He rose and worked cautiously down the eastern slope, searching for Dex in the valley. In the gray gloom he saw the outline of his horse grazing alone. He stepped down to him. The big horse raised its head. Waring spoke. Reassured, Dex plodded to his master, who turned and tracked back to the pocket in the rocks. "I think your cayuse has drifted south," he told Ramon.
The young Mexican showed no surprise. He seemed resigned to the situation. "I knew when the señor said to turn my horse loose that he would seek the horses of his kind. He has gone back to the horses of those who follow us."
"You said it" said Waring. "And that's going to bother them. It tells me that the rurales are not far behind. They'll figure that I put you out of business to get rid of you. They'll look for a dead Mexican, and a live gringo riding north, alone. But they're too wise to ride up here. They'll trail up afoot and out of sight. That's your one chance."
"My chance, señor?"
"Yes. Here's some grub. You've got your gun. Drift down the slope, get back of the next ridge, and strike south. Locate their horses and wait till they leave them to come up here. Get a horse. Pick a good one. I'll keep them busy till you get back."
Ramon rose and climbed to the edge of the pocket. "I go," he said sadly.
"And I shall never see the señor again."
"Don't bet all you've got on that," said Waring.
When Ramon had disappeared, Waring led Dex back from the pocket, and, saddling him, left him concealed in the brush. Then the gunman crept back to the rim and lay waiting, a handful of rifle shells loose on a flat rock in front of him. He munched some dried meat and drank from the canteen.
The red dawn faded quickly to a keen white light. Heat waves ran over the rocks and danced down the hillside. Waring lighted a match and blackened the front sight of his carbine. The sun rolled up and struck at him, burning into the pocket of rock where he lay motionless gazing down the slope. Sweat beaded his forehead and trickled down his nose. Scattered boulders seemed to move gently. He closed his eyes for an instant. When he opened them he thought he saw a movement in the brush below. The heat burned into his back, and he shrugged his shoulders. A tiny bird flitted past and perched on the dry, dead stalk of a yucca. Again Waring thought he saw a movement in the brush.
Then, as if by magic, the figure of a rural stood clear and straight against the distant background of brownish-green. Waring smiled. He knew that if he were to fire, the rurales would rush him. They suspected some kind of a trap. Waring's one chance was to wait until they had given up every ruse to draw his fire. They were not certain of his whereabouts, but were suspicious of that natural fortress of rock. There was not a rural in Old Mexico who did not know him either personally or by reputation. The fact that one of them had offered himself as a possible target proved that they knew they had to deal with a man as crafty as themselves.
The standing figure, shimmering in the glare, drew back and disappeared.
Waring eased his tense muscles. "Now they'll go back for their horses," he said to himself. "They'll ride up to the next ridge, where they can look down on this pocket, but I won't be here."
Waring planned every move with that care and instinct which marks a good chess-player. And because he had to count upon possibilities far ahead he drew Ramon's saddle to him and cut the stirrup-leathers, cinchas, and latigos. If Ramon got one of their horses, his own jaded animal would be left. Eventually the rurales would find the saddle and Ramon's horse. And every rural out of the riding would be a factor in their escape.
The sun blazed down until the pocket of rock was a pit of stagnant heat. The silence seemed like an ocean rolling in soundless waves across the hills; a silence that became disturbed by a faint sound as of one approaching cautiously. Waring thought Ramon had shown cleverness in working up to him so quietly. He raised on his elbow and turned his head. On the eastern edge of the pocket stood a rural, and the rural smiled.
Chapter VI
Arizona
Waring, who had known the man in Sonora, called him by name. The other's smile faded, and his eyes narrowed. Waring thrust up his hands and jokingly offered to toss up a coin to decide the issue. He knew his man; knew that at the first false move the rural would kill him. He rose and turned sideways that the other might take his gun. "You win the throw," he said. The Mexican jerked Waring's gun from the holster and cocked it. Then he whistled.
From below came the faint clatter of hoofs. The rural seemed puzzled that his call should have been answered so promptly. He knew that his companions had gone for their horses, picketed some distance from the pocket. He had volunteered to surprise the gunman single-handed.
Waring, gazing beyond the rural, saw the head of a horse top the rise. In the saddle sat Ramon, hatless, his black hair flung back from his forehead, a gun in his hand. Waring drew a deep breath. Would Ramon bungle it by calling out, or would he have nerve enough to make an end of it on the instant?
Although Waring was unarmed, the rural dared not turn. The gringo had been known to slip out of as tight a place despite the threat of a gun almost against his chest. With a despondent shrug, Waring lowered his arms.
"You win the throw," he said hopelessly.
Still the Mexican dared not take his eyes from Waring. He would wait until his companions appeared.
A few yards behind the rural, Ramon reined up. Slowly he lowered the muzzle of his gun. The rural called the name of one of his fellows. The answer came in a blunt crash, which rippled its harsh echoes across the sounding hills. The rural flung up his arms and pitched forward, rolling to Waring's feet. The gunman leaped up, and, snatching his carbine from the rock, swung round and took his six-gun from the rural's limp fingers. Plunging to the brush beyond the pocket, he swung to the saddle and shot down the slope. Behind him he could hear Ramon's horse scattering the loose rock of the hillside. A bullet struck ahead of him and whined across the silence. A shrill call told him that the pursuers had discovered the body of their fellow.
Dex, with ears laid back, took the ragged grade in great, uneven leaps that shortened to a regular stride as they gained the level of the valley. Glancing back, Waring saw Ramon but a few yards behind. He signaled to him to ride closer. Together they swung down the valley, dodging the low brush—and leaping rocks at top speed.
Finally Waring reined in. "We'll make for that ridge,"—and he indicated the range west. Under cover of the brush they angled across the valley and began the ascent of the range which hid the western desert.
Halfway up, Waring dismounted. "Lead my horse on up," he told Ramon.
"I'll argue it out with 'em here."
"Señor, I have killed a man!" gasped Ramon.
Waring flung the reins to his companion. "All right! This isn't a fiesta, hombre; this is business."
