JIM WARING

OF SONORA-TOWN

OR, TANG OF LIFE

BY

HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS

AUTHOR OF OVERLAND RED, ETC. 

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

E. BOYD SMITH

August 1918

To

Robert Frothingham

[Illustration: Waring of Sonora-Town]

Waring of Sonora-Town

_The heat acrost the desert was a-swimmin' in the sun, When Waring of Sonora-Town, Jim Waring of Sonora-Town, From Salvador come ridin' down, a-rollin' of his gun. 

He was singin' low and easy to his pony's steady feet, But his eye was live and driftin' Round the scenery and siftin'All the crawlin' shadows shiftin' in the tremblin' gray mesquite. 

Eyes was watchin' from a hollow where a outlaw Chola lay; Two black, snaky eyes a-yearnin' For Jim's hoss to make the turnin', Then to send a bullet burnin' through his back--the Chola way. 

And Jim Waring's gaze, a-rovin' round the desert as he rode, Settled quick--without him seemin' To get wise and quit his dreamin'--On a shiny ring a-gleamin' where no ring had ever growed. 

The lightnin' don't give warnin'; just a lick and she is through; Waring set his gun to smokin' Playful like, like he was jokin', And--a Chola lay a-chokin' . .. And a buzzard cut the blue. _

Contents

 I. The Cañon

 II. José Vaca

 III. Donovan's Hand

 IV. The Silver Crucifix

 V. The Tang of Life

 VI. Arizona

 VII. The Return of Waring

 VIII. Lorry

 IX. High-Chin Bob

 X. East and West

 XI. Spring Lamb

 XII. Bud Shoop and Bondsman

 XIII. The Horse Trade

 XIV. Bondsman's Decision

 XV. John and Demijohn

 XVI. Play

 XVII. Down the Wind

 XVIII. A Piece of Paper

 XIX. The Fight in the Open

 XX. City Folks

 XXI. A Slim Whip of a Girl

 XXII. A Tune for Uncle Bud

 XXIII. Like One Who Sleeps

 XXIV. The Genial Bud

 XXV. The Little Fires

 XXVI. Idle Noon

 XXVII. Waco

XXVIII. A Squared Account

 XXIX. Bud's Conscience

 XXX. In the Hills

 XXXI. In the Pines

 XXXII. Politics

XXXIII. The Fires of Home

 XXXIV. Young Life

 XXXV. The High Trail

Illustrations

Waring of Sonora-Town

A huddled shape near a boulder

"I came over--to tell you--that it was Pat's gun"

They made coffee and ate the sandwiches she had prepared

_From drawings by E. Boyd Smith_

TANG OF LIFE

Chapter I

_The Cañon_

Waring picketed his horse in a dim angle of the Agua Fria Cañon, spreadhis saddle-blanket to dry in the afternoon sun, and, climbing to anarrow ledge, surveyed the cañon from end to end with a pair ofhigh-power glasses. He knew the men he sought would ride south. He wasreasonably certain that they would not ride through the cañon indaylight. The natural trail through the Agua Fria was along the westernwall; a trail that he had avoided, working his toilsome way down theeastern side through a labyrinth of brush and rock that had concealedhim from view. A few hundred yards below his hasty camp a sandy arroyocrossed the cañon's mouth. 

He had planned to intercept the men where the trail crossed this arroyo, or, should the trail show pony tracks, to follow them into the desertbeyond, where, sooner or later, he would overtake them. They had a startof twelve hours, but Waring reasoned that they would not do much ridingin daylight. The trail at the northern end of the cañon had shown nofresh tracks that morning. His problem was simple. The answer would bedefinite. He returned to the shelter of the brush, dropped the glassesinto a saddle-pocket, and stretched himself wearily. 

A few yards below him, on a brush-dotted level, his horse, Dexter, slowly circled his picket and nibbled at the scant bunch-grass. Thewestern sun trailed long shadows across the cañon; shadows that driftedimperceptibly farther and farther, spreading, commingling, softening thebroken outlines of ledge and brush until the walled solitude was brimmedwith dusk, save where a red shaft cleft the fast-fading twilight, burning like a great spotlight on a picketed horse and a man asleep, hishead pillowed on a saddle. 

As the dusk drew down, the horse ceased grazing, sniffed the comingnight, and nickered softly. Waring rose and led the horse to water, and, returning, emptied half the grain in the morral on a blanket. Dexmunched contentedly. When the horse had finished eating the grain, Waring picketed him in a fresh spot and climbed back to the ledge, wherehe sat watching the western wall of the cañon, occasionally glancing upas some dim star burned through the deepening dusk and bloomed to asilvery maturity. 

Presently a faint pallor overspread the cañon till it lay like a ghostlysea dotted with strange islands of brush and rock; islands that seemedto waver and shift in a sort of vague restlessness, as though trying toevade the ever-brightening tide of moonlight that burned away theirshrouds of dusk and fixed them in still, tangible shapes upon the cañonfloor. 

