Chapter XXIX
Bud's Conscience
Those riders who had come from the northern part of the State to Sterling were given transportation for themselves and their horses to The Junction. From there they rode to their respective homes. Among them were Bud Shoop, the giant sheepman, and Lorry, who seemed more anxious than did Shoop to stop at Stacey on their way to the reserve.
"Your maw don't know you been to Sterling," Shoop said as they rode toward Stacey.
"But she won't care, now we're back again. She'll find out some time."
"I'm willin' to wait," said Bud. "I got you into that hocus. But I had no more idee than a cat that we'd bump into what we did. They was a time when a outfit like ours could 'a' kep' peace in a town by just bein' there. Things are changin'—fast. If the Gov'ment don't do somethin' about allowin' the scum of this country to get hold of guns and ca'tridges wholesale, they's goin' to be a whole lot of extra book-keepin' for the recordin' angel. I tell you what, son, allowin' that I seen enough killin' in my time so as just seein' it don't set too hard on my chest, that mess down to Sterling made me plumb sick to my stummick. I'm wonderin' what would 'a' happened if Sterling hadn't made that fight and the I.W.W. had run loose. It ain't what we did. That had to be did. But it's the idee that decent folks, livin' under the American flag, has got to shoot their way back to the law, like we done."
"Mebby the law ain't right," suggested Lorry.
"Don't you get that idee, son. The law is all right. Mebby it ain't handled right sometimes."
"But what can anybody do about it?"
"Trouble is that folks who want to do the right thing ain't always got the say. Or mebby if they have got the say they leave it to the other fella.
"What did the folks in Arizona do long back in eighty, when the sheep disease got bad. First off they doctored up the sick sheep, tryin' to save 'em. That didn't work, so they took to killin' 'em to save the good sheep. But the disease had got into the blood of some of the good sheep. Then some of the big sheepmen got busy. Arizona made a law that no stock was to be shipped into any of her territory without bein' inspected. That helped some. But inspectors is human, and some sick sheep got by.
"Then one day a fella that had some brains got up in the State House and spoke for the shuttin' out of all stock until the disease was stomped out. You see, that disease didn't start in this here country. But who downed that fella? Why, the sheepmen themselves. It would hurt their business. And the funny part of it is them sheepmen was willin' enough to ship sick sheep anywhere they could sell 'em. But some States was wise. California, she put a inspection tax of twenty-five dollars on every carload of stock enterin' her State—or on one animal; didn't make no difference. That inspection tax had to be paid by the shipper of the stock, as I said, whether he shipped one head or a hundred. And the stock had to be inspected before loadin'."
"You mean immigrants?" queried Lorry.
"The same. The gate is open too wide. If I had the handlin' of them gates I would shut 'em for ten years and kind of let what we got settle down and get acquainted. But the man hirin' cheap labor wouldn't. He'll take anything that will work cheap, and the country pays the difference, like we done down to Sterling."
"You mean there can't be cheap labor?"
"The same. Somebody's got to pay."
"Well, Sterling paid," said Lorry, "if a man's life is worth anything."
"Yes, she paid. And the worst part of the whole business is that the men what paid didn't owe anything to the smelter or to them others. They just made a present of their lives to this here country. And the country ain't goin' to even say 'thanks.'"
"You're pretty sore about it, aren't you, Bud?"
"I be. And if you had my years you'd be likewise. But what's worryin' me right now is I'm wonderin' what your maw'll say to me when she finds out."
"You can say we been south on business."
"Yes," grunted Bud, "and I got the receipt right here on my left wing."
"Hurtin' you much?"
"Just enough to let me know I'm livin' and ain't ridin' through hell shootin' down a lot of pore, drunk fools that's tryin' to run the oven. And them kind would kick if they was ridin' in hell on a free pass and their hotel bills paid. But over there is the hills, and we can thank God A'mighty for the high trails and the open country. I ain't got the smell of that town out of my nose yet."
* * * * *
When they arrived at Stacey, Lorry learned that his father had recently gone to the ranch. After supper that evening, Mrs. Adams mentioned the strike. The papers printed columns of the awful details; outrages and killings beyond the thought of possibility. And Mrs. Adams spoke of the curious circumstance that the men who put down the lawlessness were unnamed; that all that could be learned of them was that there were ranchers and cowmen who were known by number alone.
"And I'm glad that you didn't go riding off down there," she said to
Lorry. "The paper says men from all over the State volunteered."
"So am I," said Shoop promptly. "I was readin' about that strike when we was over to The Junction. Lorry and me been over that way on business. I seen that that young fella, number thirty-eight, was one of the men who went after that machine gun."
"How do you know that he was a young man?" queried Mrs. Adams.
"Why—er—only a young fella would act that foolish, I reckon. You say
Jim is feelin' spry ag'in?"
"Oh, much better! He's lame yet. But he can ride."
"That's good."
"And did you see that the paper says men are volunteering to go to
France? I wonder what will happen next?"
"I dunno," said Shoop gravely. "I been thinkin' about that."
"Well, I hope Lorry won't think that he has to go. Some of the boys in town are talking about it."
"It's in the air," said Shoop.
"And his father will need him now. Could you spare him, if Jim finds he can't get along alone?"
"I don't know," laughed Bud. "I reckon I need somebody to look after them campers up to my old place."
"Oh, I forgot to tell you; the folks that were here last summer stopped by on their way to Jason. Mrs. Weston and her girl. They said they were going to visit Mr. Bronson."
"H'm! Then I reckon I got to keep Lorry. Don't know what three females would do with just Bronson for comp'ny. He's a-tickin' at that writin' machine of his most all day, and sometimes nights. It must be like livin' in a cave."
"But Dorothy hasn't," said Lorry.
"That's right! My, but that little gal has built up wonderful since she's been up there! Did you see my watch?"
"Why, no!"
"Some style to that!" And Shoop displayed the new watch with pride. "And here's the name of the lady what give it to me."
Lorry's mother examined the watch, and handed it to Lorry, to whom the news of the gift was a surprise.
"But she didn't give him a watch," said Shoop, chuckling.
* * * * *
Up in their room that night, Lorry helped Bud out of his coat. Shoop's arm was stiff and sore.
"And your mother would think it was a mighty queer business, if she knowed this," said Bud, "or who that number thirty-eight was down there."
"You sure made a good bluff, Bud."
"Mebby. But I was scared to death. When I was talkin' about Sterling so free and easy, and your maw mighty near ketched me that time, my arm was itchin' like hell-fire, and I dassen scratch it. I never knowed a fella's conscience could get to workin' around his system like that. Now, if it was my laig, I could 'a' scratched it with my other foot under the table. Say, but you sure showed red in your face when your maw said them Weston folks was up to the camp."