Ramon turned and put his horse up the slope, Dex following. Waring curled behind a rock and swept the valley with his glass. The heads of several rurales were visible in the brush. They had halted and were looking for tracks. Finally one of them raised his arm and pointed toward the hill. They had caught sight of Ramon on the slope above. Presently three riders appeared at the foot of the grade. It was a long shot from where Waring lay. He centered on the leading rural, allowed for a chance of overshooting, and pressed the trigger. The carbine snarled. An echo ripped the shimmering heat. A horse reared and plunged up the valley, the saddle empty.
Waring rose, and plodded up the slope.
"Three would have trailed us. Two will ride back to the railroad and report. I wonder how many of them are bushed along the trail between here and Nogales?"
In the American custom-house at Nogales sat a lean, lank man gazing out of a window facing the south. His chair was tilted back, and his large feet were crossed on the desk in front of him. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he puffed indolently at a cigar and blew smoke-rings toward the ceiling. Incidentally his name was known throughout the country and beyond its southern borders. But if this distinction affected him in any way it was not evident. He seemed submerged in a lassitude which he neither invited nor struggled against.
A group of riders appeared down the road. The lean man brushed a cloud of smoke away and gazed at them with indifference. They drew nearer. He saw that they were Mexicans—rurales. Without turning his head, he called to an invisible somebody in the next room.
"Jack, drift over to the cantina and get a drink."
A chair clumped to the floor, and a stocky, dark-faced man appeared, rubbing his eyes. "On who?" he queried, grinning.
"On old man Diaz," replied the lean man.
"All right, Pat. But mebby his credit ain't good on our side of the line."
The lean man said nothing. He continued to gaze out of the window. The white road ran south and south into the very haze of the beyond. His assistant picked up a hat and strolled out. A few doors down the street stood several excellent saddle animals tied to the hitching-rail in front of the cantina. He didn't need to be told that they were the picked horses of the rurales, and that for some strange reason his superior had sent him to find out just why these same rurales were in town.
He entered the cantina and called for a drink. The lithe, dark riders of the south, grouped round a table in one corner of the room, glanced up, answered his general nod of salutation indifferently, and turned to talk among themselves. Catering to authority, the Mexican proprietor proffered a second drink to the Americano. The assistant collector toyed with his glass, and began a lazy conversation about the weather. The proprietor, his fat, oily face in his hands and his elbows on the bar, grunted monosyllables, occasionally nodding as the Americano forced his acknowledgment of a highly obvious platitude.
And the assistant collector, listening for a chance word that would explain the presence of armed Mexico on American soil, knew that the proprietor was also listening for that same word that might explain their unprecedented visit. Presently the assistant collector of customs began a tirade against Nogales, its climate, institutions, and citizens collectively and singly. The proprietor awoke to argument. Their talk grew loud. The assistant collector thumped the bar with his fist, and ceased talking suddenly. A subdued buzz came from the corner where the rurales sat, and he caught the name "Waring."
"And the whole town ain't worth the matches to burn it up," he continued. "If it wasn't for Pat, I'd quit right now." And he emptied his glass and strode from the room.
Back in the office, he flung his hat on the table and rumpled his hair.
"Those coyotes," he said casually, "are after some one called Waring.
Pablo's whiskey is rotten."
The collector's long legs unfolded, and he sat up, yawning. "Jim Waring isn't in town," he said as though to himself.
"Pat, you give me a pain," said the assistant, grinning.
"Got one myself," said the collector unsmilingly. "Cucumbers."
"You're the sweetest liar for a thousand miles either side of the line.
There isn't even the picture of a cucumber in this sun-blasted town."
"Isn't, eh? Look here!" And the lank man pulled open a drawer in the desk. The collector fumbled among some papers and drew out a bulky seed catalogue, illustrated in glowing tints.
"Oh, I'll buy," laughed the assistant. "I reckon if I asked for a picture of this man Waring that's wanted by those nickel-plated coyotes, you'd fish it up and never sweat a hair."
"I could," said the collector, closing the drawer.
"Here, smoke one of mine for a change. About that picture. I met Jim Waring in Las Cruces. He was a kid then, but a comer. Had kind of light, curly hair. His face was as smooth as a girl's. He wasn't what you'd call a dude, but his clothes always looked good on him. Wimmin kind of liked him, but he never paid much attention to them. He worked for me as deputy a spell, and I never hired a better man. But he wouldn't stay with one job long. When Las Cruces got quiet he pulled his freight. Next I heard of him he was married and living in Sonora. It didn't take Diaz long to find out that he could use him. Waring was a wizard with a gun—and he had the nerve back of it. But Waring quit Diaz, for Jim wasn't that kind of a killer. I guess he found plenty of work down there. He never was one to lay around living on his reputation and waiting for nothing to happen. He kept his reputation sprouting new shoots right along—and that ain't all joke, neither."
"Speakin' in general, could he beat you to it with a gun, Pat?"
"Speaking in general—I reckon he could."
"Them rurales are kind of careless—ridin' over the line and not stoppin' by to make a little explanation."
The lank man nodded. "There's a time coming when they'll do more than that. That old man down south is losing his grip. I don't say this for general information. And if Jim Waring happens to ride into town, just tell him who you are and pinch him for smuggling; unless I see him first."
"What did I ever do to you?"
Pat laughed silently. "Oh, he ain't a fool. It's only a fool that'll throw away a chance to play safe."
"You got me interested in that Waring hombre. I'll sure nail him like you said; but if he goes for his gun I don't want you plantin' no cucumber seed on my restin'-place. Guess I'll finish those reports."
The lank man yawned, and, rising, strode to the window. The assistant sauntered to the inner office and drew up to his desk. "Pablo's whiskey is rotten!" he called over his shoulder. The lank collector smiled.
The talk about Waring and Las Cruces had stirred slumbering memories; memories of night rides in New Mexico, of the cattle war, of blazing noons on the high mesas and black nights in huddled adobe towns; Las Cruces, Albuquerque, Caliente, Santa Fé—and weary ponies at the hitching-rails.
Once, on an afternoon like this, he had ridden into town with a prisoner beside him, a youth whose lightning-swift hand had snuffed out a score of lives to avenge the killing of a friend. The collector recalled that on that day he had ridden his favorite horse, a deep-chested buckskin, slender legged, and swift, with a strain of thoroughbred.