Across the cañon the farther trail ran past a broad, blank wall of rock. No horseman could cross that open space unseen. Waring, seated upon theledge, leaned back against the wall, watching the angling shadowsshorten as the moon drew overhead. Toward morning he became drowsy. Asthe white radiance paled to gray, he rose and paced back and forth uponthe narrow ledge to keep himself awake. In a few minutes the moon woulddisappear behind the farther rim of the world; the cañon would sink backinto its own night, all its moonlit imageries melting, vanishing. In thehour before dawn Waring would be unable to see anything of the fartherwall save a wavering blur. 

Just below him he could discern the outline of his horse, with headlowered, evidently dozing. Having in mind the keenness of desert-bredstock, he watched the horse. The minutes drifted by. The horse seemedmore distinct. Waring thought he could discern the picket rope. Heendeavored to trace it from horse to picket. Foot by foot his eyesfollowed its slack outline across the ground. The head of the metalpicket glimmered faintly. Waring closed his eyes, nodded, and caughthimself. This time he traced the rope from picket to horse. It seemed achildish thing to do, yet it kept him awake. Did he imagine it, or hadthe rope moved?

Dex had lifted his head. He was sniffing the cool morning air. Slowlythe tawny-golden shape of the big buckskin turned, head up and nostrilsrounded in tense rings. Waring glanced across the cañon. The fartherwall was still dim in the half-light. In a few minutes the trail wouldbecome distinct. Dropping from the ledge, he stepped to his saddle. Dexevidently heard him, for he twitched back one ear, but maintained hisattitude of keen interest in an invisible something--a something thathad drawn him from drowsy inanition to a quietly tense statue ofalertness. The ash gray of the farther wall, now visible, slowly changedto a faint rose tint that deepened and spread. 

Waring stooped and straightened up, with his glasses held on the fartrail. A tiny rider appeared in the clear blue circle of the binoculars, and another, who led two horses without saddles or packs. The men wereheaded south. Presently they disappeared behind a wall of brush. Waringsaddled Dex, and, keeping close to the eastern wall, rode toward thearroyo. 

The morning sun traced clean, black shadows of the chaparral on thesand. The bloom of cacti burned in red and yellow blotches of flameagainst its own dull background of grayish-green. At the mouth of thearroyo, Waring dismounted and dropped the reins. Dex nosed himinquiringly. He patted the horse, and, turning, strode swiftly down thedry river-bed. He walked upright, knowing that he could not be seen fromthe trail. He could even have ridden down the arroyo unseen, and perhapsit was a senseless risk to hunt men afoot in this land. The men hehunted were Mexicans of Sonora; fugitives. They would fight blindly, spurred by fear. Waring's very name terrorized them. And were they tocome upon the gringo mounted, Waring knew that there was more than achance his horse would be shot. He had a peculiar aversion to runningsuch a risk when there was half a chance of doing his work on foot. 

Moreover, certain Americans in Sonora who disliked Waring had saidrecently that no man was quick enough to get an even break with thegunman, which tentatively placed him as a "killer, " whereas he had nevergiven a thought to the hazard when going into a fight. He had alwaysplayed the game to win, odds either way. The men he sought would bemounted. He would be on foot. This time the fugitives would have morethan a fair chance. They would blunder down the pitch into the arroyo, perhaps glancing back, fearful of pursuit, but apprehending noambushment. 

Waring knew they would kill him if they could. He knew that not even afighting chance would have been his were they in his place and he intheirs. He was deputized and paid to do just what he was doing. The menwere bandits who had robbed the paymaster of the Ortez Mines. To Waringthere was nothing complicated about the matter. It was his day's work. The morning sun would be in their faces, but that was not his fault. 

As Waring waited in the arroyo the faint clatter of shod hoofs came fromabove. He drew close to a cutbank, leaning his shoulder against iteasily. With a slither of sand, the first horse took the pitch, legsangled awkwardly as he worked down. The second rider followed, the ledhorses pulling back. 

At the bottom of the arroyo, the Mexicans reined up. The elder, squat, broad of back, a black handkerchief tied round his thick neck, reachedinto his pocket and drew out tobacco and cigarette papers. The other, hardly more than a boy, urged that they hasten. Fear vibrated in hisvoice. The squat Mexican laughed and began to roll a cigarette. 

None had overtaken them, he said. And were they not now in the LandWhere No Man Lived?

"Si!" said Waring softly. 

The half-rolled cigarette fluttered to the ground. The Mexican's heavylip sagged, showing broken teeth. His companion dropped the lead-ropeand turned to gaze at Waring with eyes wide, wondering, curious. The ledhorses plunged up the back trail. Waring made no movement toward hisgun, but he eyed the elder Mexican sharply, paying little attention tothe youth. The horse of the squat Mexican grew restless, sidling towardthe other. 

