In about an hour the car stopped at the town of Grant. Waco was carried from the machine to a room in the hotel, and a doctor was summoned. Waco lay unconscious throughout the night.
In the morning he was questioned briefly. He gave a fictitious name, and mentioned a town he had heard of, but had never been in. His horses had run away with him.
The man who had picked him up drove away next morning. Later the doctor told Waco that through a miracle there were no bones broken, but that he would have to keep to his bed for at least a week. Otherwise he would never recover from the severe shock to his nervous system.
And Waco, recalling the horror of the preceding day, twisted his head round at every footstep in the hall, fearing that Waring had come to question him. He knew that he had done no wrong; in fact, he had told Pat that they had better drive back home. But a sense of shame at his cowardice, and the realization that his word was as water in evidence, that he was but a wastrel, a tramp, burdened him with an aching desire to get away—to hide himself from Waring's eyes, from the eyes of all men.
He kept telling himself that he had done nothing wrong, yet fear shook him until his teeth chattered. What could he have done even had he been courageous? Pat had had no chance.
He suffered with the misery of indecision. Habit inclined him to flee from the scene of the murder. Fear of the law urged him. Three nights after he had been brought to Grant, he dressed and crept down the back stairs, and made his way to the railroad station. Twice he had heard the midnight freight stop and cut out cars on the siding. He hid in the shadows until the freight arrived. He climbed to an empty box-car and waited. Trainmen crunched past on the cinders. A jolt and he was swept away toward the west. He sank into a half sleep as the iron wheels roared and droned beneath him.
Chapter XVIII
A Piece of Paper
In the little desert hotel at Stacey, Mrs. Adams was singing softly to herself as she moved about the dining-room helping Anita clear away the breakfast dishes. Mrs. Adams had heard from Lorry. He had secured a place in the Ranger Service. She was happy. His letter had been filled with enthusiasm for the work and for his chief, Bud Shoop. This in itself was enough to make her happy. She had known Bud in Las Cruces. He was a good man. And then—Jim had settled down. Only last week he had ridden over and told her how they were getting on with the work at the ranch. He had hinted then that he had laid his guns away. Perhaps he had wanted her to know that more than anything else. She had kissed him good-bye. His gray eyes had been kind. "Some day, Annie," he had said. Her face flushed as she recalled the moment.
A boot-heel gritted on the walk. She turned. Waring was standing in the doorway. His face was set and hard. Involuntarily she ran to him.
"What is it, Jim? Lorry?"
He shook his head. She saw at once that he was dressed for a long ride and that—an unusual circumstance—a gun swung at his hip. He usually wore a coat and carried his gun in a shoulder holster. But now he was in his shirt-sleeves. A dread oppressed her. He was ready on the instant to fight, but with whom? Her eyes grew big.
"What is it?" she whispered again.
"The Brewster boys got Pat."
"Not—they didn't kill him!"
Waring nodded.
"But, Jim—"
"In the Red Arroyo on the desert road. I found him. I came to tell you."
"And you are going—"
"Yes. I was afraid this would happen. Pat made a mistake."
"But, Jim! The law—the sheriff—you don't have to go."
"No," he said slowly.
"Then why do you go? I thought you would never do that again. I—I—prayed for you, Jim. I prayed for you and Lorry. I asked God to send you back to me with your two hands clean. I told Him you would never kill again. Oh, Jim, I wanted you—here! Don't!" she sobbed.
He put his arm round her shoulders. Stooping, he kissed her.
"You are going?" she asked, and her hands dropped to her sides.
"Yes; I told Pat I would get Brewster. Pat went out with his hand in mine on that word. My God, Annie, do you think I could ride back to the ranch and face the boys or sleep nights with Pat's hand reaching for me in the dark to remind me of my word? Can't you see where I stand? Do you think I could look Lorry in the face when he knew that I sat idle while the man that murdered Pat was riding the country free?"
"Pat was your friend. I am your wife," said Mrs. Adams.
Waring's lips hardened. "Pat's gone. But I'm calling myself his friend yet. And the man that got him is going to know it."
Before she could speak again Waring was gone.
She dropped to a chair and buried her face in her arms. Anita came to her and tried to comfort her. But Mrs. Adams rose and walked to the office doorway. She saw Waring riding down the street. She wanted to call out to him, to call him back. She felt that he was riding to his death. If he would only turn! If he would only wave his hand to show that he cared—But Waring rode on, straight and stern, black hate in his heart, his free hand hollowed as though with an invisible vengeance that was gone as he drew his fingers tense.
He rode north, toward the Starr Ranch. He passed a group of riders drifting some yearlings toward town. A man spoke to him. He did not reply.
And as he rode he heard a voice—the Voice of his desert wanderings, the Voice that had whispered to him from the embers of many a night fire in the Southern solitudes. Yet there, was this difference. That voice had been strangely dispassionate, detached; not the voice of a human being. But now the Voice was that of his friend Pat softly reiterating: "Not this way, Jim."
And Waring cursed. His plan was made. He would suffer no interference. If Brewster were at the Starr Ranch, he would question him first. If he were not, there would be no questioning. Waring determined to trail him. If Brewster had left that part of the country, that would prove his guilt.
Waring knew that Hardy and his men had ridden south, endeavoring to find some clue to the murderer's whereabouts. Waring, guided by almost absolute knowledge, rode in the opposite direction and against a keen instinct that told him High-Chin Bob was not at the ranch. Yet Waring would not overlook the slightest chance. Brewster was of the type that would kill a man in a quarrel and ride home, depending on his nerve and lack of evidence to escape punishment.
The Voice had said, "Not this way, Jim." And Waring knew that it had been the voice of his own instinct. Yet a stubborn purpose held him to his course. There was one chance in a thousand that Bob Brewster was at the ranch and would disclaim all knowledge of the shooting.
Starr was away when Waring arrived. Mrs. Starr made Waring welcome, and told him that her husband would be in that evening. He was out with one of his men running a line for a new fence. The old days of open range were past. And had Mr. Waring heard that Pat had been killed? Buck Hardy was out searching for the murderer. Did Mr. Waring know of a likely foreman? Bob Brewster had left suddenly. Jasper—her husband—was not well: had the rheumatics again. He could hardly walk—and his foreman had left. "Things always happened that way."
Mrs. Starr paused for lack of breath.
"When did Brewster leave, Mrs. Starr?"
"Why, the last Jasper seen of him was Wednesday morning. Jasper is worried. I'm right glad you rode over. He'll be glad to see you."
"Do you mind if I look over the horses in your corral?"
"Goodness, no! I'll have Sammy go with you—"
"Thanks; but I'd rather you said nothing to the boys."
"You don't think that Bob—"
"Mrs. Starr, I wouldn't say so if I knew it. Bob Brewster has friends up here. I'm looking for one of them."