Beyond the little square of window through which he gazed lay the same kind of a road—dusty, sun-white, edged with low brush. And down the road, pace for pace with his thoughts, strode a buckskin horse, ridden by a man road-weary, gray with dust. Beside him rode a youth, his head bowed and his hands clasped on the saddle-horn as though manacled.
"Jack!"
The assistant shoved back his chair and came to the window.
"There's the rest of your picture," said the collector.
As the assistant gazed at the riders, the collector stepped to his desk and buckled on a gun.
"Want to meet Waring?" he queried.
"I'm on for the next dance, Pat."
The collector stepped out. Waring reined up. A stray breeze fluttered the flag above the custom-house. Waring gravely lifted his sombrero.
"You're under arrest," said the collector.
Waring gestured toward Ramon.
"You, too," nodded Pat. "Get the kid and his horse out of sight," he told the assistant.
Ramon, too weary to expostulate, followed the assistant to a corral back of the building.
The collector turned to Waring. "And now, Jim, what's the row?"
"Down the street—and coming," said Waring, as the rurales boiled from the cantina.
"We'll meet 'em halfway," said the collector.
And midway between the custom-house and the cantina the two cool-eyed, deliberate men of the North faced the hot-blooded Southern haste that demanded Waring as prisoner. The collector, addressing the leader of the rurales, suggested that they talk it over in the cantina. "And don't forget you're on the wrong side of the line," he added.
The Captain of rurales and one of his men dismounted and followed the Americans into the cantina. The leader of the rurales immediately exhibited a warrant for the arrest of Waring, signed by a high official and sealed with the great seal of Mexico. The collector returned the warrant to the captain.
"That's all right, amigo, but this man is already under arrest."
"By whose authority?"
"Mine—representing the United States."
"The warrant of the Presidente antedates your action," said the captain.
"Correct, Señor Capitan. But my action, being just about two jumps ahead of your warrant, wins the race, I reckon."
"It is a trick!"
"Si! You must have guessed it."
"I shall report to my Government. And I also demand that you surrender to me one Ramon Ortego, of Sonora, who aided this man to escape, and who is reported to have killed one of my men and stolen one of my horses."
"He ought to make a darned good rural, if that's so," said the collector. "But he is under arrest for smuggling. He rode a horse across the line without declaring valuation."
"Juan," said the captain, "seize the horse of the Americano."
"Juan," echoed Waring softly, "I have heard that Pedro Salazar seized the horse of an Americano—in Sonora."
The rural stopped short and turned as though awaiting further instructions from his chief. The collector of customs rose and sauntered to the doorway. Leaning against the lintel, he lighted a cigar and smoked, gazing at Waring's horse with an appreciative eye. The captain of rurales, seated opposite Waring, rolled a cigarette carefully; too carefully, thought Waring, for a Mexican who had been daring enough to ride across the line with armed men. Outside in the fading sunlight, the horses of the rurales stamped and fretted. The cantina was strangely silent. In the doorway stood the collector, smoking and toying with his watch-charm.
Presently the assistant collector appeared, glanced in, and grinned.
"The kid is asleep—in the office," he whispered to the collector.
Waring knew that the flicker of an eyelid, an intonation, a gesture, might precipitate trouble. He also knew that diplomacy was out of the question. He glanced round the room, pushed back his chair, and, rising, stepped to the bar. With his back against it, he faced the captain.
"Miguel," he said quietly, "you're too far over the line. Go home!"
The captain rose. "Your Government shall hear of this!"
"Yes. Wire 'em to-night. And where do you get off? You'll get turned back to the ranks."
"I?"
"Si, Señor Capitan, and because—you didn't get your man."
The collector of customs stood with his cigar carefully poised in his left hand. The assistant pushed back his hat and rumpled his black hair.
All official significance set aside, Waring and the captain of rurales faced each other with the blunt challenge between them: "You didn't get your man!"
The captain glanced at the two quiet figures in the doorway. Beyond them were his own men, but between him and his command were two of the fastest guns in the Southwest. He was on alien ground. This gringo had insulted him.
Waring waited for the word that burned in the other's eyes.
The collector of customs drew a big silver watch from his waistband.
"It's about time—to go feed the horses," he said.
With the sound of his voice the tension relaxed. Waring eyed the captain as though waiting for him to depart. "You'll find that horse in the corral—back of the customs office," he said.
The Mexican swung round and strode out, followed by his man.
The rurales mounted and rode down the street. The three Americans followed a few paces behind. Opposite the office, they paused.
"Go along with 'em and see that they get the right horse," said the collector.
The assistant hesitated.
The collector laughed. "Shake hands with Jim Waring, Jack."
When the assistant had gone, the collector turned to Waring. "That's Jack every time. Stubborn as a tight boot, but good leather every time. Know why he wanted to shake hands? Well, that's his way of tellin' you he thinks you're some smooth for not pullin' a fight when it looked like nothing else was on the bill."
Waring smiled. "I've met you before, haven't I?"
Pat pretended to ignore the question. "Say, stranger," he began with slow emphasis, "you're makin' mighty free and familiar for a prisoner arrested for smuggling. Mebby you're all right personal, but officially I got a case against you. What do you know about raising cucumbers? I got a catalogue in the office, and me and Jack has been aiming to raise cucumbers from it for three months. I like 'em. Jack says you can't do it down here without water every day. Now—"
"Where have you planted them, Pat?"
"Oh, hell! They ain't planted yet. We're just figuring. Now, up Las
Cruces way—"
"Let's go back to the cantina and talk it out. There goes Mexico leading a horse with an empty saddle. I guess the boy will be all right in the office."
"Was the kid mixed up in your getaway?"
"Yes. And he's a good boy."
"Well, he's in dam' bad company. Now, Jack says you got to plant 'em in hills and irrigate. I aim to just drill 'em in and let the A'mighty do the rest. What do you think?"
"I think you're getting worse as you grow older, Pat. Say, did you ever get track of that roan mare you lost up at Las Cruces?"
"Yes, I got her back."
"Speaking of horses, I saw a pinto down in Sonora—"
Just then the assistant joined them, and they sauntered to the cantina. Dex, tied at the rail, turned and gazed at them. Waring took the morral of grain from the saddle, and, slipping Dex's bridle, adjusted it.
The rugged, lean face of the collector beamed. "I wondered if you thought as much of 'em as you used to. I aimed to see if I could make you forget to feed that cayuse."
