Chapter XIV
Bondsman's Decision
Bud Shoop's homestead on the Blue Mesa lay in a wide level of grassland, round which the spruce of the high country swept in a great, blue-edged circle. To the west the barren peak of Mount Baldy maintained a solitary vigil in sunshine and tempest. Away to the north the timbered plateaus dropped from level to level like a gigantic stair until they merged with the horizon-line of the plains. The air on the Blue Mesa was thin and keen; warm in the sun, yet instantly cool at dusk. A mountain stream, all but hidden by the grasses, meandered across the mesa to an emerald hollow of coarse marsh-grass. A few yards from this pool, and on its southern side, stood the mountain cabin of the Shoop homestead, a roomy building of logs, its wide, easy-sloping veranda roof covered with home-made shakes. Near the house was a small corral and stable of logs. Out on the mesa a thin crop of oats wavered in the itinerant breeze. Round the cabin was a garden plot that had suffered from want of attention. Above the gate to the door-yard was a weathered sign on which was lettered carefully:
"The rose is red; the violet blue;
Please shut this gate when you come through."
And on the other side of the sign, challenging the possible carelessness of the chance visitor, was the legend:—
"Now you've been in and had your chuck,
Please close this gate, just once, for luck."
Otherwise the place was like any mountain homestead of the better sort, viewed from without. The interior of the cabin, however, was unusual in that it boasted of being the only music-room within fifty miles in any direction.
When the genial Bud had been overtaken with the idea of homesteading, he had had visions of a modest success which would allow him to entertain his erstwhile cow-puncher companions when they should ride his way. To this end he had labored with more heart than judgment.
The main room was large and lighted by two unusually large windows. The dimensions of the room were ample enough to accommodate a fair number of dancers. Bud knew that if cowboys loved anything they loved to dance. The phonograph was so common that it offered no distinction in gracing Bud's camp; so with much labor and expense he had freighted an upright piano from the distant railroad, an innovation that at first had stunned and then literally taken the natives off their feet. Riders from all over the country heard of Bud's piano, questioned its reality, and finally made it a point to jog over and see for themselves.
For a time Bud's homestead was popular. A real piano, fifty miles from a settlement, was something worth riding far to see. But respect for the shining veneer of the case was not long-lived. In a moment of inspiration, a cowboy pulled out his jackknife and carved his home brand on the shining case. Bud could have said more than he did when he discovered it. Later another contingent, not to be outdone, followed this cowboy's incisive example and carved its brand on the piano. Naturally it became a custom. No visitor in boots and chaps left the cabin without first having carved some brand.
Bud suffered in silence, consoling himself with the thought that while there were many pianos in the lower country, there were none like his. And "As long as you don't monkey with her works or shoot her up," he told his friends, "I don't care how much you carve her; only leave enough sidin' and roof to hold her together."
Cowboys came, danced long and late as Bud pumped the mechanical player, and thrilled to the shuffle of high-heeled boots. Contingent after contingent came, danced, and departed joyously, leaving Bud short on rations, but happy that he could entertain so royally. Finally the novelty wore off, and Bud was left with his Airedale, his saddle-ponies, and the hand-carved piano.
But Bud had profited by the innovation. An Easterner sojourning with Bud for a season, had taught him to play two tunes—"Annie Laurie" and "Dixie." "Real hand-made music," Bud was wont to remark. And with these tunes at his disposal he was more than content. Many a long evening he sat with his huge bulk swaying in the light of the hanging lamp as he wandered around Maxwelton's braes in search of the true Annie Laurie; or hopped with heavy sprightliness across the sandy bottoms of Dixie, while Bondsman, the patient Airedale, sat on his haunches and accompanied Bud with dismal energy.
Bud was not a little proud of his accomplishment. The player was all right, but it lacked the human touch. Even when an occasional Apache strayed in and borrowed tobacco or hinted at a meal, Bud was not above entertaining the wondering red man with music. And Bud disliked Apaches.
And during these latter days Bud had had plenty of opportunity to indulge himself in music. For hours he would sit and gently strike the keys, finding unexpected harmonies that thrilled and puzzled him. The discords didn't count. And Bondsman would hunch up close with watchful eye and one ear cocked, waiting for the familiar strains of "Annie Laurie" or "Dixie." He seemed to consider these tunes a sort of accompaniment to his song. If he dared to howl when Bud was extemporizing, Bud would rebuke him solemnly, explaining that it was not considered polite in the best circles to interrupt a soloist. And an evening was never complete without "Annie Laurie," and "Dixie," with Bondsman's mournful contralto gaming ascendance as the evening progressed.
"That dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous," Bud was wont to remark, as he rose from his labors and prepared for bed. "There I was huntin' around for that chord I lit on the other night and almost findin' it, when he has to howl like a coyote with a sore throat and spile the whole thing. I ought to learned more tunes."
* * * * *
It was almost dusk when Lorry topped the trail that led across the Blue Mesa to Bud's cabin. Gray Leg pricked his ears, and jogged over the wide level, heading straight for the corral. The cabin was dark. Lorry hallooed. A horse in the corral answered, nickering shrilly. Lorry found some loose gramma grass in the stable and threw it to the horse. If this was Shoop's place, Shoop would not be gone long, or he'd have turned the horse to graze on the open mesa.
Lorry entered and lighted the lamp. He gazed with astonishment at the piano. But that could wait. He was hungry. In a few minutes he had a fire going, plates laid for two, had made coffee and cut bacon. He was mixing the dough for hot biscuit when he heard some one ride up. He stepped to the door. A bulky figure was pulling a saddle from a horse. Lorry called a greeting.
"Just a minute, friend," came from the darkness.
Lorry stepped to the kitchen, and put the biscuit pan in the oven. A saddle thumped on the veranda, and Bud Shoop, puffing heavily, strode in. He nodded, filled a basin, and washed. As he polished his bald spot, his glance traveled from the stove to the table, and thence to Lorry, and he nodded approval.
"Looks like you was expectin' comp'ny," he said, smiling.
"Yep. And chuck's about ready."
"So am I," said Bud, rubbing his hands.
"I'm Adams, from Stacey."
"That don't make me mad," said Bud. "How's things over to your town?"
"All right, I guess. Mr. Torrance—"
Bud waved his hand. "Let's eat. Been out since daylight. Them biscuits is just right. Help yourself to the honey."
"There's somebody outside," said Lorry, his arm raised to pass the honey jar.
"That's my dog, Bondsman. He had to size up your layout, and he's through and waitin' to size up you. Reckon he's hungry, too. But business before pleasure is his idea mostly. He's tellin' me to let him in. That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous. When did you get in?"
"About sundown."
"Uh-uh. I seen that your horse hadn't grazed out far yet. How do you like this country?"
"Good summer country, all right. Too high for stock in winter."
"Yes. Four feet of snow on the mesa last winter. When you say 'Arizona' to some folks, they don't think of snow so deep a hoss can't get from the woods over there to this cabin." Bud Shoop sighed and rose. "Never mind them dishes. Mornin' 'll do."
