that flooded the plains between the cabin and Willets.
* * * * *
The ivory-handled pistols were still on Lawler's desk when his secretary
softly opened a door and entered. The secretary smiled slightly at sight
of the weapons, but he said no word as he advanced to the desk and
placed a telegram before Lawler.
He stood, waiting respectfully, as Lawler read the telegram. It was from
Moreton:
"Governor Lawler: There's something mighty wrong going on in Willets.
Slade and his gang struck town this morning. He was with Warden all day
in the Wolf. Don't depend on the new sheriff."
Lawler got up, his face paling. He dismissed the secretary and then
stood for several minutes looking down at the pistols on the desk. They
offered a quick solution of the problem that confronted him.
At this minute he was conscious of one thing only--that Slade was in
Willets. Slade, who had led the gang that had killed his men--Slade,
whose face haunted Blackburn's dreams--the man the Circle L outfit held
responsible for the massacre that day on the plains above the big
valley.
Lurking in the metal cylinders of the two weapons on the desk was that
death which Warden, Singleton, Slade, and the others deserved at his
hands. He took up the pistols, nestling their sinister shapes in his
palms, while his blood rioted with the terrible lust that now seized
him--the old urge to do violence, the primal instinct to slay, to which
he had yielded when Shorty told him of the things Blondy Antrim had
done.
Another minute passed while he fondled the weapons. Twice he moved as
though to buckle the cartridge belt around his waist--shoving aside the
black coat he wore, which would have hidden them. But each time he
changed his mind.
He knew that if he wore them he would use them. The driving intensity of
his desire to kill Warden, Singleton, and Slade would overwhelm him if
he should find they had harmed Ruth. The deadly passion that held him in
a mighty clutch would take no account of his position, of his duty to
the state, or of the oath he had taken to obey and administer the laws.
While he silently fought the lust that filled his heart the secretary
came in. He started and then stood rigid, watching Lawler, seeming to
divine something of the struggle that was going on before his eyes. He
saw how Lawler's muscles had tensed, how his chin had gone forward with
a vicious thrust--noted the awful indecision that had seized the man. As
the secretary watched, he realized that Lawler was on the verge of
surrendering to the passions he was fighting--for Lawler had again
taken up the cartridge belt and was opening his coat to buckle the belt
around him.
"_Governor._"
It was the secretary's voice. It was low, conveying the respect that the
man always used in addressing Lawler. But the sound startled Lawler like
the explosion of a bomb in the room. He flashed around, saw the
secretary--looked steadily at him for one instant, and then dropped the
belt to the desk, tossed the pistols into the drawer and smiled
mirthlessly.
"Governor," said the secretary; "your train is ready."
The secretary stood within three yards of Lawler, and before he could
turn to go out, Lawler had reached him. He seized both the man's hands,
gripped them tightly, and said, hoarsely:
"Thank you, Williams."
Then he released the secretary's hands and plunged out through the door,
while the secretary, smiling wisely, walked to the desk and picking up
the cartridge belt, dropped it into the drawer with the pistols.