Lawler's lips opened, then closed again, tightly. And by that token Mrs.
Lawler knew that something Kane had been on the point of saying never
would be said. For she knew her son as no other person in the country
knew him.

Kane Lawler was big. From the broad shoulders that bulged the gray
flannel shirt, down the yellow corduroy trousers that encased his legs
to the tops of the boots with their high heels and dull-roweled spurs,
Lawler looked what he was, a man who asked no favors of his kind.

Mrs. Lawler had followed him out of the house, and she now stood near
him, watching him.

There was in Lawler's lean face as he turned from his mother and peered
steadily out into the valley, a hint of volcanic force, of resistless
energy held in leash by a contrary power. That power might have been
grim humor--for his keen gray eyes were now gleaming with something akin
to humor--it might have been cynical tolerance--for his lips were
twisted into a curious, mirthless half-smile; it might have been the
stern repression that had governed him all his days.

Whatever it was it seemed to be no secret from his mother, for she
smiled understandingly, and with pride that must have been visible to
anyone who watched her.

Massed in the big valley--at a distance of two or three miles from the
big ranchhouse, was a herd of cattle. Circling them were a number of
cowboys on horses. In the huge corral that spanned a shallow, narrow
river, were other cattle. These were the result of the fall--or
beef--round-up. For a month there had been intense activity in the