"Won't take a minute," said Lorry.
Bud's blue eyes twinkled as he waddled to the living-room. Young Adams was handy around a kitchen. He had laid plates for two, knew how to punch dough, was willing to wash the dishes without a hint, and had fed the horse in the corral.
"He trots right along, like he knew where he was goin'," Bud said to himself. "I like his looks—but that ain't always a sign."
Lorry whistled as he dried the dishes. Bud was seated in a huge armchair when Lorry entered the room. Shoop seemed to pay no attention to Bondsman, who whined and occasionally scratched on the door.
"Funny thing happened this mornin'," said Shoop, settling himself in his chair. "I was ridin' down the ole Milk Ranch Trail when I looked up and seen a bobcat lopin' straight for me. The cat didn't see me, but my hoss stopped, waitin' for me to shoot. Well, that kittycat come right along till I could 'a' almost roped him. Bondsman—that's my dog—never seen him, neither, till I hollered. You ought to seen that cat start back without losin' a jump. I like to fell off the hoss, laughin'. Bondsman he lit out—"
"I'll let him in," said Lorry, moving toward the door.
"—After that cat," continued Shoop, "but the cat never treed, I reckon, for pretty soon back comes Bondsman, lookin' as disgusted as a hen in a rainstorm. 'We're gettin' too old,' I tells Bondsman—"
"Ain't you goin' to let him in?" queried Lorry.
"—We're gettin' too old to chase bobcats just for fun," concluded
Shoop. "What was you sayin'?"
"Your dog wants to come in."
"That's right. Now I thought you was listenin' to me."
"I was. But ain't he hungry?"
Shoop chuckled. "Let him in, son."
Lorry opened the door. Bondsman stalked in, sniffed at Lorry's boots, and padded to the kitchen.
"What do you feed him?" said Lorry, hesitating.
"He won't take nothin' from you," said Shoop, heaving himself up. "I've had him since he was a pup. You set down and I'll 'tend to him.
"And I says to him," said Shoop, as he returned to his chair,—"I says, 'Bondsman, that there cat was just passin' the buck to us to see if we was game.' And he ain't got over it yet."
"I've roped 'em," said Lorry—"roped 'em out of a tree."
"Uh-uh. Where'd you learn to rope?"
"At the Starr Ranch. I worked there once."
"Git tired of it?"
"Nope. I had a argument with the foreman."
"Uh-uh. I reckon it ain't hard to pick a fuss with High Chin."
"I wasn't lookin' for a fuss. It was his funeral."
"So I heard; all but the procession."
"And that's why I came up to see you. Mr. Torrance told me to hunt you up."
"He did, eh? Well, now, John sure gets queer idees. I don't need a man round here."
"I was after a job in the Service."
"And he sends you to me. Why, I ain't ever worked a day for the
Service."
"I guess he wanted you to look me over," said Lorry, smiling.
"Well, they's lots of time, 'less you're in a hurry."
"If I can't get in the Service, I'll look up a job punchin'," said
Lorry. "I got to get somethin'."
Bondsman stalked in, licking his chops. He nuzzled Shoop's hand. Lorry snapped his fingers. Bondsman strode to him. Lorry patted his knee. The big dog crouched and sprang to Lorry's knees, where he sat, studying him quizzically, his head to one side, his keen eyes blinking in the lamplight. Lorry laughed and patted the dog.
"He's trying to get my number," said Lorry.
"He's got it," said Shoop. "You could 'a' snapped your fingers off afore he'd 'a' come nigh you, 'less he wanted to. And while we're talkin' about it, you can tell John Torrance I said to give you a try."
Lorry sat up quickly. "Guess you didn't know that Buck Hardy is lookin' for me," said Lorry. "Mr. Torrance says I got to square myself with Buck afore I get the job."
"He did, eh? Well, speakin' of Buck, how would you like to hear a little talk from a real music-box?"
"Fine!"
Shoop waddled to the piano. "I ain't no reg'lar music sharp," he explained unnecessarily, "but I got a couple of pieces broke to go polite. This here piano is cold-mouthed, and you got to rein her just right or she'll buffalo you. This here piece is 'Annie Laurie.'"
As Bud struck the first note, Bondsman leaped from Lorry's knees and took his place beside the piano. The early dew had just begun to fall when Bondsman joined in. Lorry grinned. The dog and his master were absolutely serious in their efforts. As the tune progressed, Lorry's grin faded, and he sat gazing intently at the huge back of his host.
"Why, he's playin' like he meant it," thought Lorry. "And folks says Bud
Shoop was a regular top-hand stem-winder in his day."
Shoop labored at the piano with nervous care. When he turned to Lorry his face was beaded with sweat.
"I rode her clean through to the fence," he said, with a kind of apologetic grin. "How did you like that piece?"
"I always did like them old tunes," replied Lorry. "Give us another."
Shoop's face beamed. "I only got one more that I can get my rope on. But if you can stand it, I can. This here one is 'Dixie.'"
And Bud straightened his broad shoulders, pushed back his sleeves, and waded across the sandy bottoms of Dixie, hitting the high spots with staccato vehemence, as though Dixie had recently suffered from an inundation and he was in a hurry to get to dry land. Bondsman's moody baritone reached up and up with sad persistency.
Lorry was both amused and astonished. Shoop's intensity, his real love for music, was a revelation. Lorry felt like smiling, yet he did not smile. Bud Shoop could not play, but his personality forced its own recognition, even through the absurd medium of an untutored performance on that weird upright piano. Lorry began to realize that there was something more to Bud Shoop than mere bulk.
Bud swung round, puffing. "I got that tune where I can keep her in sight as long as she lopes on the level. But when she takes to jumpin' stumps and makin' them quick turns, I sure have to do some hard ridin' to keep her from losin' herself. Me and Bondsman's been worryin' along behind them two tunes for quite a spell. I reckon I ought to started in younger. But, anyhow, that there piano is right good comp'ny. When I been settin' here alone, nights, and feelin' out her paces, I get so het up and interested that I don't know the fire's out till Bondsman takes to shiverin' and whinin' and tellin' me he'd like to get some sleep afore mornin'."
And Bondsman, now that the music had stopped, stalked to Lorry and eyed him with an expression which said plainly: "It's his weak spot—this music. You will have to overlook it. He's really a rather decent sort of person."
"I got a mechanical player in the bedroom," said Shoop. "And a reg'lar outfit of tunes for dances."
Lorry was tempted to ask to hear it, but changed his mind. "I've heard them players. They're sure good for a dance, but I like real playin' better."
Bud Shoop grinned. "That's the way with Bondsman here. Now he won't open his head to one of them paper tunes. I've tried 'em all on him. You can't tell me a dog ain't got feelin's."
Chapter XV
John and Demijohn
The grass on the high mesa was heavy with dew when Lorry stepped from the cabin next morning. His pony, Gray Leg, stood close to the corral, where Shoop's horses were playfully biting at him over the bars. Lorry unhobbled Gray Leg and turned Shoop's horses out to water. The three ponies trotted to the water-hole, sniffed at the water, and, whirling, raced across the mesa, pitching and kicking in the joy of liberation.