"Oh, I don't know."
"Well, I do. Here, hook onto your Uncle Bud's boot. I'm set: go ahead and pull. You can't do nothin' but shake the buildin'. Say, what does Bronson call his gal 'Peter Pan' for?"
"Why, it's a kind of foreign name," flashed Lorry. "And it sounds all right when you say it right. You said it like the 'pan' was settin' a mile off."
"Well, you needn't to get mad."
Chapter XXX
In the Hills
Lorry's return to the mountains was somewhat of a disappointment to his expectations. Dorothy had greeted him quite casually and naturally enough, in that she knew nothing of his recent venture. He was again introduced to Mrs. Weston and her daughter. For the first time Dorothy heard of the automobile accident and Lorry's share in the subsequent proceedings. She asked Lorry why he had not told her that he knew the Westons. He had no reply save "Oh, I don't know," which rather piqued Dorothy. He was usually definite and frank.
The Westons occupied Bronson's cabin with Dorothy. Bronson pitched a tent, moved his belongings into it, and declared himself, jokingly, free from Dorothy's immediate tyranny.
Dorothy, busy in the kitchen, asked her father to invite Lorry to dinner that evening. Through a sort of youthful perverseness not unmixed with bucolic pride, Lorry declined the invitation. He would be busy making ready for another trip in the hills. He had already planned his own evening meal. He appreciated the invitation, but they could get along without him. These excuses satisfied Bronson. Lorry's real reason for declining was that Dorothy had not invited him in person. He knew it, and felt ashamed of himself. What reason had he to expect her to invite him personally, except that she had almost invariably done so heretofore? And back of this was the subtle jealousy of caste. The Westons were "her kind of folks." He was not really one of them. Boyishly he fancied that he would do as a companion when there was no one else available. He was very much in love with Dorothy and did not realize it.
And Dorothy was disappointed in him. She had wanted the Westons to know what a really fine fellow he was.
Alice Weston at once recalled Lorry's attitude toward her on a former occasion when he had been tacitly invited to go with them to the Horseshoe Hills and he had stayed at the hotel. She told Dorothy that Mr. Adams was not to be taken too seriously. After all, he was nothing more than a boy, and perhaps he would feel better, having declined to risk possible embarrassment at their table.
Dorothy was inwardly furious on the instant, but she checked herself. What did Alice Weston know about Lorry? Well, Alice knew that he was a good-looking young savage who seemed quite satisfied with himself. She thought that possibly she could tame him if she cared to try. Dorothy, with feminine graciousness, dared Alice to invite Lorry to the dinner. Alice was to know nothing of his having declined an earlier invitation. Greatly to Dorothy's surprise, Alice Weston accepted the challenge.
She waited until just before the dinner hour. Lorry was mending a pack-saddle when she came to his cabin. He dropped his work and stood up.
"I have been thinking about that tramp you arrested," she began. "And I think you were right in what you did."
"Yes, ma'am," stammered Lorry.
Her manner had been especially gracious.
"And I didn't have a chance to say good-bye—that time"—and she smiled—"when you rode off waving your scarf—"
"It was a leg of lamb," corrected Lorry.
"Well, you waved it very gracefully. What big, strong arms! They don't look so big when your sleeves are down."
Lorry promptly rolled down his sleeves. He felt that he had to do something.
"And there is so much to talk about I hardly know where to begin. Oh, yes! Thank you so much for repairing our car."
"That was nothin'."
"It meant a great deal to us. Is that your horse—the one standing alone over there?"
"Yes, ma'am. That's Gray Leg."
"I remember him. I couldn't ever forget that morning—but I don't want to hinder your work. I see you are mending something."
"Just fittin' a new pad to this pack-saddle. I was figurin' to light out to-morrow."
"So soon? That's too bad. But, then, we can visit at dinner this evening. Dorothy said she expected you. I believe it is almost ready."
"I don't know, Miss Weston. It's like this—"
"And I know Mr. Bronson meant to ask you. He has been quite busy.
Perhaps he forgot."
"He—"
"So I am here as ambassador. Will I do?"
"Why, sure! But—"
"And mother would be so disappointed if you didn't come. So should I, especially as you are leaving to-morrow. What is it they say in Mexico, 'Adios'? I must run back."
She proffered her hand gracefully. Lorry shook hands with her. She gave his fingers a little, lingering squeeze that set his pulses racing. She was a mighty pretty girl.
"We shall expect you," she called, halfway to the cabin.
And she sure could change a fellow's mind for him without half trying. She hadn't given him a chance to refuse her invitation. She just knew that he was coming to supper. And so did he.
Alice Weston held Lorry's attention from the beginning, as she had intended. She was gowned in some pale-green material touched here and there with a film of lace. Lorry was fascinated by her full, rounded arms, her beautifully strong wrists, and by the way in which she had arranged her heavy, dark hair. In the daylight that afternoon he had noticed that her eyes were blue. He had thought them brown. But they were the color of wood violets untouched by the sun. While she lacked the positive outdoor coloring of Dorothy, her complexion was radiant with youth and health. Lorry felt subdued, disinclined to talk despite Dorothy's obvious attempts to be entertaining. He realized that Dorothy was being exceedingly nice to him, although he knew that she was a little high-strung and nervous that evening.
After dinner Bronson and Lorry smoked out on the veranda. When the others came out, Bronson suggested that they have some music. Lorry promptly invited them to his cabin.
"Alice plays wonderfully," said Dorothy.
Bronson, talking with Mrs. Weston, enjoyed himself. He had been isolated so long that news from the "outside" interested him.
Lorry, gravely attentive to the playing, happened to glance up. Dorothy was gazing at him with a most peculiar expression. He flushed. He had not realized that he had been staring at Alice Weston; at her round, white throat and graceful arms. But just then she ceased playing.
"Have you any music that you would like?" she asked Lorry.
"There's some here. I don't know what it's like. Some songs and dances the boys fetched up for Bud."
"What fun!" said Alice. "And what an assortment! Shall we try this?"
And she began to play a flimsy tune printed on a flimsy sheet that doubled and slid to the keys. Lorry jumped up, spread it out, and stood holding a corner of it while she played. Close to her, he was sensible of a desire to caress her hair, to kiss her vivid lips as she glanced up at him and smiled. He had no idea then that she was deliberately enthralling him with every grace she possessed.
The fact that she rather liked him made her subtleties all the more potent. It flattered her to see the frank admiration in his gray eyes. She knew he was anything but "soft," which made the game all the more alluring. He was to leave soon—to-morrow. Meanwhile, she determined that he should remember her.