"Goodness, Mr. Waring, I hope you don't think any of our boys was mixed up in that."
"I hope not. Have you seen Tony or Andy Brewster lately?"
"Why, no. I—why, yes! Tony and Andy rode over last Sunday. I remember it was Sunday because Bob was out to the line shack. Tony and Andy hung around for a while, and then rode out to look for Bob."
"Well, I'll step over and look at the horses. You say Jasper will be in this evening?"
"If he ain't too stiff with rheumatics to ride back."
Waring walked round the corrals, looking for a pony lame forward and with half a front shoe gone. Finally he noticed a short-coupled bay that had not moved when he had waved his arm. Waring climbed through the bars and cornered the horse. One front shoe was entirely gone, and the pony limped as Waring turned him loose.
Mrs. Starr was getting supper when Waring returned to the house.
"Any of the boys coming in with Jasper?" he queried.
"Why, nobody except Pete. Pete's been layin' off. He claims his horse stepped in a gopher hole and threw him. Jasper took him along, feelin' like he wanted some one on account of his rheumatics. Jasper gets so stiff ridin' that sometimes he can hardly get on his horse. Mebby you noticed Pete's pony, that chunky bay in the corral—lame forward."
"Yes, I noticed that. But that pony didn't step in a gopher hole. He was ridden down by some one in a hurry to get somewhere. He cast a shoe and went tender on the rocks."
Mrs. Starr stared at Waring.
He shook his head and smiled. "I don't know. I can only guess at it."
"Well, you'll stay for supper—and you can talk to Jasper. He's worried."
"Thank you. And would you mind asking this man Pete in to supper with us?"
"I figured to, him being with Jasper and not feeling right well."
About sundown Starr rode in. Waring helped him from his horse. They shook hands in silence. The old cattleman knew at once why Waring had come, but he had no inkling of what was to follow.
The cowboy, Pete, took care of the horses. A little later he clumped into the house and took a seat in a corner. Waring paid no attention to him, but talked with Starr about the grazing and the weather.
Just before supper Starr introduced Waring.
The cowboy winced at Waring's grip. "Heard tell of you from the boys," he said.
"You want to ride over to our place," said Waring pleasantly. "Pat and I will show you some pretty land under fence."
The cowboy's eyelids flickered. How could this man Waring speak of Pat that way, when he must know that Pat had been killed? Everybody knew that. Why didn't Mrs. Starr or Starr say something? But Starr was limping to the table, and Mrs. Starr was telling them to come and have supper.
In the glow of the hanging lamp, Starr's lined, grizzled features were as unreadable as carved bronze. Waring, at his left, sat directly opposite the cowboy, Pete. The talk drifted from one subject to another, but no one mentioned the killing of Pat. Waring noted the cowboy's lack of appetite.
"I looked over your saddle-stock this afternoon," said Waring. "Noticed you had a bay out there, white blaze on his nose. You don't want to sell that pony, do you?"
"Oh, that's Pete's pony, Baldy," said Mrs. Starr.
Starr glanced at Waring. The horse Baldy was good enough as cow-ponies went, but Waring had not ridden over to buy horses.
"I aim to keep that cayuse," said Pete, swallowing hard.
"But every man has his price,"—and Waring smiled. "I'll make my offer; a hundred, cash."
"Not this evenin'," said the cowboy.
Waring felt in the pocket of his flannel shirt. "I'll go you one better. I'll make it a hundred, cash, and this to boot." And his arm straightened.
Pete started back. Waring's hand was on the table, the fingers closed.
His fingers slowly opened, and a crumpled piece of paper lay in his
palm. The cowboy's lips tightened. His eyes shifted from Waring to
Starr, and then back again.
Mrs. Starr, who could not understand the strange silence of the men, breathed hard and wiped her forehead with her apron.
"Read it!" said Waring sharply.
The cowboy took the piece of paper, and, spreading it out, glanced at it hurriedly.
"This ain't for me," he asserted.
"Did you ever see it before?"
"This? No. What have I got to do with the sheriff's office?"
"Pete," said Waring, drawing back his hand, "you had better read that note again."
"Why, I—Pete can't read," said Mrs. Starr. "He can spell out printed reading some, but not writing."
"Then how did you know this paper was from the sheriff's office?" queried Waring.
The cowboy half rose.
"Sit down!" thundered Waring. "Who sent you with a note to Pat last
Wednesday?"
"Who said anybody sent me?"
"Don't waste time! I say so. That broken shoe your cayuse cast says so, for I trailed him from my ranch to the line fence. And you have said so yourself. This paper is not from the sheriff's office. It's a tax receipt."
The cowboy's face went white.
"Honest, so help me, Mr. Waring, I didn't know the Brewster boys was after Pat. Bob he give me the paper. Said it was from the sheriff, and I was to give it to Pat if you weren't around."
"And if I happened to be around?"
"I was to wait until you was out with the fence gang—"
"How did you know I would be out with them?"
"Bob Brewster told me you would be."
Waring folded the piece of paper and tore it across.
"Starr," he said, turning to the old cattleman, "you have heard and seen what has happened since we sat down." And Waring turned on the cowboy. "How much did Bob Brewster give you for this work?"
"I was to get fifty dollars if I put it through."
"And you put it through! You knew it was crooked. And you call yourself a man! And you took a letter to Pat that called him out to be shot down by that coyote! Do you know that Pat's gun was loaded when I found it; that he didn't have a chance?"
Waring's face grew suddenly old. He leaned back wearily.
"I wonder just how you feel?" he said presently. "If I had done a trick like that I'd take a gun and blow my brains out. God, I'd rather be where Pat is than have to carry your load the rest of my life! But you're yellow clean through, and Bob Brewster knew it and hired you. Now you will take that lame cayuse and ride north just as quick as you can throw a saddle on him. And when you go,"—and Waring rose and pointed toward the doorway,—"forget the way back to this country."
The cowboy shuffled his feet and picked up his hat. Starr got up stiffly and limped to his room. He came out with a check, which he gave to the cowboy.
Waring pushed back his chair as though to step round the table and follow the cowboy, but he hesitated, and finally sat down.
"I'm sorry it happened this way, Mrs. Starr," he said.
"It's awful! And one of our men!"
"That's not your fault, Mrs. Starr."
Starr fumbled along the clock shelf, found his pipe, and lighted it. He sat down near Waring as Mrs. Starr began to clear away the dishes.
"If I can do anything to help run down that white-livered skunk—"
"You can, Jasper. Just keep it to yourself that I have been here. Pete left of his own accord. I don't want the Brewster boys to know I'm out on their trail."
Starr nodded and glanced at his wife. "I looked to see you kill him," he said, gesturing toward the doorway.
"What! That poor fool? I thought you knew me better, Jasper."