"How about those goats in your own corral?" laughed Waring.
"Kind of a complimentary cuss, ain't he?" queried Pat, turning to his assistant. "And he don't know a dam' thing about cucumbers."
"You old-timers give me a pain," said the assistant, grinning.
"That's right! Because you can't set down to a meal without both your hands and feet agoing and one ear laid back, you call us old because we chew slow. But you're right. Jim and I are getting kind of gray around the ears."
"Well, you fellas can fight it out. I came over to say that them rurales got their hoss. But one of 'em let it slip, in Mexican, that they weren't through yet."
"So?" said Pat. "Well, you go ahead and feed the stock. We'll be over to the house poco tiempo."
Waring and the collector entered the cantina. For a long time they sat in silence, gazing at the peculiar half-lights as the sun drew down. Finally the collector turned to Waring.
"Has the game gone stale, Jim?"
Waring nodded. "I'm through. I am going to settle down. I've had my share of trouble."
"Here, too," said the collector. "I've put by enough to get a little place up north—cattle—and take it easy. That's why I stuck it out down here. Had any word from your folks recent?"
"Not for ten years."
"And that boy trailing with you?"
"Oh, he's just a kid I picked up in Sonora. No, my own boy is straight
American, if he's living now."
"You might stop by at Stacey, on the Santa Fé," said the collector casually. "There's some folks running a hotel up there that you used to know."
Waring thanked him with a glance. "We don't need a drink and the sun is down. Where do you eat?"
"We'll get Jack to rustle some grub. You and the boy can bunk in the office. I'll take care of your horse."
"Thanks, Pat. But you spoke of going north. I wouldn't if I were you.
They'll get you."
"I had thought of that. But I'm going to take that same chance. I'm plumb sick of the border."
"If they do—" And Waring rose.
The collector's hard-lined face softened for an instant. He thrust out his bony hand. "I'll leave that to you, Jim."
And that night, because each was a gunman unsurpassed in his grim profession, they laughed and talked about things trivial, leaving the deeper currents undisturbed. And the assistant collector, eating with them in the adobe back of the office, wondered that two such men found nothing more serious to talk about than the breeding of horses and the growing of garden truck.
Late that night the assistant awoke to find that the collector was not in bed. He rose and stalked to the window. Across from the adobe he saw the grim face of the collector framed in the office window. He was smoking a cigar and gazing toward the south, his long arm resting on the sill and his chin in his hand.
"Ole fool!" muttered the assistant affectionately. "That there Jim
Waring must sure be some hombre to make Pat lose any sleep."
Chapter VII
The Return of Waring
The interior of the little desert hotel at Stacey, Arizona, atoned for its bleached and weather-worn exterior by a refreshing neatness that was almost startling in contrast to the warped board front with its painted sign scaled by the sun.
The proprietress, Mrs. Adams, a rosy, dark-haired woman, had heard the Overland arrive and depart. Through habit she listened until the distant rumble of the train diminished to a faint purr. No guests had arrived on the Overland. Stacey was not much of a town, and tourists seldom stopped there. Mrs. Adams stepped from the small office to the dining-room and arranged some flowers in the center of the long table. She happened to be the only woman in the desert town who grew flowers.
The Overland had come and gone. Another day! Mrs. Adams sighed, patted her smooth black hair, and glanced down at her simple and neat attire.
She rearranged the flowers, and was stepping back to view the effect when something caused her to turn and glance toward the office. There had been no sound, yet in the doorway stood a man—evidently a rider. He was looking at the calendar on the office wall. Mrs. Adams stepped toward him. The man turned and smiled. She gazed with awakening astonishment at the dusty, khaki-clad figure, the cool gray eyes beneath the high-crowned sombrero, and last at the extended hand. Without meeting the man's eyes, she shook hands.
"Jim! How did you know?" she queried, her voice trembling.
"I heard of you at Nogales. I wasn't looking for you—then. You have a right pleasant place here. Yours?"
She nodded.
"I came to see the boy," he said. "I'm not here for long."
"Oh, Jim! Lorry is so big and strong—and—and he's working for the
Starr outfit over west of here."
"Cattle, eh? Is he a good boy?"
"A nice question for you to ask! Lorry rides a straighter trail than his father did."
The man laughed and patted her shoulder affectionately. "You needn't have said that, Annie. You knew what I was when I married you. And no man ever said I wasn't straight. Just what made you leave Sonora without saying a word? Didn't I always treat you well?"
"I must say that you did, Jim. You never spoke a rough word to me in your life. I wish you had. You'd be away for weeks, and then come back and tell me it was all right, which meant that you'd 'got your man,' as they say down there. At first I was too happy to care. And when the baby came and I tried to get you to give up hiring out to men who wanted killing done,—for that's what it was,—you kept telling me that some day you would quit. Maybe they did pay big, but you could have been anything else you wanted to. You came of good folks and had education. But you couldn't live happy without that excitement. And you thought I was happy because you were. Why, even up here in Arizona they sing 'Waring of Sonora-Town.' Our boy sings it, and I have to listen, knowing that it is you he sings about. I was afraid of you, Jim, and afraid our boy would grow up to be like you."
Waring nodded. "I'm not blaming you, Annie. I asked why you left me—without a word or an address. Do you think that was square?"
Mrs. Adams, flushed, and the tears came to her eyes. "I didn't dare think about that part of it. I was afraid of you. I got so I couldn't sleep, worrying about what might happen to you when you were away. And you always came back, but you never said where you'd been or what you'd done. I couldn't stand it. If you had only told me—even about the men—that you were paid to kill, I might have stood it. But you never said a word. The wives of the American folks down there wouldn't speak to me. And the Mexican women hated me. I was the wife of Jim Waring, 'the killer.' I think I went crazy."
"Well, I never did believe in talking shop, Annie."
"That's just it. You were always polite—and calling what you did, 'shop'! I don't believe you ever cared for a single person on this earth!"
"You ought to know, Annie. But we won't argue that. Don't act as though you had to defend yourself. I am not blaming you—now. You have explained. I did miss the boy, though. Are you doing well here?"
"It was hard work at first. But I never did write to father to help me."
"You might have written to me. When did the boy go to work? He's eighteen, isn't he?"