Late that evening Bronson and the others said good-night. Alice, not Dorothy, asked Lorry when he was to leave. His "some time to-morrow" sounded unnaturally indefinite.
He was standing in the doorway of his camp as the others entered Bronson's cabin. Alice Weston was the last to enter. For an instant she stood in the lamplight that floated through the doorway, looking back toward him. Impulsively he waved good-night. Her attitude had seemed to call for it. He saw her fingers flash to her lips. She tilted her chin and threw him a kiss.
"Dog-gone the luck!" he growled as he entered his cabin. And with the brief expletive he condemned his disloyalty to the sprightly, slender Dorothy; the Peter Pan of the Blue Mesa; the dream girl of that idle noon at the Big Spring. The other girl—well, she was just playing with him.
* * * * *
In view of Lorry's training and natural carefulness it was especially significant that he decided next day that he had forgotten to lay in enough supplies for his journey south. He would ride to Jason and pack in what he needed. He had a fair excuse. Bronson had recently borrowed some of his canned provisions. He was well on his way to Jason that morning before the others had arisen.
He was back at the camp shortly after nine that night. As he passed Bronson's cabin he saw a light in the window. Mrs. Weston was talking with Dorothy. Lorry had hoped to catch a glimpse of Alice Weston. He had been hoping all that day that he would see her again before he left. Perhaps she was asleep.
As he passed the corral a greeting came from the darkness:—
"Good-evening! I thought you had gone."
"I—I didn't see you," he stammered.
Alice Weston laughed softly. "Oh, I was just out here looking at the stars. It's cooler out here. Then you changed your mind about going?"
"Nope. I had to go to Jason for grub. I'm going to-morrow."
"Oh, I see! We thought you had gone."
"Got a headache?" queried Lorry.
Her voice had been so unnaturally low, almost sad.
"No. I just wanted to be alone."
Lorry fumbled in his pockets. "I got the mail," he stated.
"I'll give it to Mr. Bronson."
Lorry leaned down and gave her the packet of letters and papers.
"Good-bye. I won't see you in the mornin'"
"We'll miss you."
"Honest?"
"Of course!" And she gave him her hand.
He drew his foot from the stirrup. "Put your foot in there," he said, still holding her hand.
"But why?"
"'Cause I'm goin' to ride off with you, like in books." He laughed, but his laughter was tense and unnatural.
It was dark. The stars shone faintly. The air was soft with a subtle fragrance; the fragrance of sun-warmed pine that the night had stolen from the slumbering woodlands. She slipped her foot in the wide stirrup. Half laughing, she allowed him to draw her up. She felt the hard strength of his arm, and was thrilled. She had not meant to do anything like this.
"You been playin' with me," he told her, whispering, "and I take my pay."
She turned her face away, but he found her lips and crushed her to him.
"Oh!" she whispered as he kissed her again and again.
Slowly his arm relaxed. White-faced and trembling, she slid to the ground and stood looking up at him.
"I hate you!" she said.
"No, you don't," said Lorry quite cheerfully.
And he reached out his hand as though to take her hand again.
She stood still, making no effort to avoid him. Then—"No, please!" she begged.
Lorry sat for a moment looking down at her. There had been no make-believe on her part when he held her in his arms. He knew that. And now? She had said that she hated him. Perhaps she did for having made her do that which she had never dreamed of doing. But he told himself that he could stand a whole lot of that kind of hate. And did he really care for her? Could a girl give what she had given and forget on the morrow? He would never forget.
She had told herself that he should have reason to remember her.
After he had gone she stood gazing across the starlit mesa. She heard Lorry whistling cheerily as he unsaddled his pony. A falling star flamed and faded across the night.
CHAPTER XXXI
In the Pines
Alice Weston pleaded headache next morning. She did not get up until noon. Meanwhile Dorothy came, bringing hot coffee and toast.
"Does it really hurt?" queried Dorothy. "Or is it one of those headaches that is always going to hurt, but never does?"
Alice smiled and sipped her coffee. "Oh, it's not bad. I want to rest.
Perhaps it's the altitude."
"Perhaps," said Dorothy. "I'm sorry, Alice."
They chatted awhile. Suddenly Alice thought of the letters Lorry had given her. She had carried them to her room, and had forgotten them.
"Mr. Adams left some mail with me last night. I happened to be outside when he rode past."
"Why, I thought he had gone!"
"He said he had to go to Jason for something or other. He left early this morning, I think."
Dorothy glanced at the mail. "All for daddy—except this circular. H'm! 'Intelligent clothing for Intelligent People.' Isn't that awful? How in the world do such firms get one's address when one lives 'way up here in the sky. Do you ever get advertisements like this?"
"Oh, yes; heaps of them."
"Well, your gowns are beautiful," sighed Dorothy.
"You are a darling," said Alice, caressing Dorothy's cheek.
"So are you, dear." And Dorothy kissed her. "And you coaxed Lorry to come to dinner, after all! I don't know what made him so grumpy, though. I would have been sorry if he hadn't come to dinner, even if he was grumpy."
"Do you like him?" queried Alice.
"Of course; he has been so nice to us. Don't you?"
Alice's lips trembled. Suddenly she hid her face in her hands and burst into tears.
"Why, Alice, what is the matter?"
"Nothing," she sobbed. "I'm just tired—of everything."
"It must be the altitude," said Dorothy gravely. "Father says it does make some persons nervous. Just rest, Allie, and I'll come in again."
Without telling her father anything further than that she was going for a ride, Dorothy saddled Chinook.
Dorothy was exceedingly trustful, but she was not at all stupid. She thought she understood Alice's headache. And while Dorothy did not dream that her friend cared anything for Lorry, she was not so sure that Lorry did not care for Alice. Perhaps he had said something to her. Perhaps they had become rather well acquainted in Stacey last summer.
Dorothy rode toward the Big Spring. She had no definite object in view other than to be alone. She was hurt by Lorry's incomprehensible manner of leaving. What had she done to cause him to act so strangely? And why had he refused her invitation and accepted it again through Alice? "But I'll never, never let him know that I care about that," she thought. "And when he comes back everything will be all right again."
Just before she reached the Big Spring her pony nickered. She imagined she could see a horse standing back of the trees round the spring. Some ranger returning to Jason or some cattle outfit from the south was camped at the spring. But when Chinook nickered again and the other pony answered, she knew at once that Lorry was there. Why had he stopped at the spring? He had started early enough to have made a camp farther on.
Lorry saw her coming, and busied himself adjusting one of the packs. As she rode up he turned and took off his hat. His face was flushed. His eyes did not meet hers as she greeted him.
"I didn't look for you to ride up here," he said lamely.