Chapter XIX
The Fight in the Open
Starr was awakened at midnight by the sound of boot-heels on the ranch-house veranda. He lighted a lamp and limped to the door. The lamplight shone on the smooth, young face of a Mexican, whose black sombrero was powdered with dust.
"What do you want?" queried Starr.
"I am look for the Señor Jim. I am Ramon, of his place. From the rancho
I ride to Stacey. He is not there. Then I come here."
"And you ain't particular about wakin' folks up to tell 'em, either."
"I would find him," said Ramon simply.
"What's your business with Jim Waring?"
"It is that I am his friend. I know that he is ride looking for the men who killed my patron the Señor Pat. I am Ramon."
"Uh-uh. Well, suppose you are?"
"It is not the suppose. I am. I would find Señor Jim."
"Who said he was here?"
"The señora at the hotel would think that he was here."
Starr scratched his grizzled head. Waring had said nothing about the Mexican. And Starr did not like Mexicans. Moreover, Waring had said to tell no one that he had been at the Starr Ranch.
"I don't know where Jim Waring is," said Starr, and, stepping back, he closed the door.
Ramon strode to his horse and mounted. All gringos were not like the Señor Jim. Many of them hated Mexicans. Ah, well, he would ride back to Stacey. The señora at the cantina was a pleasant woman. She would not shut the door in his face, for she knew who he was. He would ask for a room for the night. In the morning he would search for Señor Jim. He must find him.
Mrs. Adams answered his knock at the hotel door by coming down and letting him in. Ramon saw by the office clock that it was past three. She showed him to a room.
No, the señor had not been at the Starr Rancho. But he would find him.
Ramon tiptoed to the open window, and knelt with his arms on the sill. A falling star streaked the night.
"And I shall as soon find him as I would find that star," he murmured. "Yet to-morrow there will be the sun. And I will ask the Holy Mother to help me. She will not refuse, knowing my heart."
Without undressing, he flung himself on the bed. As he slept he dreamed; a strange, vivid dream of the setting sun and a tiny horseman limned against the gold. The horseman vanished as he rose to follow. If he were only sure that it was the Señor Jim! The dream had said that the señor had ridden into the west. In the morning—
With the dawn Ramon was up. Some one was moving about in the kitchen below. Ramon washed and smoothed his long black hair with his hands. He stepped quietly downstairs. Breakfast was not ready, so he walked to the kitchen and talked with Anita.
To her, who understood him as no gringo could, he told of his quest. She knew nothing of the Señor Jim's whereabouts, save that he had come yesterday and talked with the señora. Anita admired the handsome young Mexican, whose face was so sad save when his quick smile lightened the shadow. And she told him to go back to the ranch and not become entangled in the affairs of the Americanos. It would be much better for him so.
Ramon listened patiently, but shook his head. The Señor Jim had been kind to him; had given him his life down in the Sonora desert. Was Ramon Ortego to forget that?
Mrs. Adams declined to take any money for Ramon's room. He worked for her husband, and it was at Ramon's own expense that he would make the journey in search for him. Instead she had Anita put up a lunch for Ramon.
He thanked her and rode away, taking the western trail across the morning desert.
Thirty miles beyond Stacey, he had news of Waring. A Mexican rancher had seen the gringo pass late in the evening. He rode a big buckskin horse. He was sure it must be the man Ramon sought. There was not another such horse in Arizona.
Ramon rode on next day, inquiring occasionally at a ranch or crossroad store. Once or twice he was told that such a horse and rider had passed many hours ago. At noon he rested and fed his pony. All that afternoon he rode west. Night found him in the village of Downey, where he made further inquiry, but without success.
Next morning he was on the road early, still riding west. No dream had come to guide him, yet the memory of the former dream was keen. If that dream were not true, all dreams were lies and prayer a useless ceremony.
For three days he rode, tracing the Señor Jim from town to town, but never catching up with him. Once he learned that Waring had slept in the same town, but had departed before daybreak. Ramon wondered why no dream had come to tell him of this.
That day he rode hard. There were few towns on his way. He reined in when he came to the fork where the southern highway branches from the Overland Road. The western road led on across the mountains past the great cañon. The other swept south through cattle land and into the rough hills beyond which lay Phoenix and the old Apache Trail. He hailed a buck-board coming down the southern road. The driver had seen nothing of a buckskin horse. Ramon hesitated, closing his eyes. Suddenly in the darkness glared a golden sun, and against it the tiny, black silhouette of a horseman. His dream could not lie.
Day by day the oval of his face grew narrower, until his cheek-bones showed prominently. His lips lost their youthful fullness. Only his eyes were the same; great, velvet-soft black eyes, gently questioning, veiled by no subtlety, and brighter for the deepening black circles beneath them.
The fifth day found him patiently riding west, despite the fact that all trace of Waring had been lost. Questioned, men shook their heads and watched him ride away, his lithe figure upright, but his head bowed as though some blind fate drew him on while his spirit drowsed in stagnant hopelessness.
To all his inquiries that day he received the same answer. Finally, in the high country, he turned and retraced his way.
A week after he had left Stacey he was again at the fork of the highway. The southern road ran, winding, toward a shallow valley. He took this road, peering ahead for a ranch, or habitation of any kind. That afternoon he stopped at a wayside store and bought crackers and canned meat. He questioned the storekeeper. Yes, the storekeeper had seen such a man pass on a big buckskin cayuse several days ago. Ramon thanked him and rode on. He camped just off the road that evening. In the morning he set out again, cheered by a new hope. His dream had not lied; only there should have been another dream to show him the way before he had come to the fork in the road.
That afternoon three men passed him, riding hard. They were in their shirt-sleeves and were heavily armed. Their evident haste caused Ramon to note their passing with some interest. Yet they had thundered past him so fast, and in such a cloud of dust, that he could not see them clearly.
* * * * *
Waring, gaunt as a wolf, unshaven, his hat rimmed with white dust, pulled up in front of the weathered saloon in the town of Criswell on the edge of the desert.
He dismounted and stepped round the hitching-rail. His face was lined and gray. His eyes were red-rimmed and heavy. As he strode toward the saloon door, he staggered and caught himself. Dex shuffled uneasily, knowing that something was wrong with his master.
Waring drew his hand across his eyes, and, entering the saloon, asked for whiskey. As in a dream, he saw men sitting in the back of the place. They leaned on their elbows and talked. He drank and called for more. The loafers in the saloon glanced at each other. Three men had just ridden through town and down into the desert, going over-light for such a journey. And here was the fourth. They glanced at Waring's boots, his belt, his strong shoulders, and his dusty sombrero. Whoever he was, he fitted his clothes. But a man "going in" was a fool to take more than one drink. The three men ahead had not stopped at the saloon. One of them had filled a canteen at the tank near the edge of the town. They had seemed in a great hurry for men of their kind.