After breakfast Bud and Lorry sat out in the sun, enjoying the slow warmth. The morning air was still keen in the shade. Bondsman lay between them, watching the distant horses.
"He won't let 'em get far into the timber," said Shoop. "He sure saves me a lot of steps, roundin' up them hosses."
"I can whistle Gray Leg to me," said Lorry. "Then the other horses'll come."
Shoop nodded. "What you goin' to do to-day?"
"Me? Well, it's so kind of quiet and big up here I feel like settin' around and takin' it all in. I ain't been in the high country much. 'Course I don't aim to camp on you."
"You're sure welcome," said Shoop heartily. "It gets lonesome up here.
But if you ain't got no reg'lar plan I was thinkin' of ridin' over to
Sheep Crossin'—and mebby on down to Jason."
"Suits me fine!"
Shoop heaved himself up. Lorry whistled shrilly. Gray Leg, across the mesa, raised his head. Lorry whistled again. The pony lowered his head and nipped at the bunch-grass as he moved slowly toward the house. Shoop's horses watched him, and finally decided that they would follow. Gray Leg stopped just out of reach.
"Get in the corral, there!" said Lorry, waving his arm.
The pony shied and trotted into the corral, the other horses following.
Bondsman was not exactly disgruntled, but he might have been happier.
Shoop had told him to "keep house" until they returned.
"It's a funny thing," said Shoop as he mounted. "Now, if I was to tell that dog he was gettin' too old to ramble with me, he'd feel plumb sick and no account. But when I tell him he's got to do somethin'—like watchin' the house—he thinks it's a reg'lar job. He's gettin' old, but, just like folks, he wants to think he's some use. You can't tell me dogs don't know. Why, I've seen young folks so durned fussy about their grandmas and grandpas, trying to keep 'em from putterin' around, that the old folks just nacherally folded their hands and set down and died, havin' nothin' else to do. And a dog is right proud about bein' able to do somethin'. Bondsman there keeps me so busy thinkin' of how I can keep him busy that I ain't got time to shine my boots. That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous."
"That's right," acquiesced Lorry. "I seen a ole mule once that they turned loose from a freight wagon because he was too old to pull his own weight. And that mule just followed the string up and down the hills and across the sand, doin' his best to tell the skinner that he wanted to get back into the harness. He would run alongside the other mules, and try to get back in his old place. They would just naturally kick him, and he'd turn and try to wallop 'em back. Then he'd walk along, with his head hangin' down and his ears floppin', as if he was plumb sick of bein' free and wanted to die. The last day he was too stiff to get on his feet, so me and Jimmy Harp heaved him up while the skinner was gettin' the chains on the other mules. That ole mule was sure wabblin' like a duck, but he come aside his ole place and followed along all day. We was freightin' in to camp, back in the Horseshoe Hills. You know that grade afore you get to the mesa? Well, the ole mule pulled the grade, sweatin' and puffin' like he was pullin' the whole load. And I guess he was, in his mind. Anyhow, he got to the top, and laid down and died. Mules sure like to work. Now a horse would have fanned it."
Shoop nodded. "I never seen a animile too lazy to work if it was only gettin' his grub and exercise. But I've seen a sight of folks too lazy to do that much. Why, some folks is so dog-gone no account they got to git killed afore folks ever knowed they was livin'. Then they's some folks so high-chinned they can't see nothin' but the stars when they'd do tol'able well if they would follow a good hoss or a dog around and learn how to live human. But this ain't gettin' nowhere, and the sun's keepin' right along doin' business."
They rode across the beautiful Blue Mesa, and entered the timberlands, following a ranger trail through the shadowy silences. At the lower level, they came upon another mesa through which wound a mountain stream. And along a stream ran the trail, knee-high in grass on either side.
Far below them lay the plains country, its hazy reaches just visible over the tree-tops. Where the mountain stream merged with a deeper stream the ground was barren and dotted with countless tracks of cattle and sheep. This was Sheep Crossing, a natural pass where the cattlemen and sheepmen drifted their stock from the hills to the winter feeding-grounds of the lower country. It was a checking point for the rangers; the gateway to the hills.
The thin mountain air was hot. The unbridled ponies drank eagerly, and were allowed to graze. The men moved over to the shade of a blue-topped spruce. As Lorry was about to sit down he picked an empty whiskey bottle from the grass, turned the label toward Shoop, and grinned. He tossed the bottle into the edge of the timber.
Shoop rolled a cigarette, and Lorry squatted beside him. Presently Shoop's voice broke the indolent silence of noon: "Just why did you chuck that bottle over there?"
"I don't know. Horse might step on it and cut himself."
"Yes. But you chucked it like you was mad at somethin'. Would you thrun it away if it was full?"
"I don' know. I might 'a' smelt of it to see if it was whiskey or kerosene some herder forgot."
"It's right curious how a fella will smell of a bottle to see what's in it or what's been in it. Most folks does that. I guess you know what whiskey smells like."
"Oh, some; with the boys once or twice. I never did get to like it right well."
Shoop nodded. "I ain't what you'd call a drinkin' man myself, but I started out that way. I been tol'able well lit up at times. But temperance folks what never took a drink can tell you more about whiskey than I can. Now that there empty bottle, a hundred and thirty miles from a whiskey town, kind of set me thinkin'."
Lorry leaned back against the spruce and watched a hawk float in easy circles round the blue emptiness above. He felt physically indolent; at one with the silences. Shoop's voice came to him clearly, but as though from a distance, and as Shoop talked Lorry visualized the theme, forgetting where he was in the vivid picture the old ex-cowboy sketched in the rough dialect of the range.
"I've did some thinkin' in my time, but not enough to keep me awake nights," said Shoop, pushing back his hat. "That there whiskey bottle kind of set me back to where I was about your years and some lively. Long about then I knowed two fellas called 'John' and 'Demijohn.' John was young and a right good cow-hand. Demijohn was old, but he was always dressed up like he was young, and he acted right lively. Some folks thought he was young. They met up at a saloon down along the Santa Fé. They got acquainted, and had a high ole time.
"That evenin', as John was leavin' to go back to the ranch, Demijohn tells him he'll see him later. John remembers that. They met up ag'in. And finally John got to lookin' for Demijohn, and if he didn't show up reg'lar John would set out and chase Demijohn all over the country, afoot and ahorseback, and likin' his comp'ny more every time they met.
"Now, this here Demijohn, who was by rights a city fella, got to takin' to the timber and the mesas, with John followin' him around lively. Ole Demijohn would set in the shade of a tree—no tellin' how he got there—and John would ride up and light down; when mebby Demijohn would start off to town, bein' empty, and John after him like hell wasn't hot enough 'less he sweat runnin'. And that young John would ride clean to town just to say 'How' to that ole hocus. And it come that John got to payin' more attention to Demijohn than he did to punchin' cows. Then come a day when John got sick of chasin' Demijohn all over the range, and he quit.