"And I didn't expect to find you here," she said as she dismounted. She walked straight to him. "Lorry, what is the matter? You're not like my ranger man at all! Are you in trouble?"
Her question, so frank and sincere, and the deep solicitude in her troubled eyes hurt him, and yet he was glad to feel that hot pain in his throat. He knew now that he cared for her more than for any living being; beyond all thought of passion or of selfishness. She looked and seemed like a beautiful boy, with all the frankness of true comradeship in her attitude and manner. And she was troubled because of him—and not for herself. Lorry thought of the other girl. He had taken his pay. His lips burned dry as he recalled that moment when he had held her in his arms.
Dorothy saw the dull pain in his eyes, a sort of dumb pleading for forgiveness for something he had done; she could not imagine what. He dropped to his knee, and taking her slender hand in his kissed her fingers.
"Don't be silly," she said, yet her free hand caressed his hair. "What is it, ranger man?"
"I been a regular dam' fool, Dorothy."
"But, Lorry! You know—if there is anything, anything in the world that I can do—Please, please don't cry. If you were to do that I think I should die. I couldn't stand it. You make me afraid. What is it? Surely it is not—Alice?"
He crushed her fingers. Suddenly he stood up and stepped back. The sunlight shone on his bared head. He looked very boyish as he shrugged his shoulders as though to free himself from an invisible hand that oppressed and irritated him. His sense of fair play in so far as Alice Weston was concerned would not allow him to actually regret that affair. To him that had been a sort of conquest. But shame and repentance for having been disloyal to Dorothy were stamped so clearly upon his features that she understood. She knew what he was about to say, and checked him.
"Don't tell me," she said gently. "You have told me. I know Alice is attractive; she can't help that. If you care for her—"
"Care for her! She was playin' with me. When I found out that—"
Dorothy caught her breath. Her eyes grew big. She had not thought that Alice Weston—But then that did not matter now. Lorry was so abjectly sorry about something or other. He felt her hand on his sleeve. She was smiling. "You're just a great big, silly boy, ranger man. I'm really years older than you. Please don't tell me anything. I don't want to know. I just want you to be happy."
"Happy? And you say that!"
"Of course!"
"Well, mebby I could be happy if you was to set to and walk all over me."
"Oh, but that wouldn't do any good. Tell me why you stopped here at the spring. You didn't expect to meet any one, did you?"
"I—stopped here—because we camped here that time."
"Well, Lorry, it's really foolish of you to feel so badly when there's nothing the matter. If you wanted to kiss Alice and she let you—why, that isn't wrong. A boy kissed me once when I was going to school in the East. I just boxed his ears and laughed at him. It is only when you act grumpy or feel badly that I worry about you. I just want to be your little mother then—and try to help you."
"You make me feel like I wasn't fit to ever touch your hand again," he told her.
"But you mustn't feel that way," she said cheerily. "I want you to be brave and strong and happy; just as you were that day we camped here. And you will, won't you?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm takin' orders from you."
"But you mustn't wait for me to tell you. Just be yourself, and then I know you will never be ashamed of anything you do. I must go now. Good-bye, Lorry."
She gave her hand, and he drew her to him. But she turned her face away as he bent his head above her.
"No; not now, Lorry. I—can't. Please don't."
"I—guess you're right. I reckon you showed me just where I stand. Yes, you're plumb right about it, Dorothy. But I'm comin' back—"
"I'll wait for you," she said softly.
He turned briskly to the ponies. The pack-horses plodded up the trail as he mounted Gray Leg and rode over to her.
She reached up and patted Gray Leg's nose. "Good-bye, everybody!" she chirruped. And she kissed Gray Leg's nose.
Back in the ranges, far from the Big Spring, Lorry made his camp that night. As he hobbled the horses he talked to them affectionately after his manner when alone with them.
"And you, you old trail-hitter," he said to Gray Leg, "I reckon you think you're some ladies' man, don't you? Well, you got a right to be proud. Step along there, and 'tend to your grazin' and don't go to rubbin' noses with the other horses. You're a fool if you do."
CHAPTER XXXII
Politics
The week following Lorry's departure the Westons left for the East. As for Dorothy, she confessed to herself that she was not sorry. While Alice had been unusually nice to every one, Dorothy felt that Alice was forcing herself to appear natural and happy. Mrs. Weston knew this, and wondered what the cause could be. Mrs. Weston had found Dorothy delightful and Bronson interesting, but she had been so long in the West that its novelty had worn thin. She did not regret it when they shipped their machine from Stacey and took the Overland for New York.
A few days after they had gone, Bud Shoop rode up to the Blue Mesa. It was evident that he wanted to talk with Bronson, so Dorothy coaxed Bondsman to her favorite tree, and sat stroking his shaggy head as she read from a new book that Shoop had brought with the mail.
The genial Bud was in a fix. Perhaps Bronson, who had been a newspaper man and knew something about politics, could help him out. Bronson disclaimed any special keenness of political intelligence, but said he would be glad to do anything he could for Shoop.
"It's like this," Bud began, seating himself on the edge of the veranda; "John Torrance, who was supervisor before you came in, got me this job and put it up to me to stick. Now, I like John, and I figure John ain't scared of me. But here's where I lose the trail. A ole friend, the biggest shipper of sheep in this State, goes and gets it into his head that they's a State Senator over there drawin' down pay that ought to come to me. Recollec', I said he was a sheepman—and I been for the longhorns all my days. And he's got the nerve to tell me that all the sheepmen in this here county are strong for me if I run for the job. If I didn't know him like I know this here right hand, I would say he was gettin' hardenin' of the brain in his ole aige. But he's a long ways from havin' his head examined yet.
"Then along comes a representative of the Cattlemen's Association and says they want me to run for State Senator. Then along comes a committee of hay-tossers from up around St. Johns and says, polite, that they are waitin' my pleasure in the matter of framin' up their ticket for senatorial candidate from this mesa country. They say that the present encumbrance in the senatorial chair is such a dog-gone thief that he steals from hisself just to keep in practice. I don't say so. 'Course, if I can get to a chair that looks big and easy, without stompin' on anybody—why, I'm like to set down. But if I can't, I figure to set where I be.
"Now, this here war talk is gettin' folks excited. And ridin' excitement down the trail of politics is like tryin' to ride white lightnin' bareback. It's like to leave you so your friends can't tell what you looked like. And somebody that ain't got brains enough to plug the hole in a watch-key has been talkin' around that Bud Shoop is a fighter, with a record for gettin' what he goes after. And that this same Bud Shoop is as honest as the day is long. Now, I've seen some mighty short days when I was tradin' hosses. And then this here stingin' lizard goes to work and digs up my deputy number over to Sterling and sets the papers to printin' as how it was me, with the help of a few parties whose names are of no special int'rest, settled that strike."