Waring wiped his lips and turned. His eyes had grown bright. For an instant he glanced at the men, the brown walls spotted with "Police Gazette" pictures, the barred window at the rear of the room. He drew out his gun, spun the cylinder, and dropped it back into the holster.
The stranger, whoever he was, seemed to be handy with that kind of tool. Well, it was no affair of theirs. The desert had taken care of such affairs in the past, and there was plenty of room for more.
From the saloon doorway they saw Waring ride to the edge of town, dismount, and walk out in the desert in a wide circle. He returned to his horse, and, mounting, rode at right angles to the course the three riders had taken.
One of the men in the doorway spoke. "Thought so," he said with finality.
The others nodded. It was not their affair. The desert would take care of that.
About the middle of the afternoon, Waring rode down a sandy draw that deepened to an arroyo. Near the mouth of the arroyo, where it broke off abruptly to the desert level, he reined up. His horse stood with head lowered, his gaunt sides heaving. Waring patted him.
"Not much longer, old boy," he said affectionately.
With his last burst of strength, the big buckskin had circled the course taken by the three men, urged by Waring's spur and voice. They were heading in a direct line across the level just beyond the end of the arroyo where Waring was concealed. He could not see them, but as usual he watched Dex's ears. The horse would be aware of their nearness without seeing them. And Waring dared not risk the chance of discovery. They must have learned that he was following them, for they had ridden hard these past few days. Evidently they had been unwilling to chance a fight in any of the towns. And, in fact, Waring had once been ahead of them, knowing that they would make for the desert. But that night he had overslept, and they had passed him in the early hours of morning.
Slowly Dex raised his head and sniffed. Waring patted him, afraid that he would nicker. He had dismounted to tighten the cinches when he thought he heard voices in argument. He mounted again. The men must have ridden hard to have made such good time. Again he heard voices. The men were near the mouth of the arroyo. Waring tossed his hat to the ground and dropped his gauntlets beside his hat. Carefully he wiped his sweating hands on his bandanna. Dex threw up his head. His nostrils worked. Waring spoke to him.
A shadow touched the sand at the mouth of the arroyo. Waring leaned forward and drove in the spurs. The big buckskin leaped to a run as he rounded the shoulder of the arroyo.
The three horsemen, who had been riding close together, spread out on the instant. Waring threw a shot at the foremost figure even as High Chin's first shot tore away the front of his shirt. Waring fired again. Tony Brewster, on the ground, emptied his gun as Waring spurred over him. Turning in the saddle as he flashed past High Chin, Waring fired at close range at the other's belt buckle. Out on the levels, Andy Brewster's horse was running with tail tucked down. Waring threw his remaining shot at High Chin, and, spurring Dex, stood in his stirrups as he reloaded his gun.
The rider ahead was rocking in the saddle. He had been hit, although Waring could not recall having shot at him. Suddenly the horse went down, and Andy Brewster pitched to the sand. Waring laughed and reined round on the run, expecting each instant to feel the blunt shock of a bullet. High Chin was still sitting his horse, his gun held muzzle up. Evidently he was not hard hit, or, if he were, he was holding himself for a final shot at Waring. Behind him, almost beneath his horse, his brother Tony had raised himself on his elbow and was fumbling with his empty gun.
Waring rode slowly toward High Chin. High Chin's hand jerked down. Waring's wrist moved in answer. The two reports blended in a blunt, echoless roar. Waring felt a shock that numbed his thigh. High Chin sat stiffly in the saddle, his hand clasping the horn. He turned and gazed down at his brother.
"Thought you got him," said Tony Brewster from the ground. "Sit still and I'll get him from under your horse."
Waring knew now that High Chin was hit hard. The foreman had let his gun slip from his fingers. Waring saw a slight movement just beneath High Chin's horse. A shock lifted him from the saddle, and he dropped to the ground as Tony Brewster fired. But there was no such thing as quit just so long as Waring could see to shoot. Dragging himself to his gun, he shook the sand from its muzzle. He knew that he could not last long. Already flecks of fire danced before his eyes. He bit his lip as he raised himself and drew fine on that black figure beneath High Chin's horse. The gun jumped in his hand. Waring saw the black figure twitch and roll over. Then his sight grew clouded. He tried to brush away the blur that grew and spread. For an instant his eyes cleared. High Chin still sat upright in the saddle. Waring raised his gun and fired quickly. As his hand dropped to the sand, High Chin pitched headlong and lay still.
Then came a soft black veil that hid the glimmering sun and the wide desert reaches.
High Chin, his legs paralyzed by a slug that had torn through his abdomen and lodged in his spine, knew that he had made his last fight. He braced himself on his hands and called to his brother Tony. But his brother did not answer. High Chin's horse had strayed, and was grazing up the arroyo. The stricken man writhed round, feeling no pain, but conscious of a horrible numbness across his back and abdomen.
"When it hits my heart I'm done," he muttered. "Guess I'll go over and keep Tony company."
Inch by inch he dragged himself across the sand. Tony Brewster lay on his back. High Chin touched him; felt of the limp arm, and gazed curiously at the blue-edged hole in his brother's chest. With awful labor that brought a clammy moisture to his face, he managed to drag himself close to his brother and writhe round to a position where he could sit up, braced against the other's body. He gazed out across the desert. It had been a fast fight. Waring was done for. High Chin wondered how long he would last. The sun was near the horizon. It seemed only a few minutes ago that the sun had been directly overhead and he and his brothers had been cursing the heat. It was growing cold. He shivered. A long shadow reached out toward him from the bank of the arroyo. In a few minutes it would touch him. Then would come night and the stars. The numbness was creeping toward his chest. He could not breathe freely. He moved his arms. They were alive yet. He opened and closed his fingers, gazing at them curiously. It was a strange thing that a man should die like this; a little at a time, and not suffer much pain. The fading flame of his old recklessness flared up.
"I'm goin' across," he said. "But, by God, I'm takin' Jim Waring with me!"
He glanced toward the buckskin horse that stood so patiently beside that silent figure out there. Waring was done for. High Chin blinked. A long shaft of sunlight spread across the sand, and in the glow High Chin saw that the horse was moving toward him. He stared for a few seconds. Then he screamed horribly.
Waring, his hand gripping the stirrup, was dragging across the sand beside the horse that stepped sideways and carefully as Waring urged him on. Dex worked nearer to High Chin, but so slowly that High Chin thought it was some horrible phantasy sent to awaken fear in his dulled brain. But that dragging figure, white-faced and terrible—that was real! Within a few paces of High Chin, Dex stopped and turned his head to look down at Waring. And Waring, swaying up on his hands, laughed wildly.
"I came over—to tell you—that it was Pat's gun—" He collapsed and lay still.