Mrs. Adams smiled despite herself. "Yes, this fall. He started in with the Starr people at the spring round-up."
"Couldn't he help you here?"
"He did. But he's not the kind to hang round a hotel. He's all man—if I do say it." And Mrs. Adams glanced at her husband. In his lithe, well-set-up figure she saw what her son would be at forty. "Yes, Jim, he's man size—and I've raised him to go straight."
Waring laughed. "Of course you have! What name will I sign, Annie?"
"Folks here call me Mrs. Adams."
"So you're Annie Adams again! Well, here's your husband's name, if you don't mind." And he signed the register, "James Waring, Sonora, Mexico."
"Isn't that risky?" she queried.
"No one knows me up here. And I don't intend to stay long. I'd like to see the boy."
"Jim, you won't take him away!"
"You know me better than that. You quit me down there, and I won't say that I liked it. I wondered how you'd get along. You left no word. When I realized that you must have wanted to leave me, that settled it. Following you would have done no good, even if I had known where you had gone. I was free. And a gunman has no business with a family."
"You might have thought about that before you came courting me."
"I did. Didn't you?"
"You're hard, Jim. I was just a girl. Any woman would have been glad to marry you then. But when I got sense enough to see how you earned your money—I just had to leave. I was afraid to tell you—"
"There, now, Annie; we'll let that go. I won't say that I don't care, but I've been mighty busy since you left. I didn't know where you were until I hit Nogales. I wanted to see you and the boy. And I'm as hungry as a grizzly."
"Anita is getting supper. Some of the folks in town board here. They'll be coming in soon."
"All right. I'm a stranger. I rode over. I'd like to wash up."
"You rode over?"
"Yes. Why not? I know the country."
Mrs. Adams turned and gestured toward the stairway. She followed him and showed him to a room. So he hadn't come in on the Overland, but had ridden up from Sonora. Why had he undertaken such a long, weary ride? Surely he could have taken the train! She had never known him to be without money. But he had always been unaccountable, coming and going when he pleased, saying little, always serene. And now he had not said why he had ridden up from Sonora. "Why not?" was all that he had said in explanation.
He swung out of his coat and washed vigorously, thrusting his fingers through his short, curly hair and shaking his head in boyish enjoyment that was refreshing to watch. She noticed that he had not aged much. He seemed too cool, too self-possessed always, to show even the ordinary trace of years. She could not understand him; yet she was surprised by a glow of affection for him now that he had returned. As he dried his head she saw that his hair was tinged with gray, although his face was lined but little and his gray eyes were as keen and quick as ever. If he had only shared even that part of his life with her—down there!
"Jim!" she whispered.
He turned as he took up his coat. "Yes, Annie?"
"If you would only promise—"
He shook his head. "I won't do that. I didn't come to ask anything of you except to see the boy But if you need money—"
"No. Not that kind of money."
"All right, girl." And his voice was cheery. "I didn't come here to make you feel bad. And I won't be here long. Can't we be friends while I'm here? Of course the boy will know. But no one else need know. And—you better see to the folks downstairs. Some one just came in."
She turned and walked down the hall, wondering if he had ever cared for her, and wondering if her boy, Lorry, would ever come to possess that almost unhuman quality of intense alertness, that incomprehensible coolness that never allowed him to forget what he was for an instant.
When Waring came down she did not introduce him to the boarders, a fact that sheriff Buck Hardy, who dined at the hotel, noted with some interest. The men ate hastily, rose, and departed, leaving Hardy and Waring, who called for a second cup of coffee and rolled a cigarette while waiting.
Hardy had seen the stranger ride into town on the big buckskin. The horse bore a Mexican brand. The hotel register told Hardy who the stranger was. And the sheriff of Stacey County was curious to know just what the Sonora gunman was doing in town.
Waring sat with his unlighted cigarette between his fingers. The sheriff proffered a match. Their eyes met. Waring nodded his thanks and blew a smoke-ring.
"How are things down in Sonora?" queried Hardy.
"Quiet."
Mrs. Adams questioned Waring with her eyes. He nodded. "This is Mr.
Waring," she said, rising. "This is Mr. Hardy, our sheriff."
The men shook hands. "Mrs. Adams is a good cook," said Waring.
A clatter of hoofs and the sound of a cheery voice broke the silence.
A young cowboy jingled into the room. "Hello, Buck! Hello, mother!" And Lorry Adams strode up and kissed his mother heartily. "Got a runnin' chance to come to town and I came—runnin'. How's everything?"
Mrs. Adams murmured a reply. Buck Hardy was watching Waring as he glanced up at the boy. The sheriff pulled a cigar from his vest and lighted it. In the street he paused in his stride, gazing at the end of his cigar. Lorry Adams looked mighty like Jim Waring, of Sonora. Hardy had heard that Waring had been killed down in the southern country. Some one had made a mistake.
Waring had risen. He stood with one hand touching the table, the tips of his fingers drumming the rhythm of a song he hummed to himself. The boy's back was toward him. Waring's gaze traveled from his son's head to his boot-heel.
Lorry noticed that his mother seemed perturbed. He turned to Waring with a questioning challenge in his gray eyes.
Mrs. Adams touched the boy's arm. "This is your father, Lorry."
Lorry glanced from one to the other.
Waring made no movement, offered no greeting, but stood politely impassive.
Mrs. Adams spoke gently: "Lorry!"
"Why, hello, dad!" And the boy shook hands with his father.
Waring gestured toward a chair. Lorry sat down. His eyes were warm with mild astonishment.
"Smoke?" said Waring, proffering tobacco and papers.
Lorry's gaze never left his father's face as he rolled a cigarette and lighted it. Mrs. Adams realized that Waring's attitude of cool indifference appealed to the boy.
Lorry remembered his father dimly. He was curious to know just what kind of man he was. He didn't talk much; that was certain. The boy remembered that his mother had not said much about her husband, answering Lorry's childish questionings with a promise to tell him some day. He recalled a long journey on the train, their arrival at Stacey, and the taking over of the run-down hotel that his mother had refurnished and made a place of neatness and comfort. And his mother had told him that she would be known "Mrs. Adams." Lorry had been so filled with the newness of things that the changing of their name was accepted without question. Slowly his recollection of Sonora and the details of their life there came back to him. These things he had all but forgotten, as he had grown to love Arizona, its men, its horses, its wide ranges and magic hills.