Waring's lips tightened. The bandit was spurring his horse on the offside to get behind his companion. Evidently the numbness of surprise hadgiven way to fear, and fear meant action. Waring knew that the elderMexican would sacrifice his companion for the sake of a chance ofkilling the gringo. 

Waring held out his left hand. "Give me your gun, " he said to the youth. "And hand it down butt first. "

The youth, as though hypnotized, pulled out his gun and handed it toWaring. Waring knew that if the other Mexican meant to fight it would beat that instant. Even as the butt of the gun touched Waring's hand itjumped. Two shattering reports blended and died echoless in theclose-walled arroyo. 

The Mexican's gun slipped slowly from his fingers. He rocked in thesaddle, grasped the horn, and slid to the ground. Waring saw him reachfor the gun where it lay on the sand. He kicked it aside. The Mexicanyouth leaped from the saddle and stood between Waring and the fallenman. Waring stepped back. For an instant his eyes drew fine. He wastempted to make an end of it right there. The youth dropped to hisknees. A drift of wind fluttered the bandanna at his throat. Waring sawa little silver crucifix gleaming against the smooth brown of his chest. 

"If it is that I am to die, I am not afraid, " said the youth. "I havethis!" And his fingers touched the crucifix. "But you will not kill myuncle!"

Waring hesitated. He seemed to be listening. And as though in a dream, yet distinct--clear as though he had spoken himself came the words: "Itis enough!"

"Not this journey, " said Waring. 

The Mexican youth gazed at him wonderingly. Was the gringo mad?

Waring holstered his gun with a jerk. "Get up on your hind legs and quitthat glory stuff! We ride north, " he growled. 

Chapter II

_José Vaca_

The young Mexican's face was beaded with sweat as he rose and stareddown at the wounded man. Clumsily he attempted to help Waring, whowashed and bandaged the shattered shoulder. Waring had shot to kill, butthe gun was not his own, and he had fired almost as it had touched hishand. 

"Get your uncle on his horse, " he told the youth. "Don't make a break. We're due at Juan Armigo's ranchito about sundown. "

So far as he was concerned, that was all there was to it for the timebeing. He had wounded and captured José Vaca, notorious in Sonora asleader in outlawry. That there were no others of Vaca's kind with himpuzzled Waring. The young Ramon, Vaca's nephew, did not count. 

Ramon helped his uncle to mount. They glanced at each other, Vaca's eyesblinking. The gringo was afoot. They were mounted. Waring, observingtheir attitude, smiled, and, crooking his finger, whistled shrilly. Theyoung Ramon trembled. Other gringos were hidden in the arroyo; perhapsthe very man that his uncle had robbed! Even now he could hear the clickof hoofs on the gravel. The gunman had been merciful for the moment, only to turn his captives over to the merciless men of the mines; menwho held a Mexican's life worth no more than a dog's. The wounded man, stiff in the saddle, turned his head. Round a bend in the dry river-bed, his neck held sideways that the reins might drag free, came Waring's bigbuckskin horse, Dexter. The horse stopped as he saw the group. Waringspoke to him. The big buckskin stepped forward and nosed Waring, whoswung to the saddle and gestured toward the back trail. 

They rode in silence, the Mexicans with bowed heads, dull-eyed, listless, resigned to their certain fate. For some strange reason thegringo had not killed them in the arroyo. He had had excuse enough. 

Would he take them to Sonora--to the prison? Or would he wait until theywere in some hidden fastness of the Agua Fria, and there kill them andleave them to the coyotes? The youth Ramon knew that the two littlecanvas sacks of gold were cleverly tied in the huge tapaderas of hisuncle's saddle. Who would think to look for them there?

The gringo had said that they would ride to the ranchito of Juan Armigo. How easily the gringo had tricked them at the very moment when theythought they were safe! Yet he had not asked about the stolen money. Theways of this gringo were past comprehension. 

Waring paid scant attention to the Mexicans, but he glanced continuouslyfrom side to side of the cañon, alert for a surprise. The wounded man, Vaca, was known to him. He was but one of the bandits. Ramon, Vaca'snephew, was not of their kind, but had been led into this journey byVaca that the bandit might ride wide when approaching the ranchos andsend his nephew in for supplies. 

The pack on Ramon's saddle rode too lightly to contain anything heavierthan food. There was nothing tied to Vaca's saddle but a frayed andfaded blanket. Yet Waring was certain that they had not cached the gold;that they carried it with them. 

At noon they watered the horses midway up the cañon. As they rode onagain, Waring noticed that Vaca did not thrust his foot clear home inthe stirrup, but he attributed this to the other's condition. TheMexican was a sick man. His swarthy face had gone yellow, and he leanedforward, clutching the horn. The heat was stagnant, unwavering. The pacewas desperately slow. 