"So you were at Sterling?"
"Uh-uh. Between you and me, I was. And it wa'n't what you'd call a girl's school for boys, neither. But that's done. What I'm gettin' at is: If I resign here, after givin' my word to Torrance to stick, it looks like I been playin' with one hand under the table. The papers will lie like hell boostin' me, and if I don't lie like hell, boostin' myself, folks'll think I'm a liar, anyhow. Now, takin' such folks one at a time, out back of the store, mebby, where they ain't no wimmin-folks, I reckon I could make 'em think different. But I can't lick the county. I ain't no angel. I never found that tellin' the truth kep' me awake nights. And I sleep pretty good. Now, I writ to Torrance, tellin' him just how things was headed. What do you think he writ back?"
"Why, he told you to go ahead and win, didn't he?"
"Yep. And he said that it was apparent that the State needed my services more than the Service did. That's somethin' like a train with a engine on each end. You don't know which way it's headed."
"I'd take it as a sincere compliment."
"Well, I did swell up some. Then I says to myself: 'Bud, you ain't no fancy office man, and even if you are doin' good work here, you can't put it in writin' for them big bugs at Washington.' Mebby John is so dog-gone busy—like the fella with both bands full and his suspenders broke—- that he'd be glad to get behind 'most anything to get shut of me."
"I think you're mistaken. You know you can't keep a born politician out of politics."
"Meanin' me?"
"You're the type."
"By gravy, Bronson! I never seen you hidin' your watch when I come up to visit you before."
"See here, Shoop. Why don't you write to Torrance and ask him point-blank if he has had a hand in getting you nominated for Senator? Torrance is a big man in his line, and he probably knows what he is doing."
Shoop grinned. "You win the pot!" he exclaimed. "That's just what I been thinkin' right along. I kind of wanted somebody who wasn't interested in this deal to say it. Well, I reckon I bothered you long enough. You got your alfalfa to—I—you got your writin' to do. But they's one thing. If I get roped in and got to run, and some new supervisor comes botherin' around up here, puttin' some ranger in my camp that ain't like Lorry, all you got to do is to move over into my cabin and tell 'em to keep off the grass. That there four hundred and eighty is mine. I homesteaded it, and I got the papers. It ain't on the reserve."
"I thought it was."
"So do some yet. Nope. I'm just east of the reservation line; outside the reserve. I aimed to know what I was doin' when I homesteaded that piece of sky farm."
"And yet you took exception to my calling you a born politician."
Shoop chuckled. "Speakin' personal, I been thinkin' about that job of State Senator for quite a spell. Now, I reckon you got sense enough not to get mad when I tell you that I just been tryin' out a little speech I framed up for my constituents. Just a kind of little alfalfa-seed talk. Outside of ijuts and Mexicans, it's about what I aim to hand to the voters of this here district, puttin' it up to them that I was roped into this hocus and been settin' back on the rope right along. And that's a fact. But you got to rub some folks' noses in a fact afore they can even smell it."
"And you have the nerve to tell me that you framed up all that stuff to get my sympathy? Shoop, you are wasting time in Arizona. Go East. And forgive me for falling for your most natural appeal."
The genial Bud chuckled and wiped his eyes. "But it's true from the start to the wire."
"I must congratulate you." And, "Dorothy!" called Bronson. "Come and shake hands with our next Senator from the mesa country."
"Really?" exclaimed Dorothy. "But we will lose our supervisor. Still, I think Mr. Shoop will make a lovely Senator. You are just the right size—and—everything."
"I reckon you're right, missy. Half of the game is lookin' the part afore election. The other half is not sayin' too much after election. If any man gets a promise out of me afore election, it'll have to be did with a stump-puller."
"But we won't see you any more," said Dorothy. "You will be so busy and so important. Senator Shoop will speak here. And Senator Shoop will speak there. And—let me see! Oh, yes! The Senate adjourned after a stormy session in which the Senator from Mesa County, supported by an intelligent majority, passed his bill for the appropriation of twenty thousand dollars to build a road from Jason to the Blue Mesa. What fun!"
Bud polished his bald head. "Now, I reckon that ain't such a joke. We'll build a road plumb through to the old Apache Trail and ketch them tourists goin' into Phoenix."
"You see," said Dorothy, turning to her father, "I know something about politics. I read the local papers. Mr. Shoop's name is in every one of them. I read that article about the Sterling strike. I have been wondering—"
Shoop immediately called attention to Bondsman, who was gently tugging at the supervisor's pants leg.
"Now, look at that! Do you know what he's tellin' me? He's tellin' me I got a piano in that there cabin and we ain't had a duet for quite a spell. That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous."
Bondsman slipped from beneath Dorothy's hand as she stooped to pat him.
He trotted to Shoop's cabin, and stood looking up at the door.
"Would you be playin' 'Annie Laurie' for us?" queried Shoop.
Dorothy played for them, unaccompanied by Bondsman. Shoop shook his head. Either the tune had lost its charm for the Airedale or else Dorothy's interpretation differed from Bud's own.
"Thanks, missy," said Shoop when she had finished playing. "Guess I'll be movin' along."
"Oh, no! You'll stay to-night. I'll play for you. Make him stay, father."
"I wish you would, Shoop. I'd like to talk with you about the election."
"Well, now, that's right neighborly of you folks. I was aimin' to ride back this evening. But I reckon we'll stay. Bondsman and me ain't so spry as we was."
After supper Dorothy played for them again, with no light except the dancing red shadows from the pine logs that flamed in the fireplace.
Shoop thanked her. "I'll be livin' in town,"—and he sighed heavily,—"where my kind of piano-playin' would bring the law on me, most-like. Now, that ole piano is hacked up some outside, but she's got all her innards yet and her heart's right. If you would be takin' it as a kind of birthday present, it's yours."
"You don't mean me?"
"I sure do."
"But I couldn't accept such a big present. And then, when we go away this winter—"
"Listen to your Uncle Bud, missy. A little lady give me a watch onct. 'T wa'n't a big watch, but it was a big thing. 'Cause why? 'Cause that little lady was the first lady to give me a present in my life. I was raised up by men-folks. My mammy she wa'n't there long after I come. Reckon that's why I never was much of a hand with wimmin-folks. I wa'n't used to 'em. And I don't care how old and ornery a man is; the first time he gets a present from a gal, it kind of hits him where he breathes. And if it don't make him feel warm inside and mighty proud of bein' who he is, why, it's because he's so dog-gone old he can't think. I ain't tellin' no secret when I say that the little lady put her name in that watch alongside of mine. And her name bein' there is what makes that present a big thing—bigger than any piano that was ever built.