Mrs. Adams remembered that her husband had once told her he could find out more about a man by watching his hands than by asking questions. She noticed that Waring was watching his son's hands with that old, deliberate coldness of attitude. He was trying to find out just what sort of a man his boy had grown to be.
Lorry suddenly straightened in his chair. Mrs. Adams, anticipating his question, nodded to Waring.
"Yes," said Waring; "I am the Waring of Sonora that you are thinking about."
Lorry flushed. "I—I guess you are," he stammered. "Mother, you never told me that."
"You were too young to understand, Lorry."
"And is that why you left him?"
"Yes."
"Well, maybe you were right. But dad sure looks like a pretty decent hombre to me."
They laughed in a kind of relief. The occasion had seemed rather strained.
"Ask your mother, Lorry. I am out of it." And, rising Waring strode to the doorway.
Lorry rose.
"I'll see you again," said Waring. And he stepped to the street, humming his song of "Sonora and the Silver Strings."
Mrs. Adams put her arm about her son's shoulders. "Your father is a hard man," she told him.
"Was he mean to you, mother?"
"No—never that."
"Well, I don't understand it. He looks like a real man to me. Why did he come back?"
"He said he came back to see you."
"Well, he's my father, anyway," said Lorry.
Chapter VIII
Lorry
In the low hills west of Stacey, Lorry was looking for strays. He worked alone, whistling as he rode, swinging his glasses on this and that arroyo and singling out the infrequent clumps of greasewood for a touch of brighter color in their shadows. He urged his pony from crest to crest, carelessly easy in the saddle, alive to his work, and quietly happy in the lone freedom of thought and action.
He felt a bit proud of himself that morning. Only last night he had learned that he was the son of Waring of Sonora; a name to live up to, if Western standards meant anything, and he thought they did.
The fact that he was the son of James Waring overcame for the time being the vague disquietude of mind attending his knowledge that his mother and father had become estranged. He thought he understood now why his mother had made him promise to go unarmed upon the range. His companions, to the last man, "packed a gun."
Heretofore their joshing had not bothered him. In fact, he had rather enjoyed the distinction of going unarmed, and he had added to this distinction by acquiring a skill with the rope that occasioned much natural jealousy among his fellows. To be top-hand with a rope among such men as Blaze Andrews, Slim Trivet, Red Bender, and High-Chin Bob, the foreman, was worth all the patient hours he had given to persistent practice with the reata.
But to-day he questioned himself. His mother had made him promise to go unarmed because she feared he would become like his father. Why hadn't she told him more about it all? He felt that she had taken a kind of mean advantage of his unwavering affection for her. He was a man, so far as earning his wage was concerned. And she was the best woman in the world—but then women didn't understand the unwritten customs of the range.
On a sandy ridge he reined up and gazed at the desert below. The bleak flats wavered in the white light of noon. The farthest hills to the south seemed but a few miles away.
For some time he focused his gaze at the Notch, from which the road sprang and flowed in slow undulations to a vanishing point in the blank spaces of the west. His pony, Gray Leg, head up and nostrils working, twitched back one ear as Lorry spoke: "You see it, too?"
Gray Leg continued to gaze into the distance, occasionally stamping an impatient forefoot, as though anxious to be off. Lorry lowered his glass and raised it again. In the circle of the binoculars he saw a tiny, distant figure dismount from a black horse and walk back and forth across the road directly below the Notch. Lorry wiped his glasses and centered them on the Notch again. The horseman had led his horse to a clump of brush. Presently the twinkling front of an automobile appeared—a miniature machine that wormed slowly through the Notch and descended the short pitch beyond. Suddenly the car swerved and stopped. Lorry saw a flutter of white near the machine. Then the concealed horseman appeared on foot. Lorry slipped the glass in his shirt.
"We'll just mosey over and get a closer look," he told his pony. "Things don't look just right over there."
Gray Leg, scenting a new interest, tucked himself together. The sand sprayed to little puffs of dust as he swung to a lope.
Lorry was curious—and a bit elated at the promise of a break in the monotony of hunting stray cattle. Probably some Eastern tourist had taken the grade below the Notch too fast and ditched his machine. Lorry would ride over and help him to right the car and set the pilgrim on his way rejoicing. He had helped to right cars before. Last month, for instance; that big car with the uniformed driver and the wonderfully gowned women. He recalled the fact that one of them had been absolutely beautiful, despite her strange mufflings. She had offered to pay him for his trouble. When he refused she had thanked him eloquently with her fine eyes and thrown him a kiss as he turned to go. She had thrown that kiss with two hands! There was nothing stingy about that lady!
But possibly the machine toward which he rode carried nothing more interesting than men; fat, well-dressed men who smoked fat cigars and had much to say about "high" and "low," but didn't seem to know a great deal about "Jack" and "The Game." If they offered to pay him for helping them—well, that was a different matter.
The pony loped toward the Notch, quite as eager as his rider to attend a performance that promised action. Within a half-mile of the Notch, Lorry pulled the pony to a walk. Just beyond the car he had seen the head and ears of a horse. The rider was afoot, talking to the folks in the car. This didn't look quite right.
He worked his pony through the shoulder-high brush until within a few yards of the other man, who was evidently unwelcome. One of the two women stood in front of the other as though to shield her.
Lorry took down his rope just as the younger of the two women saw his head above the brush. The strange horseman, noting her expression, turned quickly. Lorry's pony jumped at the thrust of the spurs. The rope circled like a swallow and settled lightly on the man's shoulders. The pony wheeled. The blunt report of a gun punctured the silence, followed by the long-drawn ripping of brush and the snorting of the pony.
The man was dragging and clutching at the brush. He had dropped his gun. Lorry dug the spurs into Gray Leg. The rope came taut with a jerk. The man rolled over, his hands snatching at the noose about his neck. Lorry dismounted and ran to him. He eased the loop, and swiftly slipped it over the man's feet.
Gray Leg, who knew how to keep a rope taut better than anything else, slowly circled the fallen man. Lorry picked up the gun and strode over to the car. One of the women was crouching on the running-board. In front of her, pale, straight, stiffly indignant, stood a young woman whose eyes challenged Lorry's approach.