Despite his vigilance, Waring's mind grew heavy with the monotony. Herolled a cigarette. The smoke tasted bitter. He flung the cigaretteaway. The hunting of men had lost its old-time thrill. A clean break anda hard fight; that was well enough. But the bowed figures riding aheadof him: ignorant, superstitious, brutal; numb to any sense of honor. Wasthe game worth while? Yet they were men--human in that they feared, hoped, felt hunger, thirst, pain, and even dreamed of vague successes tobe attained how or when the Fates would decide. And was this squalidvictory a recompense for the risks he ran and the hardships he endured?

Again Waring heard the Voice, as though from a distance, and yet thevoice was his own: "You will turn back from the hunting of men. "

"Like hell I will!" muttered Waring. 

Ramon, who rode immediately ahead of him, turned in the saddle. Waringgestured to him to ride on. 

The heat grew less intense as an occasional, vagrant breeze stirred inthe brush and fluttered the handkerchief round Waring's throat. Ahead, the cañon broadened to the mesa lands, where the distant green of a lineof trees marked the boundary of the Armigo rancho. 

Presently Vaca began to sing; softly at first, then with insanevehemence as the fever mounted to his brain. Waring smiled with drylips. The Mexican had stood the journey well. A white man in Vaca'scondition would have gone to pieces hours ago. He called to Ramon, whogave Vaca water. The Mexican drank greedily, and threw the empty canteeninto the bushes. 

Waring listened for some hint, some crazy boast as to the whereabouts ofthe stolen money. But Vaca rode on, occasionally breaking into a wildsong, half Yaqui, half Mexican. The youth Ramon trembled, fearing thatthe gringo would lose patience. 

Across the northern end of the cañon the winnowing heat waves died tothe level of the ground. Brown shadows shot from the western wall andspread across the widening outlet. The horses stepped briskly, knowingthat they were near water. 

Waring became more alert as they approached the adobe buildings of therancho. Vaca had drifted into a dull silence. Gray with suffering andgrim with hate for the gringo, he rode stolidly, praying incoherentlythat the gunman might be stricken dead as he rode. 

The raw edge of the disappearing sun leveled a long flame of crimsonacross the mesa. The crimson melted to gold. The gold paled to a brieftwilight. A faint star twinkled in the north. 

Dogs crowded forward in the dusk, challenging the strange riders. Afigure filled the lighted doorway of the Armigo ranch-house. The dogsdrew back. 

Ramon dismounted and helped his uncle down. Waring sat his horse untilJuan Armigo stepped from the doorway and asked who came. Waring answeredwith his name. 

"Si! Si!" exclaimed Armigo. "The señor is welcome. "

Waring dismounted. "Juan, I have two of your friends here; José Vaca andRamon Ortego. "

Armigo seemed surprised. "José Vaca is wounded?" he queriedhesitatingly. 

Waring nodded. 

"And the horses; they shall have feed, water, everything--I myself--"

"Thanks. But I'll look after the horses, Juan. I'm taking Vaca and Ramonto Sonora. See what you can do for Vaca. He's pretty sick. "

"It shall be as the señor says. And the señor has made a fight?"

"With those hombres? Not this journey! José Vaca made a mistake; that'sall. "

Armigo, perturbed, shuffled to the house. Waring unsaddled the horsesand turned them into the corral. As he lifted the saddle from Vaca'shorse, he hesitated. It was a big stock saddle and heavy; yet it seemedtoo heavy. On his knees he turned it over, examining it. He smiledgrimly as he untied the little canvas sacks and drew them from thetapaderas. 

"Thought he showed too much boot for a hard-riding chola, " mutteredWaring. 

He rose and threw some hay to the horses. He could hear Ramon and Armigotalking in the ranch-house. Taking his empty canteen from his ownsaddle, he untied the sacks and slipped the gold-pieces, one by one, into the canteen. He scooped up sand and filled the canteen half full. The gold no longer jingled as he shook it. 

While Waring had no fear that either of the men would attempt to escape, he knew Mexicans too well to trust Armigo explicitly. A thousanddollars was a great temptation to a poor rancher. And while Armigo hadalways professed to be Waring's friend, sympathy of blood and the appealof money easily come by might change the placid face of thingsconsiderably. 

Waring strode to the house, washed and ate with Juan in the kitchen;then he invited the Mexican out to the corral. 

"José and Ramon are your countrymen, Juan. "

"Si, señor. I am sorry for Ramon. This thing was not of his doing. He isbut a boy--"

Waring touched the other's arm. "There will be no trouble, Juan. Onlykeep better track of your horses while I ride this part of the country. "

"But--señor--"

"I've had business with you before. Two of your cayuses are astray downthe Agua Fria. One of them is dragging a maguey lead-rope. "

"Señor, it is impossible!"

"No, it isn't! I know your brand. See here, Juan. You knew that Vaca wastrying to get away. You knew I'd be sent to get him. Why did you let himtake two spare horses?"

"But, señor, I swear I did not!"

"All right. Then when Ramon rode in here two days ago and asked you fortwo horses, why didn't you refuse him? Why did you tell him you wouldsell them, but that you would not lend them to him?"

