Chapter 38

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.