"It's all right, miss. He won't bother you now."
"Is he dead?" queried the girl.
"I reckon not."
"I heard a shot. I thought you killed him."
"No, ma'am. He took a crack at me. I don't pack a gun."
"You're a cowboy?" And the girl laughed nervously, despite her effort to hold herself together.
"I aim to be," said Lorry, a trifle brusquely.
The elder woman peered through her fingers. "Another one!" she moaned.
"No, mother. This one is a cowboy. It's all right."
"It sure is. What was his game?"
"He told us to give him our money."
"Uh-uh. This is the second holdup here at the Notch this summer."
"He's trying to get up!" exclaimed the girl.
"My hoss'll take care of him."
"But your horse might drag him to death."
"Well, it's his own funeral, ain't it?"
The girl's eyes grew big. She stepped back. If she had only said something Lorry would have felt better. As it was he felt decidedly uncomfortable.
"If you'll say what is right, ma'am, I'll do it. You want me to turn him loose?"
"I—No. But can't you do something for him?"
Lorry laughed. "I reckon you don't sabe them kind, miss. And mebby you want to get that car on the road again."
"Yes," said the girl's mother. "I think this young man knows what he is about."
Lorry stepped to the car to examine it.
The girl followed him. "I think there is nothing broken. We just turned to come down that hill. We were coasting when I saw a rope stretched across the road. I didn't know what to do. I tried to stop. We slid off the edge."
"Uh-uh. He had it all ribbed up to stop you. Now if you had kept on goin'—"
"But I didn't know what the rope meant. I was frightened. And before I knew what had happened he stepped right on the running-board and told us to give him our money."
"Yes, ma'am. If you can start her up, I'll get my rope on the axle and help."
"But the man might get up!" said the girl.
Lorry grinned. A minute or two ago she had been afraid that the man wouldn't get up. Lorry slipped the rope from the man's ankles and tied it to the front axle. The girl got in the car. The pony buckled to his work. The machine stuttered and purred. With a lurch it swung back into the road. The girl's mother rose, brushed her skirt, and stepped to the car. Lorry unfastened the rope and reined to one side.
The car steered badly. The girl stopped it and beckoned to Lorry.
"There's something wrong with the steering-gear. Are the roads good from here to the next town?"
"Not too good. There's some heavy sand about a mile west."
She bit her lip. "Well, I suppose we'll have to turn back."
"You could get to Stacey, ma'am. You could get your car fixed, and my mother runs the hotel there. It's a good place to stop."
"How far?"
"About eight miles. Three miles back the road forks and the left-hand road goes to town. The regular automobile road don't go to Stacey."
"Well, I suppose there is nothing else to do. I'll try and turn around." And the girl backed the car and swung round in a wavering arc. When the car faced the east she stopped it.
Lorry rode alongside. She thanked him for his services. "And please don't do anything to that man," she pleaded. "He has been punished enough. You almost killed him. He looked so wretched. Can't you give him a good talking to and let him go?"
"I could, ma'am. But it ain't right. He'll try this here stunt again.
There's a reward out for him."
"But won't you—please!"
Lorry flushed. "You got a good heart all right, but you ain't been long in the West. Such as him steals hosses and holds up folks and robs trains—"
"But you're not an officer," she said, somewhat unkindly.
"I reckon any man is an officer when wimmin-folk is gettin' robbed. And
I aim to put him where he belongs."
"Thank you for helping us," said the girl's mother.
"You're right welcome, ma'am." And, raising his hat, Lorry turned and rode to where the man lay.
The car crept up the slope. Lorry watched it until it had topped the ridge. Then he dismounted and turned the man over.
"What you got to say about my turnin' you loose?" he queried as the other sat up.
"Nothin'."
"All right. Get a movin'—and don't try to run. I got my rope handy."
Chapter IX
High-Chin Bob
The man's rusty black coat was torn and wrinkled. His cheap cotton shirt was faded and buttonless. His boots were split at the sole, showing part of a bare foot. He was grimy, unshaven, and puffed unhealthily beneath the eyes. Lorry knew that he was but an indifferent rider without seeing him on a horse. He was a typical railroad tramp, turned highwayman.
"Got another gun on you?" queried Lorry.
The man shook his head.
"Where'd you steal that horse?"
"Who says I stole him?"
"I do. He's a Starr horse. He was turned out account of goin' lame. Hop along. I'll take care of him."
The man plodded across the sand. Lorry followed on Gray Leg, and led the other horse. Flares of noon heat shot up from the reddish-gray levels. Lorry whistled, outwardly serene, but inwardly perturbed. That girl had asked him to let the man go and she had said "please." But, like all women, she didn't understand such things.
They approached a low ridge and worked up a winding cattle trail. On the crest Lorry reined up. The man sat down, breathing heavily.
"What you callin' yourself?" asked Lorry.
"A dam' fool."
"I knew that. Anything else?"
"Waco—mebby."
"Waco, eh? Well, that's an insult to Texas. What's your idea in holdin' up wimmin-folk, anyhow?"
"Mebby you'd hold up anybody if you hadn't et since yesterday morning."
"Think I believe that?"
"Suit yourself. You got me down."
"Well, you can get up and get movin'."
The man rose. He shuffled forward, limping heavily. Occasionally he stopped and turned to meet a level gaze that was impersonal; that promised nothing. Lorry would have liked to let the other ride. The man was suffering—and to ride would save time. But the black, a rangy, quick-stepping animal, was faster than Gray Leg. But what if the man did escape? No one need know about it. Yet Lorry knew that he was doing right in arresting him. In fact, he felt a kind of secret pride in making the capture. It would give him a name among his fellows. But was there any glory in arresting such a man?
Lorry recalled the other's wild shot as he was whirled through the brush. "He sure tried to get me!" Lorry argued. "And any man that'd hold up wimmin ought to be in the calaboose—"
The trail meandered down the hillside and out across a barren flat. Halfway across the flat the trail forked. Lorry had ceased to whistle. At the fork his pony stopped of its own accord. The man turned questioningly. Lorry gestured toward the right-hand trail. The man staggered on. The horses fretted at the slow pace. Keen to anticipate some trickery, Lorry hardened himself to the other's condition. Perhaps the man was hungry, sick, suffering. Well, a mile beyond was the water-hole. The left-hand trail led directly to Stacey, but there was no water along that trail.