High Chin sat staring dully at the gunman's uncovered head. The horse sniffed at Waring. High Chin's jaw sagged. He slumped down, and lay back across the body of his brother.
* * * * *
A pathway of lamplight floated out and across the main street of Criswell. A solitary figure lounged at the saloon bar. The sharp barking of a dog broke the desert silence. The lounger gazed at the path of lamplight which framed the bare hitching-rail. His companions of the afternoon had departed to their homes. Again the dog barked shrilly. The saloon-keeper moved to a chair and picked up a rumpled paper.
The lounger, leaning on his elbow, suddenly straightened. He pointed toward the doorway. The saloon-keeper saw the motion from the corner of his eye. He lowered his paper and rose. In the soft radiance a riderless horse stood at the hitching-rail, his big eyes glowing, his ears pricked forward. Across the horse's shoulder was a ragged tear, black against the tawny gold of his coat. The men glanced at each other. It was the horse of the fourth man; the man who had staggered in that afternoon, asked for whiskey, and who had left as buoyantly as though he went to meet a friend.
"They got him," said the saloon-keeper.
"They got him," echoed the other.
Together they moved to the doorway and peered out. The man who had first seen the horse stepped down and tied the reins to the rail. He ran his hand down the horse's shoulder over muscles that quivered as he examined the wound. He glanced at the saddle, the coiled rope, the slackened cinches, and pointed to a black stain on the stirrup leather.
[Illustration: I came over—to tell you—that it was Pat's gun]
"From the south," he said. "Maguey rope, and that saddle was made in
Mexico."
"Mebby he wants water," suggested the saloon-keeper.
"He's had it. Reins are wet where he drug 'em in the tank."
"Wonder who them three fellas was?"
"Don' know. From up north, by their rig. I'm wonderin' who the fourth fella was—and where he is."
"Why, he's out there, stiff'nin' on the sand. They's been a fight. And, believe me, if the others was like him—she was a dandy!"
"I guess it's up to us to do somethin'," suggested the lounger.
"Not to-night, Bill. You don't ketch me ridin' into a flash in the dark before I got time to tell myself I'm a dam' fool. In the mornin', mebby—"
Their heads came up as they heard a horse pounding down the road. A lean pony, black with sweat, jumped to a trembling stop.
A young Mexican swung down and walked stiffly up to Dex.
"Where is Señor Jim?" he queried, breathing hard.
"Don' know, hombre. This his hoss?"
"Si! It is Dex."
'Well, the hoss came in, recent, draggin' the reins."
"Then you have seen him?"
"Seen who? Who are you, anyway?"
"Me, I am Ramon Ortego, of Sonora. The Señor Jim is my friend. I would find him."
"Well, if your friend sports a black Stetson and a dam' bad eye and performs with a short-barreled .45, he rode in this afternoon just about a hour behind three other fellas. They lit out into the dry spot. Reckon you'll find your friend out there, if the coyotes ain't got to him."
Ramon limped to the rail and untied Dex. Then he mounted his own horse.
"Dex," he said softly, riding alongside, "where is the Señor Jim?"
The big buckskin swung his head round and sniffed Ramon's hand. Then he plodded down the street toward the desert. At the tank Ramon let his horse drink. Dex, like a great dog, sniffed the back trail on which he had come, plodding through the night toward the spot where he knew his master to be.
Ramon, burdened with dread and weariness, rode with his hands clasped round the saddle-horn. The Señor Jim, his Señor Jim, had found those whom he sought. He had not come back. Ramon was glad that he had filled the canteen. If the man who had killed his Señor Jim had escaped, he would follow him even as he had followed Waring. And he would find him. "And then I shall kill him," said Ramon simply. "He does not know my face. As I speak to him the Señor Jim's name I shall kill him, and the Señor Jim will know then that I have been faithful."
The big buckskin plodded on across the sand, the empty stirrups swinging. Ramon's gaze lifted to the stars. He smiled wanly.
"I follow him. Wherever he has gone, I follow him, and he will not lose the way."
His bowed head, nodding to the pace of the pony, seemed to reiterate in grotesque assertion his spoken word. Ramon's tired body tingled as Dex strode faster. The horse nickered, and an answering nicker came from the night. His own tired pony struck into a trot. Dex stopped. Ramon slid down, and, stumbling forward, he touched a black bulk that lay on the sand.
Waring, despite his trim build, was a heavy man. Ramon was just able to lift him and lay him across the saddle. A coyote yipped from the brush of the arroyo. As Ramon started back toward town his horse shied at something near the arroyo's entrance. Ramon did not know that the bodies of Tony and Bob Brewster formed that low mound half-hidden by the darkness.
A yellow star, close to the eastern horizon, twinkled faintly and then disappeared. The saloon at Criswell had been closed for the night.
Next morning the marshal of Criswell sent a messenger to the telegraph
office at the junction. There was no railroad entering the Criswell
Valley. The messenger bore three telegraph messages; one to Sheriff
Hardy, one to Bud Shoop, and one to Mrs. Adams.
Ramon, outside Waring's room in the marshal's house, listened as the local doctor moved about. Presently he heard the doctor ask a question. Waring's voice answered faintly. Ramon stepped from the door and found his way to the stable. Dex, placidly munching alfalfa, turned his head as Ramon came in.
"The Señor Jim is not dead," he told the horse.
And, leaning against Dex, he wept softly, as women weep, with a happiness too great to bear. The big horse nuzzled his shoulder with his velvet-smooth nose, as though he would sympathize. Then he turned to munching alfalfa again in huge content. He had had a weary journey. And though his master had not come to feed him, here was the gentle, low-voiced Ramon, whom he knew as a friend.
CHAPTER XX
City Folks
Bud Shoop's new duties kept him exceedingly busy. As the days went by he found himself more and more tied to office detail. Fortunately Torrance had left a well-organized corps of rangers, each with his own special work mapped out, work that Shoop understood, with the exception of seeding and planting experiments, which Lundy, the expert, attended to as though the reserve were his own and his life depended upon successful results along his special line.
Shoop had long since given up trying to dictate letters. Instead he wrote what he wished to say on slips of paper which his clerk cast into conventional form. The genial Bud's written directions were brief and to the point.
Among the many letters received was one from a writer of Western stories, applying for a lease upon which to build a summer camp. His daughter's health was none too good, and he wanted to be in the mountains. Shoop studied the letter. He had a vague recollection of having heard of the writer. The request was legitimate. There was no reason for not granting it.
Shoop called in his stenographer. "Ever read any of that fella's books?"
"Who? Bronson? Yes. He writes bang-up Western stories."
"He does, eh? Well, you get hold of one of them stories. I want to read it. I've lived in the West a few minutes myself."
A week later Shoop had made his decision. He returned a shiny, new volume to the clerk.
