There lingered in his mind at this minute--as it had dwelt during all the days he had known Lawler--the knowledge that Lawler's father had been a gunman of wide reputation, and that he had taught his son the precision and swiftness that had made him famous in the deadly art.
That knowledge had always exerted a deterring influence upon Singleton; there had been times when he would have drawn a gun on Lawler had it not been that he feared the son might be as swift as the father.
So Singleton had assured himself; he was not afraid of Lawler, he was afraid of the reputation of Lawler's father.

Singleton was reluctant to admit that it was not Lawler's gun that he was afraid of, but something that was in the man himself--in his confident manner, in the level glance of his eyes; in the way he looked at Singleton--seeming to hint that he knew the man's thoughts, and that when the time came--if it ever came--he would convince Singleton that his fears were well founded.
And, singularly, Singleton knew it; he knew that if he drew his gun on Lawler, Lawler would anticipate the movement; Singleton had become convinced of it--the conviction had become an obsession.

That was why his rage had cooled so suddenly when he had entered the schoolroom.
But he knew, too, that Lawler never sought trouble; that within the past few years--or since Singleton had known him--he had never drawn the gun that reposed at his hip.

And that knowledge brought the rage surging back into Singleton's veins.

He knew he could _talk_ to Lawler; that he could say some of the things that were in his mind--that had been in his mind all along; and that he would be safe so long as he kept his hands away from his guns.
As he snarled his questions at Lawler he took a step toward him.