"But the first thing he knowed, Demijohn was a chasin' him. Every time John rode in and throwed off his saddle there'd be ole Demijohn, settin' in the corner of the corral or under his bunk or out in the box stall, smilin' and waitin'. Finally Demijohn got to followin' John right into the bunk-house, and John tryin' his durndest to keep out of sight.
"One evenin', when John was loafin' in the bunk-house, ole Demijohn crawls up to his bunk and asks him, whisperin', if he ain't most always give John a good time when they met up. John cussed, but 'lowed that Demijohn was right. Then Demijohn took to pullin' at young John's sleeve and askin' him to come to town and have a good time. Pretty soon John gets up and saddles his cayuse and fans it for town. And that time him and Demijohn sure had one whizzer of a time. But come a week later, when John gits back to the ranch, the boss is sore and fires him. Then John gits sore at the boss and at himself and at Demijohn and the whole works. So he saddles up and rides over to town to have it out with Demijohn for losin' a good job. But he couldn't lick Demijohn right there in town nohow. Demijohn was too frequent for him.
"When young John wakes up next mornin' he is layin' under a tree, mighty sick. He sees he is up on the high mesa, but he don' know how he got there; only his pony is grazin' near by, with reins all tromped and the saddle 'way up on his withers. John sets up and rubs his eyes, and there he sees ole Demijohn settin' in the grass chucklin' to hisself, and his back is turned to young John, for he don't care nohow for a fella when he is sick. Ole Demijohn is always feelin' good, no matter how his friends feel. Well, young John thinks a while, and pretty soon he moseys over to a spring and gets a big, cold drink and washes his head, and feels better.
"He never knowed that just plain water tasted so good till that mornin'. Then he sets awhile, smellin' of the clean pine air and listenin' to the wind runnin' loose in the tree-tops and watchin' the clouds driftin' by, white and clean and proud-like. Pretty soon he rares up and walks over to the tree where ole Demijohn sets rockin' up and down and chucklin'. He takes a holt of Demijohn by the shoulder, and he says: 'You darned ole hocus, you, I lost my job, and I'm broke, lopin' around this country with you.'
"'Forget it!' says ole Demijohn. 'Ain't I good comp'ny?'
"'Mebby you be—for some folks,' says young John. 'But not for me. You don't belong up in this here country; you belong back in town, and I reckon you better fan it.'
"Ole Demijohn he laughed. 'You can't run me off the range that easy,' he says.
"'I can't, eh?' says young John, and he pulls his gun and up and busts ole Demijohn over the head. Then, bein' a likely young fella, he shuts his jaw tight and fans it back to the ranch. The fo'man is some surprised to see him come ridin' up, whistlin' like he owned the works. Fellas what's fired mostly looks for work some place else. But young John got the idee that he owed it to hisself to make good where he started as a cow-hand. 'I busted my ole friend Demijohn over the head,' he says to the fo'man. 'We ain't friends no more.'
"The fo'man he grins. 'All right, Jack,' he says. 'But if I see him hangin' round the corrals ag'in, or in the bunk-house, you needn't to wait for me to tell you which way is north.'
"Well, young John had done a good job. 'Course ole Demijohn used to come sneakin' round in the moonlight, once in a spell, botherin' some of the boys, but he stayed clear of young John. And young John he took to ridin' straight and hard and 'tendin' to business. I ain't sayin' he ever got to be president or superintendent of a Sunday School, for this ain't no story-book yarn; but he always held a good job when he wanted it, and he worked for a good boss—which was hisself."
Lorry grinned as he turned to Shoop. "That ole Demijohn never got close enough to me to get busted on the head."
"Them hosses is strayin' down the creek," said Shoop, rising.
They turned and rode north, somewhat to Lorry's surprise. The trail was ragged and steep, and led from the mesa to the cañon bottom of the White River. Before Lorry realized where they were, Jason loomed before them on the mesa below.
"She's a quick trail to town in summer," explained Shoop. "Snow hangs too heavy in the cañon to ride it in winter."
At Jason they tied their horses, and entered the ranger's office. Lorry waited while Shoop talked with Torrance in the private office. Presently Shoop came to the door and gestured to Lorry.
"Mr. Shoop says he thinks you could qualify for the Service," Torrance said. "We will waive the matter of recommendations from the Starr people. But there is one thing I can't do. I can't hire a man who is wanted by the authorities. There's a deputy sheriff in town with a warrant for you. That is strictly your affair. If you can square yourself with the deputy, I'll put you to work."
"I'll go see what he wants," said Lorry.
"He wants you. Understand, you'll only jeopardize your chances by starting a row."
"They won't be a row," said Lorry.
When he returned he was accompanied by the deputy. Lorry took his stand without parley.
"I want to ask you folks a question, and then I'm through," he asserted. "Will you listen to what he says and what I say, and then say who is right?"
"That might not settle it," said Torrance. "But go ahead."
"Then all I got to say is, was I right or wrong when I turned that hobo loose and saved him from gettin' beat up by High Chin and the boys, and mebby strung up, afore they got through?"
"Morally you were right," said Torrance. "But you should have appealed to Sheriff Hardy to guard his prisoner."
"That's all right, Mr. Torrance. But suppose they wasn't time. And suppose,—now Buck's deputy is here to listen to it,—suppose I was to say that Buck is scared to death of High-Chin Bob. Everybody knows it."
The deputy flushed. He knew that Lorry spoke the truth.
Torrance turned to Shoop. "What do you think, Bud?"
Bud coughed and shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Bein' as I'm drug into this, I say the boy did a good job and he's right about Hardy, which you can tell him," he added, turning to the deputy.
"Then that's all I got to say," and Lorry pushed back his hat and rumpled his hair.
The deputy was not there to argue. He had been sent to get Lorry.
"I don't say he ain't right. But how about my job if I ride back to
Stacey with nothin' to show for the trip but my expense card?"
"Buck Hardy isn't a fool," said Torrance.
"Oh, hell!" said Lorry, turning to the deputy. "I'll go back with you. I'm sick of jawin' about the right and the wrong and who's to blame. But I want to say in company that I'll go just as far as the county line of this county. You're south of your county. If you can get me across the line, I'll go on to Stacey."
Bud Shoop mopped his face with a bandanna. He was not overhot, but he wanted to hide the grin that spread over his broad countenance. He imagined he could see the deputy just about the time they arrived at the county line, and the mental picture seemed to amuse him.
"The idee is, the kid thinks he's right," said Shoop presently. "Speakin' personal, I never monkey with a man when he thinks he's right—and he is."
"All I got to go by is the law," asserted the deputy. "As for Adams here sayin' I won't run him in, I got orders to do it, and them orders goes."
"Adams has applied for a position in the Service," said Torrance.
"I ain't got anything against Lorry personal," said the deputy.
"Then just you ride back an' tell Buck Hardy that Bud Shoop says he'll stand responsible for Adams keepin' the peace in Jason County, same as I stood responsible for Buck oncet down in the Panhandle. Buck will remember, all right."