"I never took to writin' folks reg'lar," he told the clerk. "Mebby I got the wrong idee of 'em. Now I reckon some of them is human, same as you and me. Why, do you know I been through lots of them things he writes about. And, by gollies, when I read that there gun-fight down in Texas, I ketched myself feelin' along my hip, like I was packin' a gun. And when I read about that cowboy's hoss,—the one with the sarko eye and the white legs,—why, I ketched myself feelin' for my ole bandanna to blow my nose. An' I seen dead hosses a-plenty. But you needn't to say nothin' about that in the letter. Just tell him to mosey over and we'll talk it out. If a man what knows hosses and folks like he does wa'n't raised in the West, he ought to been. Heard anything from Adams?"
"He was in last week. He's up on Baldy. Packed some stuff up to the lookout."
"Uh-uh. Now, the land next to my shack on the Blue ain't a bad place for this here writer. I got the plat, and we can line out the five acres this fella wants from my corner post. But he's comin' in kind of late to build a camp."
"It will be good weather till December," said the clerk.
"Well, you write and tell him to come over. Seen anything of Hardy and his men lately?"
"Not since last Tuesday."
"Uh-uh. They're millin' around like a lot of burros—and gettin' nowhere. But Jim Waring's out after that bunch that got Pat. If I wasn't so hefty, I'd 'a' gone with him. I tell you the man that got Pat ain't goin' to live long to brag on it."
"They say it was the Brewster boys," ventured the stenographer.
"They say lots of things, son. But Jim Waring knows. God help the man that shot Pat when Jim Waring meets up with him. And I want to tell you somethin'. Be kind of careful about repeatin' what 'they say' to anybody. You got nothin' to back you up if somebody calls your hand. 'They' ain't goin' to see you through. And you named the Brewster boys. Now, just suppose one of the Brewster boys heard of it and come over askin' you what you meant? I bet you a new hat Jim Waring ain't said Brewster's name to a soul—and he knows. I'm goin' over to Stacey. Any mail the stage didn't get?"
"Letter for Mrs. Adams."
"Uh-uh. Lorry writes to his ma like he was her beau—reg'lar and plenty. Funny thing, you can't get a word out of him about wimmin-folk, neither. He ain't that kind of a colt. But I reckon when he sees the gal he wants he'll saddle up and ride out and take her." And Bud chuckled.
Bondsman rapped the floor with his tail. Bondsman never failed to express a sympathetic mood when his master chuckled.
"Now, look at that," said Shoop, grinning. "He knows I'm goin' over to Stacey. He heard me say it. And he says I got to take him along, 'cause he knows I ain't goin' on a hoss. That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous."
The stenographer smiled as Shoop waddled from the office with Bondsman at his heels. There was something humorous, almost pathetic, in the gaunt and grizzled Airedale's affection for his rotund master. And Shoop's broad back, with the shoulders stooped slightly and the set stride as he plodded here and there, often made the clerk smile. Yet there was nothing humorous about Shoop's face when he flashed to anger or studied some one who tried to mask a lie, or when he reprimanded his clerk for naming folk that it was hazardous to name.
The typewriter clicked; a fly buzzed on the screen door; a beam of sunlight flickered through the window. The letter ran:—
Yours of the 4th inst. received and contents noted. In answer would state that Supervisor Shoop would be glad to have you call at your earliest convenience in regard to leasing a camp-site on the White Mountain Reserve.
Essentially a business letter of the correspondence-school type.
But the stenographer was not thinking of style. He was wondering what the girl would be like. There was to be a girl. The writer had said that he wished to build a camp to which he could bring his daughter, who was not strong. The clerk thought that a writer's daughter might be an interesting sort of person. Possibly she was like some of the heroines in the writer's stories. It would be interesting to meet her. He had written a poem once himself. It was about spring, and had been published in the local paper. He wondered if the writer's daughter liked poetry.
In the meantime, Lorry, with two pack-animals and Gray Leg, rode the hills and cañons, attending to the many duties of a ranger.
And as he caught his stride in the work he began to feel that he was his own man. Miles from headquarters, he was often called upon to make a quick decision that required instant and individual judgment. He made mistakes, but never failed to report such mistakes to Shoop. Lorry preferred to give his own version of an affair that he had mishandled rather than to have to explain some other version later. He was no epitome of perfection. He was inclined to be arbitrary when he knew he was in the right. Argument irritated him. He considered his "Yes" or "No" sufficient, without explanation.
He made Shoop's cabin his headquarters, and spent his spare time cording wood. He liked his occupation, and felt rather independent with the comfortable cabin, a good supply of food, a corral and pasture for the ponies, plenty of clear, cold water, and a hundred trails to ride each day from dawn to dark as he should choose. Once unfamiliar with the timber country, he grew to love the twinkling gold of the aspens, the twilight vistas of the spruce and pines, and the mighty sweep of the great purple tides of forest that rolled down from the ranges into a sheer of space that had no boundary save the sky.
He grew a trifle thinner in the high country. The desert tan of his cheeks and throat deepened to a ruddy bronze.
Aside from pride in his work, he took special pride in his equipment, keeping his bits and conchas polished and his leather gear oiled. Reluctantly he discarded his chaps. He found that they hindered him when working on foot. Only when he rode into Jason for supplies did he wear his chaps, a bit of cowboy vanity quite pardonable in his years.
If he ever thought of women at all, it was when he lounged and smoked by the evening fire in the cabin, sometimes recalling "that Eastern girl with the jim-dandy mother." He wondered if they ever thought of him, and he wished that they might know he was now a full-fledged ranger with man-size responsibilities. "And mebby they think I'm ridin' south yet," he would say to himself. "I must have looked like I didn't aim to pull up this side of Texas, from the way I lit out." But, then, women didn't understand such things.
Occasionally he confided something of the kind to the spluttering fire, laughing as he recalled the leg of lamb with which he had waved his hasty farewell.
"And I was scared, all right. But I wasn't so scared I forgot I'd get hungry." Which conclusion seemed to satisfy him.
When he learned that a writer had leased five acres next to Bud's cabin, he was skeptical as to how he would get along with "strangers." He liked elbow-room. Yet, on second thought, it would make no difference to him. He would not be at the cabin often nor long at a time. The evenings were lonely sometimes.
But when camped at the edge of the timber on some mountain meadow, with his ponies grazing in the starlit dusk, when the little, leaping flame of his night fire flung ruddy shadows that danced in giant mimicry in the cavernous arches of the pines; when the faint tinkle of the belled pack-horse rang a faëry cadence in the distance; then there was no such thing as loneliness in his big, outdoor world. Rather, he was content in a solid way. An inner glow of satisfaction because of work well done, a sense of well-being, founded upon perfect physical health and ease, kept him from feeling the need of companionship other than that of his horses. Sometimes he sat late into the night watching the pine gum ooze from a burning log and swell to golden bubbles that puffed into tiny flames and vanished in smoky whisperings. At such times a companion would not have been unwelcome, yet he was content to be alone.