"Why, just a spell ago I was settin' in my office, madder'n a cat what had tore his Sunday pants, 'cause at twelve o'clock I was goin' over to the saloon to fire that young ranger, Lusk, for gettin' drunk. I pulled out this here watch, and I says to myself: 'Bud, it was clost around twelve o'clock by a young fella's watch onct when he was filled up on liquor and rampin' round town when he ought to been to work. And it was the ole foreman's gal that begged that boy's job back for him, askin' her daddy to give him another chanct.' And the boy he come through all right. I know—for I owned the watch. And so I give Lusk another chanct."
Dorothy stepped to Shoop's chair, and, stooping quickly, kissed his cheek. Bondsman, not to be outdone, leaped jealously into Bud's lap and licked the supervisor's face. Shoop spluttered, and thrust Bondsman down.
"Things is comin' too fast!" he cried, wiping his face. "I was just goin' to say something when that dog just up and took the words right out of my mouth. Oh, yes! I was just wishin' I owned a piano factory."
CHAPTER XXXIII
The Fires of Home
Bud Shoop read the newspaper notice twice before he realized fully its import. The Adams House at Stacey was for sale. "Then Jim and Annie's patched it up," he soliloquized. And the genial Bud did not refer to the Adams House.
Because his master seemed pleased, Bondsman waited to hear the rest of it with head cocked sideways and tail at a stiff angle.
"That's all they is to it," said Shoop.
Bondsman lay down and yawned. He was growing old. It was only Bud's voice that could key the big Airedale up to his earlier alertness. The office was quiet. The clerk had gone out for his noon meal. The fall sunshine slanted lazily through the front-office windows. The room was warm, but there was a tang of autumn in the air. Shoop glanced at the paper again. He became absorbed in an article proposing conscription. He shook his head and muttered to himself. He turned the page, and glanced at the livestock reports, the copper market, railroad stocks, and passed on to an article having to do with local politics.
Bondsman, who constituted himself the guard of Shoop's leisure, rapped the floor with his tail. Shoop glanced over the top of his paper as light footsteps sounded in the outer office. Dorothy tapped on the lintel and stepped in. Shoop crumpled the paper and rose. Bondsman was at her side as she shook hands with the supervisor.
"My new saddle came," she said, patting Bondsman. "And father's latest book. Why don't you cheer?"
"Goodness, missy! I started cheerin' inside the minute I seen you. Now,
I reckon you just had to have that new saddle."
"It's at the store. Father is over there talking politics and war with
Mr. Handley."
"Then you just set down and tell your Uncle Bud the news while you're waitin'."
"But I am not waiting. I am visiting you. And I told you the news."
"And to think a new saddle could make your eyes shine like that! Ain't you 'shamed to fool your Uncle Bud?"
"I haven't—if you say you know I have."
"'Course. Most any little gal can get the best of me."
"Well, because you are so curious—Lorry is back."
"I reckoned that was it."
"He rode part-way down with us. He has gone to see his father."
"And forgot to repo't here first."
"No. He gave me the reports to give to you. Here they are. One of Mr. Waring's men, that young Mexican, rode up to the mesa last week and left word that Lorry's father wanted to see him."
"I aim to know about that," chuckled Shoop. And he smoothed out the paper and pointed to the Adams House sale notice.
"The Adams House for sale? Why—"
"Jim and Annie—that's Jim Waring and Mrs. Waring now—are goin' to run the ranch. I'm mighty glad."
"Oh, I see! And Lorry is really Laurence Waring?"
"You bet! And I reckon Lorry'll be fo'man of that ranch one of these days. Cattle is sky-high and goin' up. I don't blame him."
"He didn't say a word about that to me."
"'Course not. He's not one to say anything till he's plumb sure."
"He might have said something" asserted Dorothy.
"Didn't he?" chuckled Shoop.
Dorothy's face grew rosy. "Your master is very inquisitive," she told
Bondsman.
"And your little missy is right beautiful this mawnin'," said Shoop. "Now, if I was a bow-legged young cow-puncher with curly hair, and looked fierce and noble and could make a gal's eyes shine like stars in the evenin', I reckon I wouldn't be sittin' here signin' letters."
"He isn't bow-legged!" flashed Dorothy. She was very definite about that. "And he's not a cowboy. He is a ranger."
"My goodness! I done put my foot in a gopher hole that shake. I sure am standin' on my head, waitin' for somebody to set me up straight ag'in. You ain't mad at your Uncle Bud, be you?"
Dorothy tossed her head, but her eyes twinkled, and suddenly she laughed. "You know I like you—heaps! You're just jealous."
"Reckon you said it! But I only got one ear laid back yet. Wait till I see that boy."
"Oh, pshaw! You can't help being nice to him."
"And I got comp'ny."
"But really I want to talk seriously, if you will let me. Lorry has been talking about enlisting. He didn't say that he was going to enlist, but he has been talking about it so much. Do you think he will?"
"Well, now, missy that's a right peart question. I know if I was his age I'd go. Most any fella that can read would. I been readin' the papers for two years, and b'ilin' inside. I reckon Lorry's just woke up to what's goin' on. We been kind of slow wakin' up out here. Folks livin' off in this neck of the woods gets to thinkin' that the sun rises on their east-line fence and sets on their west line. It takes somethin' strong to make 'em recollec' the sun's got a bigger job'n that. But I admire to say that when them kind of folks gets started onct they's nothin' ever built that'll stop 'em. If I get elected I aim to tell some folks over to the State House about this here war. And I'm goin' to start by talkin' about what we got to set straight right here to home first. They can feel what's goin' on to home. It ain't all print. And they got to feel what's goin' on over there afore they do anything."
"It's all too terrible to talk about," said Dorothy. "But we must do our share, if only to keep our self-respect, mustn't we?"
"You said it—providin' we got any self-respect to keep."
"But why don't our young men volunteer. They are not cowards."
"It ain't that. Suppose you ask Lorry why."
"I shouldn't want to know him if he didn't go," said Dorothy.
"Missy, I'm lovin' you for sayin' that! If all the mothers and sisters and sweethearts was like that, they wouldn't be no conscription. But they ain't. I'm no hand at understandin' wimmin-folks, but I know the mother of a strappin' young fella in this town that says she would sooner see her boy dead in her front yard than for him to go off and fight for foreigners. She don't know what this country's got to fight for pretty quick or she wouldn't talk like that. And she ain't the only one. Now, when wimmin talks that way, what do you expect of men? I reckon the big trouble is that most folks got to see somethin' to fight afore they get goin'. Fightin' for a principle looks just like poundin' air to some folks. I don't believe in shootin' in the dark. How come, I've plugged a rattlesnake by just shootin' at the sound when he was coiled down where I couldn't see him. But this ain't no kind of talk for you to listen to, missy."