"Can't you give me a letter to Buck, explainin' things?" queried the deputy.
Bud glanced at Torrance. "I think we can," said the supervisor.
Lorry stepped to the door with the deputy. There was no personal feeling evident as they shook hands.
"You could tell ma to send down my clothes by stage," said Lorry.
Shoop and Torrance seemed to be enjoying themselves.
"I put in my say," said Bud, "'cause I kind of like the kid. And I reckon I saved that deputy a awful wallopin'. When a fella like young Adams talks pleasant and chokes his hat to death at the same time you can watch out for somethin' to fall."
"Do you think Adams would have had it out with him?"
"He'd 'a' rode along a spell, like he said. Mebby just this side of the county line he'd 'a' told the deputy which way was north. And if the deputy didn't take the hint, I reckon Adams would 'a' lit into him. I knowed Adams's daddy afore he married Annie Adams and went to live in Sonora."
"Then you knew that his father was Jim Waring?"
"I sure did. And I reckon I kep' somebody from gettin' a awful wallopin'. I was a kid oncet myself."
Chapter XVI
Play
The installation of Bud Shoop as supervisor of the White Mountain District was celebrated with an old-fashioned barbecue by the cattlemen and sheepmen leasing on the reserve. While John Torrance had always dealt fairly with them, the natives felt that he was more or less of a theorist in the matter of grazing-leases. Shoop was a practical cowman; one of themselves. Naturally there was some dissatisfaction expressed by disgruntled individuals who envied Shoop's good fortune. But this was overwhelmed by the tide of popular acclaim with which Shoop was hailed as a just administrator of their grazing-rights.
The barbecue was a boisterous success. Although the day of large holdings was past, the event lacked nothing in numbers or enthusiasm. The man who owned a hundred head of cattle was quite as popular as his neighbor who owned perhaps eight hundred or a thousand. Outfits fraternized, ran pony races, roped for prizes, and rode bucking horses, as their predecessors had raced, roped, and "rode 'em" in the days of old.
Lorry, itching to enter the roping contest, was checked by a suggestion from the genial Bud.
"I've heard you was top-hand with a rope. But you're a ranger, by the grace of God and me and John Torrance. Let the boy's play, but don't play with 'em yet. Keep 'em guessin' just how good you are. Let 'em get to know you slow—and solid."
Lorry accepted Bud's advice, and made himself popular with the various outfits by maintaining a silence when questioned as to how he "put High-Chin Bob out of business." The story of that affair had had a wide circulation, and gained interest when it became known that High Chin and his men were present. Their excuse for coming was only legitimate in that a barbecue draws no fine lines of distinction. Any one who has a horse and an appetite is welcome. The Starr riders were from the northern county, but they would have been quite as welcome had they come from Alaska.
Bud Shoop was present in a suit of religiously severe black, his pants outside his boots. He had donned a white shirt and knotted a black silk bandanna round his short neck.
The morning was noisy with pony races, roping contests, and the riding of pitching horses. The events were not tabulated, but evolved through the unwritten law of precedent.
After the noon feast there was talk of a shooting-match. Few of the local men packed guns, and none of them openly. The Starr riders were the only exception. This fact was commented upon by some of the old-timers, who finally accosted Bud with the suggestion that he "show that Starr outfit what a gun was made for." Bud declined.
"I ain't had a gun in my hand, except to clean it, since I quit punchin'," he told them. "And, anyhow, I'm no fancy gun sharp."
"High Chin and his outfit is sure handin' it to us," complained the old-timers. "And you're about the only man here who could show 'em."
"No use provin' it to 'em when they know it," Bud said.
The committee retired and consulted among themselves. Bud was talking with a cattleman when they again accosted him.
"Say, Bud, them Starr boys has cleaned us out on ropin' and racin'. We trimmed 'em on ridin'. Now that makes two to one, and we're askin' you as a old-timer if we're goin' to let them fellas ride north a-tellin' every hay-tosser atween here and Stacey that we're a bunch of jays?"
"Oh, shucks!" was all Bud had to say.
"And that High-Chin Bob says he aims to hang young Adams's scalp on his belt afore he gits through," asserted a townsman.
"I'll set in the game," said Bud.
And he waddled across the street to his office. In a few minutes he came back and mingled with the crowd. The Starr boys were pitching dollars at a mark when Bud and a companion strolled past. High Chin invited Shoop to join in the game. Shoop declined pleasantly.
"Things is runnin' slow," said a Starr man. "Wish I'd 'a' fetched my music along. Mebby I could git somebody to sing me to sleep."
Bud laughed. "Have a good time, boys." And he moved on.
"That was one for you—and yore piano," said his companion.
"Mebby so. We'll let that rest. I'm lookin' for a friend of mine." And
Shoop edged along the crowd.
The man that Shoop was looking for was standing alone beneath the shade of an acacia, watching the crowd. He was a tall, heavy man, dark-featured, with a silver-gray beard and brown eyes that seemed to twinkle with amusement even when his lips were grim. The giant sheepman of the south country was known to every one on account of his great physique and his immense holdings in land and sheep. Shoop talked with him for a few minutes. Together they strolled back to the crowd.
The Starr boys were still pitching dollars when Shoop and the sheepman approached.
"Who's top-hand in this game?" queried Shoop genially.
"High Chin—and at any game you got," said a Starr man.
"Well, now!"
"Any game you got."
Shoop gazed about, saw Lorry, and beckoned to him.
"Here's my candidate," said Shoop. "He kep' out of the ropin' so as to give you fellas a chance." And he turned to Lorry. "Give him a whirl," he said, indicating High Chin. "It's worth a couple of dollars just to find out how good he is."
High Chin surveyed the circle of faces, poised a dollar, and threw it. Lorry threw and lost. High Chin pocketed the two dollars. The Starr boys grinned. High Chin threw again. The dollar slid close to the line. Lorry shied his dollar and knocked the other's coin several feet away from the line.
"Try him ag'in," said Shoop.
Lorry tossed again. His dollar dropped on the line. High Chin threw. His coin clinked squarely on Lorry's, but spun off, leaving it undisturbed.
"You break even—at that game," said Shoop. "It was a good shot."
"Folks been sayin' the same of you," said High Chin, turning to the supervisor.
"Oh, folks will talk. They're made that way," chuckled Shoop.
"Well, I got ten bucks that says High Chin can outshoot any hombre in this crowd," said a Starr boy.
"I'm right glad you got it," said Shoop pleasantly.
"Meanin' I stand to lose it, eh?"
"Oh, gosh, no! You're steppin' on your bridle. I was congratulatin' you on your wealth."
"I ain't seen that you been flashin' any money," said the cowboy.
"Nope. That ain't what money's made for. And I never bet on a sure thing. Ain't no fun in that."
The giant sheepman, whose movements were as deliberate as the sun's, slowly reached in his pocket and drew out a leather pouch. He counted out forty dollars in gold-pieces.
"I'll lay it even," he said, his eyes twinkling, "that Bud Shoop can outshoot any man in the crowd."
