"It's safer to telegraph to the cuss," grinned Singleton, sourly.

Warden apparently did not hear Singleton's last words, for he was gazing
meditatively past him. He took leave of Singleton and walked to the
front of the saloon, where he stood for many minutes leaning on the bar,
thoughtfully looking out into the street.

The shadows of the buildings across the street from him had grown long,
and the light from the sun was mellowing when Warden walked to the
front door and stood for an instant on the threshold.

Down the street in front of his office stood Red King. Other horses were
hitched here and there, but there was no human being in sight. The quiet
peace of the waning afternoon had settled over town; it was the period
when human activity slackens.

Warden stepped down upon the sidewalk. There was a furtive gleam in his
eyes, his face was flushed; he was in the grip of a passion that
thoughts of Ruth Hamlin had brought to him. He had seen the girl a
number of times; he had talked with her twice. Each time when he had
talked with her he had felt the heat of a great desire seize him. And
during his talk with Singleton he had yielded to the impulse that was
now driving him.

Just why the impulse had come to him at that instant he could not have
told. He knew Kane Lawler's name had been mentioned in connection with
the girl's; and it might have been that his hatred of Lawler, and the
sudden jealousy that had developed in him over the incident of the
fluttering handkerchief, had gripped him. But he was aware that just at
this time he was risking much--risking his life and jeopardizing the