THE FIGHT AT THE CABIN When Red King struck the river trail he was traveling as strongly as when he began his long race.

The miles that had stretched between him and the destination at which his rider aimed had been mere play for him.
By the time he reached the river trail he was warmed to his work and his giant, spurning stride carried him along in the shade of the fringing trees at a speed that made the wind whine and moan in Lawler's ears.
But Lawler did not offer to check Red King's speed.

The big horse was traveling at a pace that was all too slow for Lawler, now in the clutch of that passion which for many months had been smoldering within him.

He was leaning a little forward in the saddle, riding the red horse as he had ridden few times; and then only in sport.
In Lawler's eyes was still that intense light that had been in them when he had been watching Shorty as the latter had been relating what had happened during the night and the morning.
And yet Lawler betrayed no sign of excitement.

His face was pale, and his lips were stiff and white; but his muscles were tense, steady, and his brain clear.
He knew what to expect from Antrim.