"I'll take ten of that," said the Starr man.
"And I'll take ten," said another cowboy.
"John," said Shoop, turning to the sheepman, "you're a perpendicular dam' fool."
Word went forth that High-Chin Bob, of the Starr, and Bud Shoop were to shoot a match for a thousand dollars a side, and some of the more enthusiastic believed it. In a few minutes the street was empty of all save the ponies at the hitching-rails.
In a shallow arroyo back of town the excited throng made wagers and talked of wonderful shots made by the principals. High Chin was known as a quick and sure shot. Shoop's reputation was known to fewer of the crowd. The Starr boys backed their foreman to the last cent. A judge was suggested, but declined as being of the locality. Finally the giant sheepman, despite his personal wager, was elected unanimously. He was known to be a man of absolute fairness, and qualified to judge marksmanship. He agreed to serve, with the proviso that the Starr boys or any of High Chin's friends should feel free to question his decisions. The crowd solidified back of the line, where Shoop and High Chin stood waiting for the test.
The marksmen faced two bottles on a rock some thirty paces away. At the word, each was to "go for his gun" and shoot. High Chin carried his gun in the usual holster. Bud Shoop's gun was tucked in the waistband of his pants.
"Go!" said the sheepman.
High Chin's hand flashed to his hip. His gun jumped and spoke. Shoop's wrist turned. Both bottles were shattered on the instant. A tie was declared.
The men were placed with their backs toward the targets—two empty bottles. The sheepman faced them, with his hands behind his back. When he snapped his fingers they were to turn and fire. Many of the onlookers thought this test would leave High Chin a point ahead.
Both men swung and fired at the signal. Again both bottles were shattered. Although a tie was again declared, the crowd cheered for Shoop, realizing his physical handicap. Yet many asserted that High Chin was the faster man, won to this decision by his lightning speed of movement and his easy manner, suggesting a kind of contemptuous indifference to results.
In contrast to High Chin's swift, careless efficiency, Shoop's solid poise and lack of elbow motion showed in strong relief. Their methods were entirely dissimilar. But it was evident to the old-timers that Shoop shot with less effort and waste motion than his lithe competitor. And High Chin was the younger man by twenty years.
Thus far the tests had not been considered difficult. But when the sheepman stepped off ten paces and faced the competitors with a cigar held at arm's length, the chattering of the crowd ceased. High Chin, as guest, was asked to shoot first. He raised his gun. It hung poised for a second. As it jumped in his hand the ash flirted from the end of the cigar. The crowd stamped and cheered. Shoop congratulated High Chin. The crowd hooted and called to Shoop to make good. Even as they called, his hand flashed up. Hardly had the report of his gun startled them to silence when they saw that his hands were empty. A roar of laughter shook the crowd. Some one pointed toward the sheepman. The laughter died down. He held a scant two inches of cigar in his fingers. Then they understood, and were silent again. They gathered round the sheepman. He held up his arms. Shoop's bullet had nipped the cigar in two before they had realized that he intended to shoot.
"You're havin' the luck," said High.
"You're right," said Shoop. "And luck, if she keeps steady gait, is just as good a hoss to ride as they is."
Still, there were those who maintained that Shoop had made a chance hit. But High Chin knew that this was not so. He had met his master at the six-gun game.
Bud Shoop's easy manner had vanished. As solid as a rock, his lips in a straight line, he waited for the next test while High Chin talked and joked with the bystanders.
"You'll shoot when you see something to shoot at," was the sheepman's word. The crowd laughed. He stood behind the marksmen, a tin can in each hand. Both High Chin and Shoop knew what was coming, and Shoop decided to surprise the assemblage. The main issue was not the shooting contest, and if High-Chin Bob had not already seen enough of Shoop's work to satisfy him, the genial Bud intended to clinch the matter right there.
Without warning, the sheepman tossed the cans into the air. Shoop and High Chin shot on the instant. But before High Chin's can touched the ground Shoop shot again. It was faster work than any present had ever seen. A man picked up the cans and brought them to the sheepman. One can had a clean hole in it. The other had two holes through it. Those nearest the marksmen wondered why Shoop had not shot twice at his own can. But the big sheepman knew that Shoop had called High Chin's bluff about "any game going."
Even then the match was a tie so far as precedent demanded. Each man had made a hit on a moving target.
The crowd had ceased to applaud.
"How about a try from the saddle?" suggested High Chin.
"I reckon I look just as fat and foolish settin' in a saddle as anywhere," said Shoop.
The crowd shuffled over to a more open spot, on the mesa. Shoop and High Chin mounted their horses. A tin cracker box was placed on a flat rock out in the open.
The men were to reload and shoot at top speed as they rode past the box. The Starr foreman immediately jumped his pony to a run, and, swaying easily, threw a shot at the box as he approached it, another and another when opposite, and, turning in the saddle, fired his three remaining shots. The box was brought back and inspected. The six shots had all hit.
Shoop, straight and solid as a statue, ran his pony down the course, but held his fire until almost opposite the box. Then six reports rippled out like the drawing of a stick quickly across a picket fence. It was found that the six shots had all hit in one side of the box. The sheepman was asked for a decision. He shook his head and declared the match a draw. And technically it was a draw. Every one seemed satisfied, although there was much discussion among individuals as to the relative merits of the contestants.
As the crowd dispersed and some of them prepared to ride home, two horsemen appeared on the northern road, riding toward town. As they drew nearer Shoop chuckled. Lorry, standing a few paces away, glanced at him.
The supervisor was talking to Bob Brewster. "High, you're the best I ever stacked up against, exceptin' one, and it's right curious that he is just a-ridin' into this powwow. If you want to see what real shootin' is, get him to show you."
"I don't know your friend," said High, eyeing the approaching horsemen, "but he's a beaut if he can outshoot you."
"Outshoot me? Say, High, that hombre ridin' the big buckskin hoss there could make us look about as fast as a couple of fence-posts when it comes to handlin' a gun. And his pardner ain't what you'd call slow."
High Chin's lean face darkened as he recognized Waring riding beside a gaunt, long-legged man whose gray eyes twinkled as he surveyed the little group.
"Pat—and Jim Waring," muttered Shoop. "And us just finished what some would call a ole-time shootin'-bee!"
"Who's your friend?" queried High Chin, although he knew.
"Him? That's Jim Waring, of Sonora. And say, High, I ain't his advertisin' agent, but between you and me he could shoot the fuzz out of your ears and never as much as burn 'em. What I'm tellin' you is first-class life insurance if you ain't took out any. And before you go I just want to pass the word that young Adams is workin' for me. Reckon you might be interested, seein' as how he worked for you a spell."
High Chin met Shoop's gaze unblinkingly. He was about to speak when Pat and Waring, rode up and greeted the supervisor. High Chin wheeled his horse and loped back to town. A few minutes later he and his men rode past. To Shoop's genial wave of farewell they returned a whoop that seemed edged with a vague challenge.
Pat, who was watching them, asked Shoop who the man was riding the pinto.