"If Ramon says that, he lies. I told Ramon--"

"Thanks. That's all I want to know. I don't care what you told Ramon. You let him take the horses. Now, I'm going to tell you something thatwill be worth more to you than gold. Don't try to rope any stock grazinground here to-night. I might wake up quick and make a mistake. Men lookalike in the moonlight--and we'll have a moon. "

"It shall be as the señor says. It is fate. "

"All right, amigo. But it isn't fate. It's making fool mistakes when youor your countrymen tackle a job like Vaca tackled. Just get me a coupleof blankets. I'll sleep out here to-night. "

Juan Armigo plodded to the adobe. The lamplight showed his face beadedwith sweat. He shuffled to an inner room, and came out with blankets onhis arm. Vaca lay on a bed-roll in the corner of the larger room, andnear him stood Ramon. 

"The señor sleeps with the horses, " said Armigo significantly. 

Ramon bent his head and muttered a prayer. 

"And if you pray, " said Armigo, shifting the blankets from one arm tothe other, "pray then that the two horses that you borrowed may return. As for your Uncle José, he will not die. "

"And we shall be taken to the prison, " said Ramon. "

"You should have killed the gringo. " And Armigo's tone wasmatter-of-fact. "Or perhaps told him where you had hidden the gold. Hemight have let you go, then. "

Ramon shook his head. Armigo's suggestion was too obviously a questionas to the whereabouts of the stolen money. 

The wounded man opened his eyes. "I have heard, " he said faintly. "Tellthe gringo that I will say where the money is hidden if he will let mego. "

"It shall be as you wish, " said Armigo, curious to learn more of thematter. 

At the corral he delivered Vaca's message to Waring, who feigned delightat the other's information. 

"If that is so, Tio Juan, " he laughed, "you shall have your share--ahundred pesos. Leave the blankets there by my saddle. We will go to thehouse. "

From the coolness of night, with its dim radiance of stars, to theaccumulated heat of the interior of the adobe was an unpleasant change. The walls were whitewashed and clean enough, but the place smelledstrongly of cooking. A lamp burned on the oilcloth-covered table. Ramon, wide-eyed with trepidation, stood by his uncle, who had braced himselfon his elbow as Waring approached. Waring nodded pleasantly and rolled acigarette. José Vaca glared up at him hungrily. The lower lip, pendulous, showed his broken teeth. Waring thought of a trapped wolf. Juan glanced from one to the other. 

But the gringo seemed incurious, merely gazing at the pictures on thewalls; a flaming print of the Madonna, one of the Christ, a cheapphotograph of Juan and his señora taken on their wedding day, an abaloneshell on which was painted something resembling a horse and rider--

"The gold is hidden in the house of Pedro Salazar, of Sonora. It isburied in the earth beneath his bed. "

José Vaca had spoken, but Waring was watching Ramon's eyes. 

"All right, hombre. Muchas gracias. "

"And now you will let me go?" queried Vaca. 

"I haven't said so. " Waring's tone was pleasant, almost indifferent. 

Ramon's face was troubled. Of what use was it to try and deceive thegringo? But Waring was smiling. Did he, then, believe such an obviouslie?

"Bueno!" Waring exclaimed. "That lets _you_ out. Now, what about you, Ramon?"

"My uncle has spoken, " said Ramon. "I have nothing to say. "

"Then you will ride with me to Sonora. "

"As you say, señor. "

"All right. Don't sit up all night praying. That won't do any good. Getsome sleep. And you, too, Juan. " And Waring turned quickly to Armigo. "Sleep all you can. You'll feel better in the morning. "

Waring turned and strode out. In the corral he spread his blankets. Withhis head on the saddle, he lay gazing up at the stars. 

The horses, with the exception of Waring's buckskin Dex, huddled in onecorner of the corral. That strange shape stretched quietly on the groundwas new to them. 

For a long time the horse Dex stood with head lowered and one hip saggedas he rested. Just before Waring slept he felt a gentle nosing of hisblankets. The big horse sniffed curiously. 

"Strange blankets, eh?" queried Waring drowsily. "But it's the same oldpartner, Dex. "

The horse walked slowly away, nosing along the fence. Waring knew thathe was well sentineled. The big buckskin would resent the approach of astranger by snorting. Waring turned on his side and slept. His day'swork was done. 

CHAPTER III

_Donovan's Hand_

Waring was up with the first faint streak of dawn. He threw hay to thehorses and strode briskly to the adobe. Juan Armigo was bending over thekitchen stove. Waring nodded to him and stepped to the next room. TheMexicans were asleep; young Ramon lying face down beneath the crucifixon the wall, where he had knelt in prayer most of the night. 

Waring drew back quietly. 

"Let them sleep, " he told Juan in the kitchen. 

After frijoles and coffee, the gunman rose and gestured to Juan tofollow him. 

Out near the corral, Waring turned suddenly. "You say that young Ramonis straight?"

"Si, señor. He is a good boy. "

"Well, he's in dam' bad company. How about Vaca?"

