The door opened and the men filed out, eager to ascertain the truth of Lawler's story. Warden did not move; but his eyes, the expression of his face, indicated that he did not doubt Lawler's story. But he sought to discredit it.
"What would my men cut your fence for, Lawler?"
Lawler laughed. He had no intention of telling Warden about the confession the men had signed.
"You ought to know, Warden—they were your men."
"Meaning that I sent them to cut the fence?" demanded Warden. His face was red with a wrath that was plainly artificial, or that had been aroused over the knowledge that Link and Givens had failed.
"Meaning whatever you choose to think I mean, Warden," said Lawler coldly. "I'll make my explanations to the sheriff."
Warden had quickly recovered his composure. It was evident from Lawler's manner that Link and Givens had not talked. He had been afraid they might have told Lawler that he had ordered them to cut the fence. If they had talked, Lawler would have mentioned it before this—any man would, for no man could have resisted the inevitable impulse to exult over his success in thwarting the men, of bringing confusion upon the author of the scheme. That was what Warden would have done, and he believed any man would have done it.
He drew himself erect and walked slowly to the fireplace; where he halted, turned, and smiled at Lawler—a smile full of malice.
"Your explanation of the killing of Link and Givens is a mighty flimsy one, Lawler, don't you think? Moreton might want a witness,—eh?"
"There was no witness, Warden." Lawler had not turned. He was watching the door, for he expected the Two Diamond men to enter at any instant, and he knew they would deeply resent the killing of their companions. He did not intend to be taken by surprise.