That's where the shootin' is! Warden," he said, nervously; "it looks like there's goin' to be hell to pay!" Warden's face was ashen, but he laughed.
"Don't worry, Singleton; Slade will take care of Lawler," he said.

But the words carried no conviction with them--they had been uttered without expression.
Warden walked to the door and gazed down the dimly lighted stairway.
There was suppressed excitement in his manner, nervous anxiety in his eyes.

He walked back into the room, threw his cigar into a cuspidor, and stood with his back to the stove, listening.
Singleton said nothing; though his lips had settled into a pout and his eyes had a sullen, malignant expression.

He, too, was wishing--what Warden was wishing--that Slade would kill Lawler.

The death of Lawler would make the future safe for both of them; it would remove a menace to their lives and a barrier to their schemes for the autocratic control of the cattle industry.
But they doubted.