"But get this straight. You've got to fight me. Understand? You'll drag no woman into it. You went to the Hamlin ranch the other day. God's grace and a woman's mercy permitted you to get away, alive. Don't let it happen again. Just as sure as you molest a woman in this section, just so sure will I kill you no matter who your friends are! Do you understand that, Warden?"
Warden did not move a muscle. He tried to look steadily into Lawler's eyes, found that he could not endure the terrible intensity of them—and drooped his own, cursing himself for the surrender.
He heard Lawler laugh again, a sound that sent a cold shiver over him; and then he saw Lawler standing beside the desk at which Jordan sat.
"Jordan," said Lawler, shortly; "I want you to vent my cattle. There's eight thousand head, approximately. They're being held just out of town—about a mile. I'd like to have you give me a certificate of ownership tonight, so we can start to drive before daylight."
Jordan's face whitened, and then grew crimson. He essayed to look up, to meet Lawler's eyes, raising his head and then lowering it again without achieving his desire. He cleared his throat, shifted his body and scuffed his feet on the floor. At last, after clearing his throat again, he spoke, huskily:
"We ain't ventin' any trail herds this fall, Lawler."
Lawler stiffened, looked from Jordan to Warden, and then back again at Jordan, who had taken up the pencil again and was nervously tapping with it upon the desk top.
"Not venting trail herds, eh?" said Lawler. "Whose orders?"
"The state inspector—headquarters," replied Jordan, hesitatingly.
"Would you mind letting me see the order, Jordan?" asked Lawler, calmly.