Juan Armigo shrugged his shoulders. 

"Are you afraid of him, Juan?"

"No. But if he were to ask me for anything, it would be well to let himhave it. "

"I see. So he sent young Ramon in here for two extra horses, and youwere afraid to refuse. I had thought you were an honest man. After Ihave gone, go hunt up those horses in the cañon. And if any one fromSonora rides in here and asks about Ramon or Vaca or me, you don't knowanything about us. Sabe? If your horses are found before you get tothem, some one stole them. Do these things. I don't want to come back tosee if you have done them. "

Juan Armigo nodded, gazing at Waring with crafty eyes. So the gringo wastempted by the gold. He would ride back to Sonora, find the stolen moneyin the house of Pedro Salazar, and keep it. It would be a very simplething to do. Young Ramon would be afraid to speak and José Vaca wouldhave disappeared. The gringo could swear that he had not found thebandits or the gold. So reasoned Juan, his erstwhile respect for thegunman wavering as the idea became fixed. He grinned at Waring. It wouldbe a good trick; to steal the gold from the stealers. Of a certainty thegringo was becoming almost as subtle as a Mexican. 

Waring was not pleased as he read the other's eyes, but he said nothing. Turning abruptly, he entered the corral and saddled Ramon's horse andhis own. 

"Get José Vaca out of here as soon as he can travel, " he told Armigo. "You may have to explain if he is found here. " And Waring strode to theadobe. 

Ramon was awake and talking with his uncle. Waring told him to getsomething to eat. Then he turned to Vaca. 

"José, " he began pleasantly, "you tried to get me yesterday, but youonly spoiled a good Stetson. See? You shot high. When you go for a managain, start in at his belt-buckle and get him low. We'll let that gothis time. When you can ride, take your cayuse and fan it anywhere--_butdon't ride back to Sonora_. I'll be there. I'm going to herd young Ramonback home. He is isn't your kind. You are free. Don't jabber. Just tellall that to your saints. And if you get caught, don't say that you sawme. Sabe?"

The wounded man raised himself on his elbow, glaring up at Waring withfeverish eyes. "You give me my life. I shall not speak. "

"Bueno! And you said in the house of Pedro Salazar?"

"Si! Near the acequia. "

"The Placeta Burro. I know the place. You'll find your horse and asaddle when you are able to ride. "

The bandit's eyes glistened as he watched Waring depart. If the gringoentered the house of Pedro Salazar, he would not find the gold and hewould not come out alive. The gringo gunman had killed the brother ofPedro Salazar down in the desert country years ago. And Salazar had hadnothing to do with the Ortez Mine robbery. Vaca thought that the goldwas still safe in his tapaderas. The gringo was a fool. 

Waring led the two saddled horses to the house. Ramon, coming from thekitchen, blinked in the sunlight. 

"It is my horse, but not my saddle, señor. "

"You are an honest man, " laughed Waring. "But we won't change saddles. Come on!"

Ramon mounted and rode beside Waring until they were out of sight of theranch-house, when Waring reined up. 

"Where is that money?" he asked suddenly. 

"I do not know, señor. "

"Did you know where it was yesterday?"

Ramon hesitated. Was this a trap? Waring's level gaze held the youngMexican to a straight answer. 

"Si, señor. I knew--yesterday. "

"You knew; but you didn't talk up when your uncle tried to run me intoPedro Salazar. "

"I--he is of my family. "

"Well, I don't blame you. I see that you can keep from talking when youhave to. And now is your chance to do a lot of keeping still. I'm goingto ride into Sonora ahead of you. When you get in, go home and forgetthat you made this journey. If your folks ask where your uncle is, tellthem that he rode south and that you turned back. Because you did didn'tlie to me, and because you did didn't show yellow, I'm going to give youa chance to get out of this. I let your uncle go because he would havegiven you away to save himself the minute I jailed him in Sonora. It'sup to you to keep out of trouble. You've had a scare that ought to lastyou. Take your time and hit Sonora about sundown. Adios. "

"But--señor!"

Waring whirled his horse. "A good rider shoves his foot clear home, " hecalled as he loped away. 

Ramon sat his horse, gazing at the little puffs of dust that shot fromthe hoofs of the big buckskin. Surely the gringo was mad! Yet he was aman of big heart. Perplexed, stunned by the realization that he wasalone and free, the young Mexican gazed about him. Waring was a tinyfigure in the distance. Ramon dismounted and examined the emptytapaderas. 

Heretofore he had considered subtlety, trickery, qualities to bedesired, and not incompatible with honor. In a flash he realized thedifference, the distinction between trickery and keenness of mind. Hehad been awed by his uncle's reputation and proud to name him of thisfamily. Now he saw him for what he was. "My Uncle José is a bad man, " hesaid to himself. "The other, --the gringo whom men call 'The Killer, '--heis a hard man, but assuredly he is not bad. "

When Ramon spoke to his horse his voice trembled. His hand drifted up tothe little silver crucifix on his breast. A vague glimmer ofunderstanding, a sense of the real significance of the emblem heartenedhim to face the journey homeward and the questions of his kin. And, above all, he felt an admiration for the gringo that grew by degrees ashe rode on. He could follow such a man to the end of the world, evenacross the border of the Great Unknown, for surely such a leader wouldnot lose the way. 

