"It's a freight, likely," muttered Singleton.
Warden took a nervous puff at his cigar. Then he got up, walked to a window and stood, looking out into the night. He stood there for a few minutes, Singleton watching him—until the whistle shrieked again and a muffled roar reached their ears. Then Warden turned, his face ashen.
"Singleton, it's a special!" he said, jerkily; "an engine and one car!"
Singleton got up and walked to the window, beside Warden. As they stood there, they saw the train stop at the station. They saw, in the dim light from the coach, the figure of a tall man alight and dart across the platform, to vanish in the shadow of the station. Simultaneously, there came to their ears the staccato reports of pistols, the sounds rendered faint and muffled by distance.
Singleton flashed around, his face pale and his eyes bulging.
"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.