But, given the power, any bunch of cheap crooks could do it.

You understand that I'm not complimenting you any." It was apparent to Warden, as it was apparent to Jordan--who poised his pencil over the pad of papers and did not move a muscle--that Lawler's wrath was struggling mightily within him.

It was also apparent that Lawler's was a cold wrath, held in check by a sanity that forbade surrender to it--a sanity that sternly governed him.
It was the icy rage that awes with its intensity; the deliberate bringing to the verge of deadly action the nerves and muscles that yearn for violent expression--and then holding them there, straining tensely, awaiting further provocation.
Both men knew what impended; both saw in the steady, unwavering gleam of Lawler's eyes the threat, the promise of violence, should they elect to force it.
Jordan was chastened, nerveless.

The pencil dropped from his fingers and he slacked in his chair, watching Lawler with open mouth.
Warden's face had grown dead white.

The hatred he bore for this man glared forth from his eyes, but the hatred was tempered by a fear that gripped him.
However, Warden was instinctively aware that Lawler would not force that trouble for which he plainly yearned; that he would not use the gun that swung from the leather at his hip unless he or Jordan provoked him to it.
And Warden wore no gun.