“SAM’L HALL”
But with the stage set and the curtain ready to rise
on the farce, the audience did not arrive until the
shadow of the evening blotted the windows of the office
where big Lawlor waited impatiently, rehearsing his
part; but when the lamp had been lighted, as though
that were a signal for which the tenderfoot had waited,
came a knock at the door of the room, and then it
was jerked open and the head of one of the cowpunchers
was inserted.
“He’s coming!”
The head disappeared; the door slammed. Lawlor
stretched both arms wide, shifted his belt, loosened
his gun in the holster for the fiftieth time, and
exhaled a long breath. Once more the door jerked
open, and this time it was the head and sullen face
of Nash, enlivened now by a peculiarly unpleasant
smile.
“He’s here!”
As the door closed the grim realization came to Lawlor
that he could not face the tenderfoot—his
staring eyes and his pallor would betray him even
if the jerking of his hands did not. He swung
about in the comfortable chair, seized a book and
whisking it open bowed his head to read. All
that he saw was a dance of irregular black lines:
voices sounded through the hall outside.
“Sure, he’ll see you,” Calamity
Ben was saying. “And if you want to put
up for the night there ain’t nobody more hospital
than the Chief. Right in here, son.”
The door yawned. He could not see, for his back
was resolutely toward it and he was gripping the cover
of the book hard to steady his hands; but he felt
a breath of colder air from the outer hall; he felt
above all a new presence peering in upon him, like
a winter-starved lynx that might flatten its round
face against the window and peer in at the lazy warmth
and comfort of the humans around the hearth inside.
Some such feeling sent a chill through Lawlor’s
blood.
“Hello!” called Calamity Ben.
“Humph!” grunted Lawlor.
“Got a visitor, Mr. Drew.”
“Bring him in.”
And Lawlor cleared his throat.
“All right, here he is.”
The door closed, and Lawlor snapped the book shut.
“Drew!” said a low voice.
The cowpuncher turned in his chair. He had intended
to rise, but at the sound of that controlled menace
he knew that his legs were too weak to answer that
purpose. What he saw was a slender fellow, who
stood with his head somewhat lowered while his eyes
peered down from under contracted brows, as though
the light were hurting them. His feet were braced
apart and his hands dropped lightly on his hips—the
very picture of a man ready to spring into action.
Under the great brush of his moustache, Lawlor set
his teeth, but he was instantly at ease; for if the
sight of the stranger shook him to the very centre,
the other was even more obviously shocked by what he
saw. The hands dropped limp from his hips and
dangled idly at his sides; his body straightened almost
with a jerk, as though he had been struck violently,
and now, instead of that searching look, he was blinking
down at his host. Lawlor rose and extended a
broad hand and an even broader smile; he was proud
of the strength which had suddenly returned to his
legs.