"Why, that's High-Chin Bob Brewster, Starr fo'man. He's kind of a wild bird. I reckon he came over here lookin' for trouble. He's been walkin' around with his wings and tail spread like he was mad at somethin'."
"I thought I knew him," said Pat. And he shrugged his shoulders.
Shoop noticed that Waring was gazing at Pat in a peculiar manner. He attached no significance to this at the time, but later he recalled the fact that there had been trouble between Pat and the Brewster boys some years ago. The Brewsters had then openly threatened to "get Pat if he ever rode north again."
Chapter XVII
Down the Wind
Waring, several miles out from the home shack, on the new range, sat his horse Dexter, watching his men string fence. They ran the barbed wire with a tackle, stringing it taut down the long line of bare posts that twinkled away to dots in the west. Occasionally Waring rode up and tested the wire with his hand. The men worked fast. Waring and Pat had picked their men; three husky boys of the high country who considered stringing fence rather pleasant exercise. There was no recognized foreman. Each knew his work, and Waring had added a foreman's pay to their salaries, dividing it equally among them. Later they would look after the ranch and the cattle.
Twenty thousand acres under fence, with plenty of water, would take care of eight hundred or a thousand head of cattle. And as a provision against a lean winter, Waring had put a mowing-machine in at the eastern end of the range, where the bunch-grass was heavy enough to cut. It would be necessary to winter-feed. Four hundred white-faced Herefords grazed in the autumn sunshine. Riding round and among them leisurely was the Mexican youth, Ramon.
Backed against a butte near the middle of the range was the broad, low-roofed ranch-house. A windmill purred in the light breeze, its lean, flickering shadow aslant the corrals. The buildings looked new and raw in contrast to the huge pile of grayish-green greasewood and scrub cedar gathered from the clearing round them.
In front of the house was a fenced acre, ploughed and harrowed to a dead level. This was to be Pat's garden, wherein he had planned to grow all sorts of green things, including cucumbers. At the moment Pat was standing under the veranda roof, gazing out across the ranch. The old days of petty warfare, long night rides, and untold hardships were past. Next spring his garden would bloom; tiny green tendrils would swell to sturdy vines. Corn-leaves would broaden to waving green blades shot with the rich brown of the ripening ears. Although he had never spoken of it, Pat had dreamed of blue flowers nodding along the garden fence; old-fashioned bachelor's-buttons that would spring up as though by accident. But he would have to warn Waco, the erstwhile tramp, not to mistake them for weeds.
"Peace and plenty," muttered Pat, smiling to himself. "The Book sure knows how to say those things."
The gaunt, grizzled ex-sheriff reached in his vest for a cigar. As he bit the end off and felt for a match, he saw a black speck wavering in the distance. He shaded his eyes with his hand.
"'Tain't a machine," he said. "And it ain't a buckboard. Some puncher lookin' for a job, most likely."
He turned and entered the house. Waco, shaven and in clean shirt and overalls, was "punching dough" in the kitchen.
"Did Jim say when he would ride in?" queried Pat.
"About sundown. I fixed 'em up some chuck this morning. Jim figures they're getting too far out to ride in every noon."
"Well, when you get your bread baked we'll take a whirl at those ditches. How are the supplies holding out?"
"We're short on flour. Got enough to last over till Monday. Plenty bacon and beans and lard."
"All right. We'll hook up to-morrow and drive in."
Waco nodded as he tucked a roll of dough into the pan. Pat watched him for a moment. Waco, despite his many shortcomings, could cook, and, strangely enough, liked to putter round the garden.
Picked up half-starving on the mesa road, near St. Johns, he had been brought to the ranch by Pat, where a month of clean air and industry had reshaped the tramp to something like a man. Both Pat and Waring knew that the hobo was wanted in Stacey. They had agreed to say nothing about the tramp's whereabouts just so long as he made himself useful about the ranch. They would give him a chance. But, familiar with his kind, they were mildly skeptical as to Waco's sincerity of purpose. If he took to drinking, or if Buck Hardy heard of his whereabouts, he would have to go. Meanwhile, he earned his keep. He was a good cook, and a good cook, no matter where or where from, is a power in the land.
As Waco closed the oven door some one hallooed. Pat stepped to the veranda. A cowboy astride a bay pony asked if Waring were around.
"I can take your message," said Pat.
"Well, it's for you, I guess. Letter from Buck Hardy."
"Yes, it's for me," said Pat. "Who sent you?"
"Hardy. Said something about you had a man down here he wanted."
"All right. Stay for chuck?"
"I got to git back. How's things down this way?"
"Running on time. Just tell Buck I'll be over right soon."
"To-day?"
Pat's gray eyes hardened. "Buck tell you to ask me that?"
"Well—no. I was just wonderin'."
"Then keep right on wondering," said Pat. "You got your answer."
The cowboy swung up and rode off. "To hell with him!" he said. "Thinks he can throw a scare into me because he's got a name for killin'. To hell him!"
Pat climbed the hill back of the house and surveyed the glimmering levels.
"Wish Jim would ride in. Funny thing—Hardy sending a Starr boy with word for me. But perhaps the kid was riding this way, anyhow."
Pat shook his head, and climbed slowly down to the house. Waco was busy in the kitchen when he came in.
After the noon meal, Pat again climbed the hill. He seemed worried about something. When he returned he told Waco to hitch the pintos to the buckboard.
"Get your coat," he told Waco. "We're going over to Stacey."
Waco's hands trembled. "Say, boss, if you don't mind—"
"Get your coat. I'll talk to Buck. You needn't to worry. I'll square you with Buck. We can use you here."
Waco did as he was told. They drove out of the yard. Waco leaped down and closed the gate.
The pintos shook themselves into the harness and trotted down the faintly marked new road. The buckboard swayed and jolted. Something rubbed against Waco's hip. He glanced down and saw Pat's gun on the seat between them. Pat said nothing. He was thinking hard. The cowboy messenger's manner had not been natural. The note bore the printed heading of the sheriff's office. Perhaps it was all right. And if it were not, Pat was not the man to back down from a bluff.
Several miles out from the ranch ran the naked posts of the line fence. Pat reined in the ponies and gazed up and down the line. A mile beyond, the ranch road merged with the main-traveled highway running east and west. He spoke to the horses. They broke into a fast trot. Waco, gripping the seat, stared straight ahead. Why had Pat laid that gun on the seat?
A thin, gray veil drifted across the sun. From the northwest a light wind sprang up and ran across the mesa, whipping the bunch-grass. The wind grew heavier, and with it came a fine, dun-colored dust. An hour and the air was thick with a shifting red haze of sand. The sun glowed dimly through the murk.
Waco turned up his coat-collar and shivered. The air was keen. The ponies fought the bit, occasionally breaking into a gallop. Pat braced his feet and held them to a trot. A weird buzzing came down the wind. The ponies reared and took to the ditch as a machine flicked past and drummed away in the distance.