Later, when Lorry heard that the writer was to bring his daughter into the high country, he expressed himself to Shoop's stenographer briefly: "Oh, hell!" Yet the expletive was not offensive, spoken gently and merely emphasizing Lorry's attitude toward things feminine.
While Lorry was away with the pack-horses and a week's riding ahead of him, the writer arrived in Jason, introduced himself and his daughter,—a rather slender girl of perhaps sixteen or eighteen,—and later, accompanied by the genial Bud, rode up to the Blue Mesa and inspected the proposed camp-site. As they rode, Bud discoursed upon the climate, ways of building a log cabin, wild turkeys, cattle, sheep, grazing, fuel, and water, and concluded his discourse with a dissertation upon dogs in general and Airedales in particular. The writer was fond of dogs and knew something about Airedales. This appealed to Shoop even more than had the writer's story of the West.
Arrived at the mesa, tentative lines were run and corners marked. The next day two Mormon youths from Jason started out with a load of lumber and hardware. The evening of the second day following they arrived at the homestead, pitched a tent, and set to work. That night they unloaded the lumber. Next morning they cleared a space for the cabin. By the end of August the camp was finished. The Mormon boys, to whom freighting over the rugged hills was more of a pastime than real work, brought in a few pieces of furniture—iron beds, a stove, cooking-utensils, and the hardware and provisions incidental to the maintenance of a home in the wilderness.
The writer and his daughter rode up from Jason with the final load of supplies. Excitement and fatigue had so overtaxed the girl's slender store of strength that she had to stay in bed for several days. Meanwhile, her father put things in order. The two saddle-horses, purchased under the critical eye of Bud Shoop, showed an inclination to stray back to Jason, so the writer turned them into Lorry's corral each evening, as his own lease was not entirely fenced.
Riding in from his long journey one night, Lorry passed close to the new cabin. It loomed strangely raw and white in the moonlight. He had forgotten that there was to be a camp near his. The surprise rather irritated him. Heretofore he had considered the Blue Mesa was his by a kind of natural right. He wondered how he would like the city folks. They had evidently made themselves at home. Their horses were in his corral.
As he unsaddled Gray Leg, a light flared up in the strange camp. The door opened, and a man came toward him.
"Good-evening," said the writer. "I hope my horses are not in your way."
"Sure not," said Lorry as he loosened a pack-rope.
He took off the packs and lugged them to the veranda. The tired horses rolled, shook themselves, and meandered toward the spring.
"I'm Bronson. My daughter is with me. We are up here for the summer."
"My name is Adams," said Lorry, shaking hands.
"The ranger up here. Yes. Well, I'm glad to meet you, Adams. My daughter and I get along wonderfully, but it will be rather nice to have a neighbor. I heard you ride by, and wanted to explain about my horses."
"That's all right, Mr. Bronson. Just help yourself."
"Thank you. Dorothy—my daughter—has been under the weather for a few days. She'll be up to-morrow, I think. She has been worrying about our using your corral. I told her you would not mind."
"Sure not. She's sick, did you say?"
"Well, over-tired. She is not very strong."
"Lungs?" queried Lorry, and immediately he could have kicked himself for saying it.
"I'm afraid so, Adams. I thought this high country might do her good."
"It's right high for some. Folks got to take it easy at first; 'specially wimmin-folk. I'm right sorry your girl ain't well."
"Thank you. I shouldn't have mentioned it. She is really curious to know how you live, what you do, and, in fact, what a real live ranger looks like. Mr. Shoop told her something about you while we were in Jason. They became great friends while the camp was building. She says she knows all about you, and tries to tease me by keeping it to herself."
"Bud—my boss—is some josher," was all that Lorry could think of to say at the time.
Bronson went back to his cabin. Lorry, entering his camp, lighted the lamp and built a fire. The camp looked cozy and cheerful after a week on the trail.
When he had eaten he sat down to write to his mother. He would tell her all about the new cabin and the city folks. But before he had written more than to express himself "that it was too darned bad a girl had to stay up in the woods without no other wimmin-folks around," he became drowsy. The letter remained unfinished. He would finish it to-morrow. He would smoke awhile and then go to bed.
A healthy young animal himself, he could not understand what sickness meant. And as for lungs—he had forgotten there were such things in a person's make-up. And sick folks couldn't eat "regular grub." It must be pretty tough not to be able to eat heartily. Now, there was that wild turkey he had shot near the Big Spring. He tiptoed to the door. The lights were out in the other cabin. It was closed season for turkey, but then a fellow needed a change from bacon and beans once in a while.
He had hidden the turkey in a gunny-sack which hung from a kitchen rafter. Should he leave it in the sack, hang it from a rafter of their veranda, out of reach of a chance bobcat or coyote, or—it would be much more of a real surprise to hang the big bird in front of their door in all his feathered glory. The sack would spoil the effect.
He took off his boots and walked cautiously to the other cabin. The first person to come out of that cabin next morning would actually bump into the turkey. It would be a good joke.
"And if he's the right kind of a hombre he won't talk about it," thought Lorry as he returned to his camp. "And if he ain't, I am out one fine bird, and I'll know to watch out for him."
Chapter XXI
A Slim Whip of a Girl
When Bronson opened his door to the thin sunlight and the crisp chill of the morning, he chuckled. He had made too many camps in the outlands to be surprised by an unexpected gift of game out of season. His neighbor was a ranger, and all rangers were incidentally game wardens. Bronson believed heartily in the conservation of game, and in this instance he did not intend to let that turkey spoil.
He called to his daughter.
Her brown eyes grew big. "Why, it's a turkey!"
Bronson laughed. "And to-day is Sunday. We'll have a housewarming and invite the ranger to dinner."
"Did he give it to you? Isn't it beautiful! What big wings—and the breast feathers are like little bronze flames! Do wild turkeys really fly?"
"Well, rather. It's a fine sight to see them run to a rim rock and float off across a cañon."
"Did you tell him about our horses? Is he nice? What did he say? But I could never imagine a turkey like that flying. I always think of turkeys as strutting around a farmyard with their heads held back and all puffed out in front. This one is heavy! I can't see how he could even begin to fly."
"They have to get a running start. Then they usually flop along and sail up into a tree. Once they are in a tree, they can float off into space easily. They seem to fly slowly, but they can disappear fast enough. The ranger seems to be a nice chap."
"Did he really give the turkey to us?"
"It was hanging right here when I came out. I can't say that he gave it to us. You see, it is closed season for turkey."
"But we must thank him."