"I—you won't say that I spoke of Lorry?"
"Bless your heart, no! And he'll figure it out hisself. But don't you get disap'inted if he don't go right away. It's mighty easy to set back and say 'Go!' to the other fella; and listen to the band and cheer the flag. It makes a fella feel so durned patriotic he is like to forget he ain't doin' nothin' hisself.
"Now, missy, suppose you was a sprightin' kind of a boy 'bout nineteen or twenty, and mebby some gal thought you was good-lookin' enough to talk to after church on a Sunday; and suppose you had rustled like a little nigger when you was a kid, helpin' your ma wash dishes in a hotel and chop wood and sweep out and pack heavy valises for tourists and fill the lamps and run to the store for groceries and milk a cow every night and mornin'.
"And say you growed up without breakin' your laig and went to punchin' cattle and earnin' your own money, and then mebby you got a job in the Ranger Service, ridin' the high trails and livin' free and independent; and suppose a mighty pretty gal was to come along and kind of let you take a shine to her, and you was doin' your plumb durndest to put by a little money, aimin' to trot in double harness some day; and then suppose your daddy was to offer you a half-interest in a growin' cattle business, where you could be your own boss and put by a couple of thousand a year. And you only nineteen or twenty.
"Suppose you had been doin' all that when along comes word from 'way off somewhere that folks was killin' each other and it was up to you to stop 'em. Wouldn't you do some hard thinkin' afore you jumped into your fightin' clothes?"
"But this war means more than that."
"It sure does. But some of us ain't got the idee yet. 'Course all you got to do to some folks is to say 'Fight' and they come a-runnin'. And some of that kind make mighty good soldier boys. But the fella I'm leavin' alone is the one what cinches up slow afore he climbs into the saddle. When he goes into a fight it's like his day's work, and he don't waste no talk or elbow action when he's workin'."
"I wish I were a man!"
"Well, some of us is right glad you ain't. A good woman can do just as much for this country right now as any man. And I don't mean by dressin' up in fancy clothes and givin' dances and shellin' out mebby four per cent of the gate receipts to buy a ambulance with her name on it.
"And I don't mean by payin' ten dollars for a outfit of gold-plated knittin'-needles to make two-bit socks for the boys. What I mean is that a good woman does her best work to home; mebby just by sayin' the right word, or mebby by keepin' still or by smilin' cheerful when her heart is breakin' account of her man goin' to war.
"You can say all you like about patriotism, but patriotism ain't just marchin' off to fight for your country. It's usin' your neighbors and your country right every day in the week, includin' Sunday. Some folks think patriotism is buildin' a big bonfire once a year and lettin' her blaze up. But the real thing is keepin' your own little fire a-goin' steady, right here where you live. And it's thinkin' of that little fire to home that makes the best soldier.
"He's got a big job to do. He's goin' to get it done so he can go back to that there home and find the little fire a-burning bright. What do some of our boys do fightin' alongside of them Frenchmen and under the French flag, when they get wounded and get a furlough? Set around and wait to go back to fightin'? I reckon not. Some of 'em pack up and come four, five thousand miles just to see their folks for mebby two, three days. And when they see them little fires to home a-burnin' bright, why, they say: 'This here is what we're fighting for.' And they go back, askin' God A'mighty to keep 'em facin' straight to the front till the job is done."
Dorothy, her chin in her hand, gazed at Bud. She had never known him to be so intense, so earnest.
"Oh, I know it is so!" she cried. "But what can I do? I have only a little money in the bank, and father makes just enough to keep us comfortable. You see, we spent such lots of money for those horrid old doctors in the East, who didn't do me a bit of good."
"You been doin' your share just gettin' well and strong, which is savin' money. But seein' you asked me, you can do a whole lot if Lorry was to say anything to you about goin'. And you know how better'n I can tell you or your daddy or anybody."
"But Lorry must do as he thinks best. We—we are not engaged."
"'Course. And it ain't no time for a young fella to get engaged to a gal and tie up her feelin's and march off with her heart in his pocket. Mebby some day she's goin' to want it back ag'in, when he ain't livin' to fetch it back to her. I see, by the Eastern papers Torrance has been sendin' me, that some young fellas is marryin' just afore they go to jine the Frenchmen on the front. Now, what are some of them gals goin' to do if their boys don't come back? Or mebby come back crippled for life? Some of them gals is goin' to pay a mighty high price for just a few days of bein' married. It riles me to think of it."
"I hadn't thought of it—as you do," said Dorothy.
"Well, I hope you'll forgive your Uncle Bud for ragin' and rampin' around like this. I can't talk what's in my heart to folks around here. They're mostly narrow-gauge. I reckon I said enough. Let's go look at that new saddle."
"Isn't it strange," said Dorothy, "that I couldn't talk with father like this? He'd be nice, of course, but he would be thinking of just me."
"I reckon he would. And mebby some of Lorry."
"If Lorry should ask me about his going—"
"Just you tell him that you think one volunteer is worth four conscripts any time and any place. And if that ain't a hint to him they's somethin' wrong with his ears."
Shoop rose and plodded out after Dorothy. Bondsman trailed lazily behind. Because Shoop had not picked up his hat the big dog knew that his master's errand, whatever it was, would be brief. Yet Bondsman followed, stopping to yawn and stretch the stiffness of age from his shaggy legs. There was really no sense in trotting across the street with his master just to trot back again in a few minutes. But Bondsman's unwavering loyalty to his master's every mood and every movement had become such a matter of course that the fine example was lost in the monotony of repetition.
A dog's loyalty is so often taken for granted that it ceases to be noticeable until in an unlooked-for hazard it shines forth in some act of quick heroism or tireless faithfulness worthy of a greater tribute than has yet been written.
Bondsman was a good soldier.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Young Life
Ramon was busy that afternoon transferring mattresses and blankets from the ranch-house to the new, low-roofed bunk-house that Waring had built. Ramon fitted up three beds—one for the cook, one for an old range-rider that Waring had hired when his men had left to enlist, and one for himself.
The partitions of the ranch-house had been taken down, the interior rearranged, and the large living-room furnished in a plain, comfortable way.
As Ramon worked he sang softly. He was happy. The señora was coming to live with them, and perhaps Señor Jim's son. Señor Jim had been more active of late. His lameness was not so bad as it had been. It was true the Señor Jim did not often smile, but his eyes were kindly.
