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Updated: June 5, 2025
"What'll I sing?" he asked in a voice which was reduced to a faint whisper by rage. "I dunno," mused Lawlor, "but maybe it ought to lie between 'Alice, Ben Bolt, and 'Annie Laurie. What d'you choose, partner?" He turned to Bard. "'Alice, Ben Bolt, by all means. I don't think he could manage the Scotch." "Start!" commanded Lawlor.
The big cattleman wiped a growing perspiration from his forehead and considered his boss with plaintive eyes. "This tenderfoot who's coming is green to the range, but he's a hard man; a fine horseman, a sure shot, and a natural fighter. More than that, he's coming here looking for trouble; and he'll expect to get the trouble from you." Lawlor brushed his moustache anxiously.
"Let him come on. Don't hold him. I ain't had work for my hands for five years. I need exercise, I do." The mouth of Jansen stirred, but no words came. A hopeless yearning was in his eyes. But he dropped the cigarette and ground it under his heel. "I thought," growled Lawlor, "that you knew your master, but don't make no mistake again.
But it seemed as if a chuckle came from above; it was only some sound in the gasoline lamp, a big fixture which hung suspended by a slender chain from the centre of the ceiling and immediately above the table. "Civilizin' cowpunchers," went on Lawlor, tilting back in his chair and bracing his feet against the edge of the table, "civilizin' cowpunchers is worse'n breakin' mustangs.
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.
Bard had poured only a few drops into his glass; he had too much sympathy for his empty stomach to do more. His host leaned back, coughing, with tears of pleasure in his eyes. "Damn me!" he breathed reverently. "I ain't touched stuff like this in ten years." "Is this a new stock?" inquired Bard, apparently puzzled. "This?" said Lawlor, recalling his position with a start. "Sure it is; brand new.
He carefully maneuvered the very last of the novelties he had built into an originally simple Lawlor drive-unit. The two ships came together with a distinct clanking sound. It seemed horribly loud. Thal jerked open the door, ashen-white. "W-we hit something! Wh-when do we fight?" Hoddan said ruefully: "I forgot. The fighting's over. But bring your stun-pistols.
"Lawlor?" broke out several of them, and turned in surprise to a big, cheerful man grey, plump, with monstrous white whiskers. "Because he looks a bit like me. First, you'll have to crop those whiskers, Lawlor." He clutched at the threatened whiskers with both hands. "Crop 'em? Chief, you ain't maybe runnin' me a bit?" "Not a bit," said Drew, smiling faintly. "I'll make it worth your while."
He had already stepped into his part; the others laughed loudly. "Steady there!" called Drew. "Lawlor starts as boss right now. Cut out the laughing. I'll tell the rest of you what you're to do later on. In the meantime just step out and I'll have a talk with Lawlor on his part. We haven't much time to get ready.
He reflected that the Lawlor drive wouldn't have been designed for this present ship, either. There'd probably been a quantity order for so many Lawlor drives, and they'd been installed on whatever needed a modern drive-system, which was every ship in the fleet. But since this was one of the smallest craft in the lot, with its low mass it should be fast.
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