 * * * * *

Three men sat in the office of the Ortez Mines, smoking and sayinglittle. Donovan, the manager; the paymaster, Quigley; and the assistantmanager, a young American fresh from the East. Waring's name wasmentioned. Three days ago he had ridden south after the bandits. Hemight return. He might not. 

"I'd like to see him ride in, " said Donovan, turning to the paymaster. 

"And you hate him at that, " said Quigley. 

"I don't say so. But if he was paymaster here, he'd put the fear of Godinto some of those greasers. "

Quigley flushed. "You didn't hire me to chase greasers, Donovan. I'm nogunman. "

"No, " said Donovan slowly. "I had you sized up. "

"Oh, cut out that stuff!" said the assistant manager, smiling. "Thatwon't balance the pay-roll. "

"No. But I'm going to cut down expenses. " And Donovan eyed Quigley. "JimWaring is too dam' high and mighty to suit me. Every time he tackles ajob he is the big boss till it's done. If he comes back, all right. Ifhe don't--we'll charge it up to profit and loss. But his name goes offthe pay-roll to-day. "

Quigley grinned. He knew that Donovan was afraid of Waring. Waring wasthe one man in Donovan's employ that he could not bully. Moreover, thebig Irishman hated to pay Waring's price, which was stiff. 

"How about a raise of twenty-five a month, then?" queried Quigley. 

To his surprise, Donovan nodded genially. "You're on, Jack. And thatgoes the minute Waring shows up with the money. If he doesn't showup--why, that raise can wait. "

"Then I'll just date the change to-day, " said Quigley. "Take a look downthe street. "

Donovan rose heavily and stepped to the window. "By God, it's Waring, all right! He's afoot. What's that he's packing?"

"A canteen, " said the assistant manager. "This is a dry country. "

Donovan returned to his desk. "Get busy, at something. We don't want tosit here like a lot of stuffed buzzards. We're glad to see Waring back, of course. You two can drift out when I get to talking business withhim. "

Quigley nodded and took up his pen. The assistant manager studied a map. 

Waring strode in briskly. The paymaster glanced up and nodded, expectingDonovan to speak. But Donovan sat with his back toward Waring, his headwreathed in tobacco smoke. He was apparently absorbed in a letter. 

The gunman paused halfway across the office. Quigley fidgeted. Theassistant superintendent stole a glance at Donovan's broad back andsmiled. All three seemed waiting for Waring to speak. Quigley ratherenjoyed the situation. The assistant superintendent's scalp prickledwith restrained excitement. 

He rose and stepped to Donovan. "Mr. Donovan, Mr. Waring is here. "

"Thanks, " said Waring, nodding to the assistant. 

Donovan heaved himself round. "Why, hello, Jim! I didn't hear you comein. "

Waring's cool gray eyes held Donovan with a mildly contemptuous gaze. Still the gunman did not speak. 

"Did you land 'em?" queried Donovan. 

Waring shook his head. 

"Hell!" exclaimed Donovan. "Then, what's the answer?"

"Bill, you can't bluff worth a damn!"

Quigley laughed. The assistant mopped his face with an immaculatehandkerchief. The room was hot. 

"Bill, " and Waring's voice was softly insulting, "you can't bluff wortha damn. "

Donovan's red face grew redder. "What are you driving at, anyway?"

Quigley stirred and rose. The assistant got to his feet. 

"Just a minute, " said Waring, gesturing to them to sit down. "Donovan'sgot something on his mind. I knew it the minute I came in. I want youfellows to hear it. "

Donovan flung his half-smoked cigar to the floor and lighted a freshone. Waring's attitude irritated him. Officially, Donovan was Waring'ssuperior. Man to man, the Sonora gunman was Donovan's master, and theIrishman knew and resented it. 

He tried a new tack. "Glad to see you back, Jim. " And he rose and stuckout a sweating hand. 

Waring swung the canteen from his shoulder and carefully hung the strapover Donovan's wrist. "There's your money, Bill. Count it--and give me areceipt. "

Donovan, with the dusty canteen dangling from his arm, lookedexceedingly foolish. 

Waring turned to Quigley. "Bill's got a stroke, " he said, smiling. "Quigley, give me a receipt for a thousand dollars. "

"Sure!" said Quigley, relieved. The money had been stolen from him. 

Waring pulled up a chair and leaned his elbows on the table. Quigleyunscrewed the cap of the canteen. A stream of sand shot across a map. The assistant started to his feet. Quigley shook the canteen and pouredout a softly clinking pile of gold-pieces. One by one he sorted themfrom the sand and counted them. 