They moved on across a stretch of higher land that swept in a gentle, sage-dotted slope to the far hills. Midway across the slope was a bare spot burning like white fire in the desert sun. It was the water-hole. The trail became paralleled by other trails, narrow and rutted by countless hoofs.
Within a hundred yards of the water-hole the prisoner collapsed. Lorry dismounted and went for water.
The man drank, and Lorry helped him up and across the sand to the rim of the water-hole. The man gazed at the shimmering pool with blurred eyes.
Lorry rolled a cigarette. "Roll one?" he queried.
The man Waco took the proffered tobacco and papers. His weariness seemed to vanish as he smoked. "That pill sure saved my life," he asserted.
"How much you reckon your life's worth?"
Waco blew a smoke-ring and nodded toward it as it dissolved. Lorry pondered. The keen edge of his interest in the capture had worn off, leaving a blunt purpose—a duty that was part of the day's work. As he realized how much the other was at his mercy a tinge of sympathy softened his gray eyes. Justice was undeniably a fine thing. Folks were entitled to the pursuit of happiness, to life and liberty he had read somewhere. He glanced up. Waco, seated opposite, had drifted back into a stupor, head sunk forward and arms relaxed. The stub of his cigarette lay smouldering between his feet. Lorry thought of the girl's appeal.
"Just what started you to workin' this holdup game?" he queried.
Waco's head came up. "You joshin' me?"
"Nope."
"You wouldn't believe a hard-luck story, so what's the use?"
"Ain't any. I was just askin' a question. Roll another?"
Waco stuck out his grimy paw. His fingers trembled as he fumbled the tobacco and papers.
Lorry proffered a match. "It makes me sick to see a husky like you all shot to pieces," said Lorry.
"Did you just get wise to that?"
"Nope. But I just took time to say it."
Waco breathed deep, inhaling the smoke. "I been crooked all my life," he asserted.
"I can believe that. 'Course you know I'm takin' you to Stacey."
"The left-hand trail was quicker," ventured the tramp.
"And no water."
"I could ride," suggested Waco.
Lorry shook his head. "If you was to make a break I'd just nacherally plug you. I got your gun. You're safer afoot."
"I'll promise—"
"Nope. You're too willin'."
"I'm all in," said Waco.
"I got to take you to Stacey just the same."
"And you're doin' it for the money—the reward."
"That's my business."
"Go ahead," said the tramp. "I hope you have a good time blowin' in the dough. Blood-money changes easy to booze-money when a lot of cow-chasers get their hooks on it."
"Don't get gay!" said Lorry. "I aim to use you white as long as you work gentle. If you don't—"
"That's the way with you guys that do nothin' but chase a cow's tail over the country. You handle folks the same as stock—rough stuff and to hell with their feelin's."
"You're feelin' better," said Lorry. "Stand up and get to goin'."
As Waco rose, Lorry's pony nickered. A rider was coming down the distant northern hillside. In the fluttering silken bandanna and the twinkle of silver-studded trappings Lorry recognized the foreman of the Starr Rancho; Bob Brewster, known for his arrogance as "High-Chin Bob."
"Guess we'll wait a minute," said Lorry.
Waco saw the rider, and asked who he was.
"It's High Chin, the foreman. You been ridin' one of his string of horses—the black there."
"He's your boss?"
"Yes. And I'm right sorry he's ridin' into this camp. You was talkin' of feelin's. Well, he ain't got any."
Brewster loped up and dismounted. "What's your tally, kid?"
Lorry shook his head. "Only this," he said jokingly.
Brewster glanced at Waco. "Maverick, all right. Where'd you rope him?"
"I run onto him holdin' up some tourists down by the Notch. I'm driftin' him over to Stacey."
High Chin's eyes narrowed. "Was he ridin' that horse?" And he pointed to the black.
Lorry admitted that he had found the horse tied in the brush near the
Notch.
High Chin swung round. "You fork your bronc and get busy. There's eighty head and over strayin' in here, and the old man ain't payin' you to entertain hobos. I'll herd this hombre to camp."
With his arm outflung the tramp staggered up to the foreman. "I come back—to tell you—that I'm going to live to get you right. I got a hunch that all hell can't beat out. I'll get you!"
"We won't have any trouble," said Waring.
High Chin whirled his horse round. "What's it to you? Who are you, buttin' in on this?"
"My name is Waring. I used to mill around Sonora once."
High Chin blinked. He knew that name. Slowly he realized that the man on the big buckskin meant what he said when he asserted that there would be no trouble.
"Well, I'm foreman of the Starr, and you're fired!" he told Lorry.
"That's no news," said Lorry, grinning.
"And I'm goin' to herd this hoss-thief to camp," he continued, spurring toward Waco, who had started to walk away.
"Not this journey," said Waring, pushing his horse between them. "The boy don't pack a gun. I do."
"You talk big—knowin' I got no gun," said High Chin.
Lorry rode over to the foreman. "Here's your gun, High. I ain't no killer."
The foreman holstered the gun and reined round toward Waring. "Now do your talkin'," he challenged.
Waring made no movement, but sat quietly watching the other's gun hand. "You have your gun?" he said, as though asking a question. "If you mean business, go ahead. I'll let you get your gun out—and then I'll get you—and you know it!" And with insulting ease he flicked his burned-out cigarette in the foreman's face.
Without a word High Chin whirled his horse and rode toward the hills.
Waring sat watching him until Lorry spoke.
"They say he's put more than one man across the divide," he told his father.
"But not on an even break," said Waring. "Get that hombre on his horse.
He's in bad shape."
Lorry helped Waco to mount. They rode toward Stacey.
Waring rode with them until the trail forked. "I was on my way to the
Starr Ranch," he told Lorry. "I think I can make it all right with
Starr, if you say the word."
"Not me," said Lorry. "I stand by what I do."
Waring tried to conceal the smile that crept to his lips. "All right, Lorry. But you'll have to explain to your mother. Better turn your man over to Buck Hardy as soon as you get in town. Where did you pick him up?"
"He was holdin' up some tourists over by the Notch. He changed his mind and came along with me."
Waring rode down the west fork, and Lorry and the tramp continued their journey to Stacey.