To Waco, rigid and staring, the air seemed filled with a kind of hovering terror, a whining threat of danger that came in bursts of driving sand and dwindled away to harsh whisperings. He stood it as long as he could. Pat had not spoken.
[Illustration: A huddled shape near a boulder]
Waco touched his arm. "I got a hunch," he said hoarsely,—"I got a hunch we oughta go back."
Pat nodded. But the ponies swept on down the road, their manes and tails whipping in the wind. Another mile and they slowed down in heavy sand. The buckboard tilted forward as they descended the sharp pitch of an arroyo. Unnoticed, Pat's gun slipped to the floor of the wagon.
In the arroyo the wind seemed to have died away, leaving a startled quietness. It still hung above them, and an occasional gust filled their eyes with grit. Waco drew a deep breath. The ponies tugged through the heavy sand.
Without a sound to warn them a rider appeared close to the front wheel of the buckboard. Waco shrank down in sodden terror. It was the Starr foreman, High-Chin Bob. Waco saw Pat's hand flash to his side, then fumble on the seat.
"I'm payin' the Kid's debt," said High Chin, and, laughing, he threw shot after shot into the defenseless body of his old enemy.
Waco saw Pat slump forward, catch himself, and finally topple from the seat. As the reins slipped from his fingers the ponies lunged up the arroyo. Waco crouched, clutching the foot-rail. A bullet hummed over his head. Gaining the level, the ponies broke into a wild run. The red wind whined as it drove across the mesa. The buckboard lurched sickeningly. A scream of terror wailed down the wind as the buckboard struck a telegraph pole. A blind shock—and for Waco the droning of the wind had ceased.
Dragging the broken traces, the ponies circled the mesa and set off at a gallop toward home. At the side of the road lay the splintered buckboard, wheels up. And Waco, hovering on the edge of the black abyss, dreamed strange dreams.
* * * * *
Waring, riding in with the crew, found the ranch-house deserted and the pinto ponies dragging the shreds of a broken harness, grazing along the fence. Waring sent a man to catch up the team. Ramon cooked supper. The men ate in silence.
After supper Waring changed his clothes, saddled Dex, and packed some food in the saddle-pockets. "I am going out to look for Pat," he told one of his men. "If Waco shows up, keep him here till I get back. Those horses didn't get away from Pat. Here's a signed check. Get what you need and keep on with the work. You're foreman till I get back."
"If there's anything doing—" began the cowboy.
"I don't know. Some one rode in here to-day. It was along about noon that Pat and Waco left. The bread was baked. I'd say they drove to town for grub; only Pat took his gun—without the holster. It looks bad to me. If anything happens to me, just send for Lorry Adams at the Ranger Station."
Waring rode out, looking for tracks. His men watched him until he had disappeared behind a rise. Bender, the new foreman, turned to his fellows.
"I'd hate to be the man that the boss is lookin' for," he said, shaking his head.
"Why, he's lookin' for Pat, ain't he?" queried one of the men.
"That ain't what I mean," said the foreman.
* * * * *
The wind died down suddenly. The sun, just above the horizon, glowed like a disk of burnished copper. The wagon ruts were filled with fine sand. Waring read the trail. The buckboard had traveled briskly. It had stopped at the line. The tracks of the fretting ponies showed that clearly. Alongside the tracks of the ponies were the half-hidden tracks of a single horse. Waring glanced back at the sun, and put Dex to a lope. He swung into the main road, his gaze following the half-obliterated trail of the single horseman. Suddenly he reined up. The horseman had angled away from the road and had ridden north across the open country. He had not gone to Stacey. Waring knew that the horseman had been riding hard. Straight north from where Waring had stopped was the Starr Ranch.
He rode on, his heart heavy with a black premonition. The glowing copper disk was now half-hidden by the western hills.
At the brink of the arroyo he dismounted. He could see nothing distinctly in the gloom of its depths. Stooping, he noted the wagon tracks as he worked on down. His foot struck against something hard. He fumbled and picked Pat's gun from the sand. Every chamber was loaded.
"He didn't have a chance." Waring was startled by his own voice. He thrust the gun in his waistband. The twilight deepened rapidly. Rocks and ridges in the arroyo assumed peculiar shapes like those of men crouching; men prone; men with heads up, listening, watching, waiting. Yet Waring's instinct for hidden danger told him that there was no living thing in the arroyo—unless—Suddenly he sprang forward and dropped to his knees beside a huddled shape near a boulder.
"Pat!" he whispered.
Then he knew; saw it all as clearly as though he had witnessed it—the ambushment in the blinding sandstorm; the terror-stricken Waco; the frightened ponies; the lunging and swaying buckboard. And Pat, left for dead, but who had dragged himself from the roadway in dumb agony.
The dole of light from the sinking sun was gone. Waring's hands came away from the opened shirt shudderingly. He wiped his hands on the sand, and, rising, ran back to Dex. He returned with a whiskey flask. Pat was of tough fiber and tremendous vitality. If the spark were still unquenched, if it could be called back even for a breath, that which Waring knew, yet wanted to confirm beyond all doubt, might be given in a word. He raised Pat's head, and barely tilted the flask. The spirit of the mortally stricken man, perchance loath to leave such a brave hermitage, winged slowly back from the far shore of dreams. In the black pit of the arroyo, where death crouched, waiting, life flamed for an instant.
Waring felt the limp body stir. He took Pat's big, bony hand in his.
"Pat!" he whispered.
A word breathed heavily from the motionless lips. "You, Jim?"
"Yes! For God's sake, Pat, who did this thing?"
"Brewster—Bob. Letter—in my coat."
"I'll get him!" said Waring.
"Shake!" exclaimed the dying man, and the grip of his hand was like iron. Waring thought he had gone, and leaned closer. "I'm—kind of tired—Jim. Reckon—I'll—rest."
Waring felt the other's grip relax. He drew his hand from the stiffening fingers. A dull pain burned in his throat. He lighted a match, and found the message that had lured Pat to his death in the other's coat-pocket. He rose and stumbled up the arroyo to his horse.
Halfway back to the ranch, and he met Ramon riding hard. "Ride back," said Waring. "Hook up to the wagon and come to the arroyo."
"Have you found the Señor Pat?"
"Yes. He is dead."
Ramon whirled his pony and pounded away in the darkness.
Out on the highway two long, slender shafts of light slid across the mesa, dipped into an arroyo, and climbed skyward as a machine buzzed up the opposite pitch. The lights straightened again and shot on down the road, swinging stiffly from side to side. Presently they came to a stop. In the soft glow of their double radiance lay a yellow-wheeled buckboard, shattered and twisted round a telegraph pole. The lights moved up slowly and stopped again.
A man jumped from the machine and walked round the buckboard. Beneath it lay a crumpled figure. The driver of the machine ran a quick hand over the neck and arms of Waco, who groaned. The driver lifted him and carried him to the car. Stacey lay some twenty miles behind him. He was bound south. The first town on his way was thirty miles distant. But the roads were good. He glanced back at the huddled figure in the tonneau. The car purred on down the night. The long shafts of light lifted over a rise and disappeared.