Ramon worked rapidly. There was much to do in the other house. The bale of Navajo blankets was still unopened. Perhaps the Señor Jim would help to arrange them in the big room with the stone fireplace. The señora would not arrive until to-morrow, but then the home must be made ready, that she would find it beautiful. And Ramon, accustomed to the meagerly furnished adobes of old Mexico, thought that the ranch-house was beautiful indeed.
Waring ate with the men in the new bunk-house that evening. After supper he went over to the larger building and sat alone in the living-room, gazing out of the western window. His wounds ached, and in the memory of almost forgotten trails he grew young again. Again in Old Mexico, the land he loved, he saw the blue crest of the Sierras rise as in a dream, and below the ranges a tiny Mexican village of adobe huts gold in the setting sun. Between him and the village lay the outlands, ever mysterious, ever calling to him. Across the desert ran a thin trail to the village. And down the trail the light feet of Romance ran swiftly as he followed. He could even recall the positions of the different adobes; the strings of chiles dark red in the twilight; the old black-shawled señora who had spoken a guttural word of greeting as he had ridden up.
Back in Sonora men had said, "Waring has made his last ride." They had told each other that a white man was a fool to go alone into that country. Perhaps he had been a fool. But the thrill of those early days, when he rode alone and free and men sang of him from Sonora to the Sweetgrass Hills! And on that occasion he had found the fugitive he sought, yet he had ridden back to Sonora alone. He had never forgotten the face of the young Mexican woman who had pleaded with him to let her lover go. Her eyes were big and velvet black. Her mouth was the mouth of a Madonna.
Waring had told her that it was useless to plead. He remembered how her eyes had grown dull and sullen at his word. He told her that he was simply doing his duty. She had turned on him like a panther, her little knife glittering in the dusk as she drove it at his breast. The Mexican lover had jerked free and was running toward the foothills. Waring recalled his first surprise at the wiry strength of her wrist as he had twisted the knife from her. If the Mexican lover had not turned and shot at him—The black figure of the Mexican had dropped just where the road entered the foothills. The light had almost gone. The vague bulk of the Sierras wavered. Outlines vanished, leaving a sense of something gigantic, invisible, that slumbered in the night. The stars were big and softly brilliant as he had ridden north.
The old wound in his shoulder ached. The Mexican had made a good shot—for a Mexican.
Out on the Arizona mesa, against the half disk of gold, was the black silhouette of a horseman. Waring stepped to the doorway. Ramon was seated just outside the door, smoking a cigarette. The southern stars were almost visible. Each star seemed to have found its place, and yet no star could be seen.
"It is Lorry," said Ramon. "He has ridden far."
Waring smiled. Fifty miles had not been considered a big day's ride in his time. In his time! But his day was past. The goddess he had followed had left him older than his years, crippled, unable to ride more than a few hours at a time; had left him fettered to the monotony of the far mesa levels and the changeless hills. Was this his punishment, or simply a black trick of fate, that the tang of life had evaporated, leaving a stagnant pool wherein he gazed to meet the blurred reflection of a face weary with waiting for—what end?
Unused to physical inactivity, Waring had grown somber of mind these latter days. Despite the promise of more comfortable years, he had never felt more lonely. With the coming of Lorry the old order would change. Young blood, new life would have its way.
The sound of pattering hoofs grew louder. Waring heard the old familiar, "Hi! Yippy! Yip!" of the range rider. Young blood? New life? It was his own blood, his own life reincarnate in the cheery rider that swung down and grasped his hand. Nothing had changed. Life was going on as it always had.
"Hello, dad! How's the leg?"
Waring smiled in the dusk. "Pretty fair, Lorry. You didn't waste any time getting here."
"Well, not much. I rode down with Bronson and Dorothy."
"Do you call her 'Dorothy'?"
"Ever since she calls me 'Lorry.'"
"Had anything to eat?"
"Nope. I cut across. How's mother?"
"She will be here to-morrow. We have been getting things ready. Let
Ramon take your horse—"
"Thanks. I'll fix him in two shakes."
And in two shakes bridle and saddle were off, and Gray Leg was rolling in the corral.
While Lorry ate, Ramon laid a fire in the big stone fireplace. Alter supper Lorry and his father sat gazing at the flames. Lorry knew why he had been sent for, but waited for his father to speak.
Presently Waring turned to him. "I sent for you because I need some one to help. And your mother wants you here. I won't urge you, but I can offer you Pat's share in the ranch. I bought his share last week. You'll have a working interest besides that. You know something about cattle. Think it over."
"That's a dandy offer," said Lorry. "I'm right obliged, dad. But there's something else. You put your proposition straight, and I'm going to put mine straight. Now, if you was in my boots, and she liked you enough, would you marry her?"
"You haven't told me who she is."
"Why—Dorothy Bronson. I thought you knew."
Waring smiled. "You're pretty young, Lorry."
"But you married young, dad."
"Yes. And I married the best woman in the world. But I can't say that I made your mother happy."
"I guess ma never cared for anybody but you," said Lorry.
"It isn't just the caring for a person, Lorry."
"Well, I thought it was. But I reckon you know. And Dorothy is the prettiest and lovin'est kind of a girl you ever seen. I was wishin' you was acquainted."
"I should like to meet her. Are you sure she is your kind of girl, Lorry? Now, wait a minute; I know how you feel. A girl can be good-looking and mighty nice and think a lot of a man, and yet not be the right girl for him."
"But how is he goin' to find that out?"
"If he must find out—by marrying her."
"Then I aim to find out, if she is willin'. But I wanted to tell you—because you made me that offer. I was askin' your advice because you been through a lot."
"I wish I could advise you. But you're a man grown, so far as taking care of yourself is concerned. And when a man thinks of getting married he isn't looking for advice against it. Why don't you wait a year or two?"
"Well, mebbe I got to. Because—well, I didn't ask Dorothy yet. Then there's somethin' else. A lot of the fellas up in the high country have enlisted in the regulars, and some have gone over to Canada to join the Foreign Legion. Now, I don't want to be the last hombre on this mesa to go."
"There has been no call for men by the Nation."
"But it's comin', dad. Any fella can see that. I kind of hate to wait till Uncle Sam says I got to go. I don't like going that way."
"What do you think your mother will say?"
"Gosh! I know! That's why I wanted to talk to you first. If I'm goin', I want to know it so I can say to her that I am goin' and not that I aim to go."
"Well, you will have to decide that."
"Well, I'm goin' to—before ma comes. Dog-gone it! You know how it is tryin' to explain things to a woman. Wimmin don't understand them kind of things."
"I don't know about that, Lorry."
Lorry nodded. "I tell you, dad—you kind of set a pace for me. And I figure I don't want folks to say: 'There goes Jim Waring's boy.' If they're goin' to say anything, I want it to be: 'There goes Lorry Waring.'"