"We will. Let's ask him to dinner. He seems to be a pleasant chap; quite natural. He said we were welcome to keep our horses in his corral. But if you want to have him for a real friendly neighbor, Dorothy, don't mention the word 'turkey.' We'll just roast it, make biscuits and gravy, and ask him to dinner. He will understand."
"Then I am going to keep the wings and tail to put on the wall of my room. How funny, not to thank a person for such a present."
"The supervisor would reprimand him for killing game out of season, if he heard about it."
"But just one turkey?"
"That isn't the idea. If it came to Mr. Shoop that one of his men was breaking the game laws, Mr. Shoop would have to take notice of it. Not that Shoop would care about one of his men killing a turkey to eat, but it would hurt the prestige of the Service. The natives would take advantage of it and help themselves to game."
"Of course, you know all about those matters. But can't I even say 'turkey' when I ask him to have some?"
"Oh," laughed Bronson, "call it chicken. He'll eat just as heartily."
"The ranger is up," said Dorothy. "I can hear him whistling."
"Then let's have breakfast and get this big fellow ready to roast. It will take some time."
An hour later, Lorry, fresh-faced and smiling, knocked on the lintel of their open doorway.
Bronson, in his shirt-sleeves and wearing a diminutive apron to which clung a fluff of turkey feathers, came from the kitchen.
"Good-morning. You'll excuse my daughter. She is busy."
"I just came over to ask how she was."
"Thank you. She is much better. We want you to have dinner with us."
"Thanks. But I got some beans going—"
"But this is chicken, man! And it is Sunday."
Lorry's gray eyes twinkled. "Chickens are right scarce up here. And chicken sure tastes better on Sunday. Was you goin' to turn your stock out with mine?"
"That's so!"
They turned Bronson's horses out, and watched them charge down the mesa toward the three animals grazing lazily in the morning sunshine.
"Your horses will stick with mine," said Lorry. "They won't stray now."
"Did I hear a piano this morning, or did I dream that I heard some one playing?"
"Oh, it was me, foolin' with Bud's piano in there. Bud's got an amazin' music-box. Ever see it?"
"No. I haven't been in your cabin."
"Well, come right along over. This was Bud's camp when he was homesteadin'. Ever see a piano like that?"
Bronson gazed at the carved and battered piano, stepping close to it to inspect the various brands. "It is rather amazing. I didn't know Mr. Shoop was fond of music."
"Well, he can't play reg'lar. But he sure likes to try. You ought to hear him and Bondsman workin' out that 'Annie Laurie' duet. First off, you feel like laughin'. But Bud gets so darned serious you kind of forget he ain't a professional. 'Annie Laurie' ain't no dance tune—and when Bud and the dog get at it, it is right mournful."
"I have seen a few queer things,"—and Bronson laughed,—"but this beats them all."
"You'd be steppin' square on Bud's soul if you was to josh him about that piano," said Lorry.
"I wouldn't. But thank you just the same. You have a neat place here,
Adams."
"When you say 'neat' you say it all."
"I detest a fussy camp. One gets enough of that sort of thing in town.
Is that a Gallup saddle or a Frazier?"
"Frazier."
"I used a Heiser when I was in Mexico. They're all good."
"That's what I say. But there's a hundred cranks to every make of saddle and every rig. You said you were in Mexico?"
"Before I was married. As a young man I worked for some of the mines. I went there from college."
"I reckon you've rambled some." And a new interest lightened Lorry's eyes. Perhaps this man wasn't a "plumb tenderfoot," after all.
"Oh, not so much. I punched cattle down on the Hassayampa and in the
Mogollons. Then I drifted up to Alaska. But I always came back to
Arizona. New Mexico is mighty interesting, and so is Colorado.
California is really the most wonderful State of all, but somehow I
can't keep away from Arizona."
"Shake! I never been out of Arizona, except when I was a kid, but she's the State for me."
A shadow flickered in the doorway. Lorry turned to gaze at a delicate slip of a girl, whose big brown eyes expressed both humor and trepidation.
"My daughter Dorothy, Mr. Adams. This is our neighbor, Dorothy."
"I'm right glad to meet you, miss."
And Lorry's strong fingers closed on her slender hand. To his robust sense of the physical she appealed as something exceedingly fragile and beautiful, with her delicate, clear coloring and her softly glowing eyes. What a little hand! And what a slender arm! And yet Lorry thought her arm pretty in its rounded slenderness. He smiled as he saw a turkey feather fluttering on her shoulder.
"Looks like that chicken was gettin' the best of you," he said, smiling.
"That's just it," she agreed, nothing abashed. "Father, you'll have to help."
"You'll excuse us, won't you? We'll finish our visit at dinner."
Lorry had reports to make out. He dragged a chair to the table. That man Bronson was all right. Let's see—the thirtieth—looked stockier in daylight. Had a good grip, too, and a clear, level eye. One mattock missing in the lookout cabin—and the girl; such a slender whip of a girl! Just like a young willow, but not a bit like an invalid. Buckley reports that his man will have the sheep across the reservation by the fourth of the month. Her father had said she was not over-strong. And her eyes! Lorry had seen little fawns with eyes like that—big, questioning eyes, startled rather than afraid.
"Reckon everything she sees up here is just amazin' her at every jump. I'll bet she's happy, even if she has got lungs. Now, a fella couldn't help but to like a girl like that. She would made a dandy sister, and a fella would just about do anything in the world for such a sister. And she wouldn't have to ask, at that. He would just naturally want to do things for her, because—well, because he couldn't help feeling that way. Funny how some wimmin made a man feel like he wanted to just about worship them, and not because they did anything except be just themselves. Now, there was that Mrs. Weston. She was a jim-dandy woman—but she was different. She always seemed to know just what she was going to say and do. And Mrs. Weston's girl, Alice. Reckon I'd scrap with her right frequent. She was still—"
Dog-gone it! Where was he drifting to? Sylvestre's sheep were five days crossing the reserve. Smith reported a small fire north of the lookout. The Ainslee boys put the fire out. It hadn't done any great damage.
Lorry sat back and chewed the lead pencil. As he gazed out of the window across the noon mesa a faint fragrance was wafted through the doorway. He sniffed and grinned. It was the warm flavor of wild turkey, a flavor that suggested crispness, with juicy white meat beneath. Lorry jumped up and grabbed a pail as he left the cabin. On his way back from the spring, Bronson waved to him. Lorry nodded. And presently he presented himself at Bronson's cabin, his face glowing, his flannel shirt neatly brushed, and a dark-blue silk bandanna knotted gracefully at his throat.
"This is the princess," said Bronson, gesturing toward his daughter.
"And here is the feast."
"And it was a piano," continued Bronson as they sat down.
"Really? 'Way up here?"
"My daughter plays a little," explained Bronson.
"Well, you're sure welcome to use that piano any time. If I'm gone, the door is unlocked just the same."