"One thousand even. Where'd you overtake Vaca and his outfit?"

"Did I?" queried Waring. 

"Well, you got the mazuma, " said Quigley. "And that's good enough forme. "

Donovan stepped to the table. "Williams, I won't need you any moreto-day. "

The assistant rose and left the office. Donovan pulled up a chair. "Never mind about that receipt, Quigley. You can witness that Waringreturned the money. Jim, here, is not so dam' particular. "

"No, or I wouldn't be on your pay-roll, " said Waring. 

Donovan laughed. "Let's get down to bed-rock, Jim. I'm paying you yourown price for this work. The Eastern office thinks I pay too high. I gota letter yesterday telling me to cut down expenses. This last holdupwill make them sore. Here's the proposition. I'll keep you on thepay-roll and charge this thousand up to profit and loss. Nobody knowsyou recovered this money except Williams, and he'll keep still. Quigleyand you and I will split it--three hundred apiece. "

"Suppose I stay out of the deal, " said Waring. 

"Why, that's all right. I guess we can get along. "

Quigley glanced quickly at Waring. Donovan's proposal was an insultintended to provoke a quarrel that would lead to Waring's dismissal fromthe service of the Ortez Mines. Or if Waring were to agree to thesuggestion, Donovan would have pulled Waring down to his own level. 

Waring slowly rolled a cigarette. "Make out my check, " he said, turningto Quigley. 

Donovan sighed. Waring was going to quit. That was good. It had beeneasy enough. 

Quigley drafted a check and handed it to Donovan to sign. As thepaymaster began to gather up the money on the table, Waring pocketed thecheck and rose, watching Quigley's nervous hands. 

As Quigley tied the sack and picked it up, Waring reached out his arm. "Give it to me, " he said quietly. Quigley laughed. Waring's eyes wereunreadable. 

The smile faded from Quigley's face. Without knowing just why he did it, he relinquished the sack. 

Waring turned to Donovan. "I'll take care of this, Bill. As I told youbefore, you can't bluff worth a damn. "

Waring strode to the door. At Quigley's choked exclamation of protest, the gunman whirled round. Donovan stood by the desk, a gun weaving inhis hand. 

"You ought to know better than to pull a gun on me, " said Waring. "Neverthrow down on a man unless you mean business, Bill. "

The door clicked shut. 

Donovan stood gazing stupidly at Quigley. "By cripes!" he flamedsuddenly. "I'll put Jim Waring where he belongs. He can't run a whizzerlike that on me!"

"I'd go slow, " said Quigley. "You don't know what kind of a game Waringwill play. "

Donovan grabbed the telephone and called up the Sonora police. 

Chapter IV

_The Silver Crucifix_

When in Sonora, Waring frequented the Plaza Hotel. He had arranged withthe management that his room should always be ready for him, day ornight. The location was advantageous. Nearly all the Americans visitingSonora and many resident Americans stopped at the Plaza. Waringfrequently picked up valuable bits of news as he lounged in the lobby. Quietly garbed when in town, he passed for a well-to-do rancher ormining man. His manner invited no confidences. He was left much tohimself. Men who knew him deemed him unaccountable in that he neverdrank with them and seldom spoke unless spoken to. The employees of thehotel had grown accustomed to his comings and goings, though they seldomknew where he went or definitely when he would return. His mildness ofmanner was a source of comment among those who knew him for what he was. And his very mildness of manner was one of his greatest assets ingaining information. Essentially a man of action, silent as to his plansand surmises, yet he could talk well when occasion demanded. 

It was rumored that he was in the employ of the American Government;that he had been disappointed in a love affair; that he had a wife andson living somewhere in the States; that for very good reasons he couldnot return to the States; that he was a dangerous man, well paid by theMexican Government to handle political matters that would not bearpublic inspection. These rumors came to him from time to time, andbecause he paid no attention to them they were accepted as facts. 

About an hour after he had left Donovan's office, Waring entered thePlaza Hotel, nodded to the clerk, and passed on down the hallway. Heknocked at a door, and was answered by the appearance of a stout, smooth-shaven man in shirt-sleeves. They chatted for a minute or two. Waring stepped into the room. Presently he reappeared, smiling. 

After dinner he strolled out and down the street. At a corner he edgedthrough the crowd, and was striding on when some one touched his arm. Heturned to confront the Mexican youth, Ramon. Waring gestured to Ramon tofollow, and they passed on down the street until near the edge of thetown. In the shadow of an adobe, Waring stopped. 

Ramon glanced up and down the street. "The police--they have asked mewhere is my Uncle José. I have told them that I do not know. The policethey asked me that. "

"Well?"

"But it is not that why I come. They told me to go to my home. It waswhen I was in the prison that the policia talked in the telephone. Hespoke your name and the name of Señor Bill Donovan of the Ortez Mine. Iheard only your name and his, but I was afraid. You will not tell themthat I was with my Uncle José?"

"No. And thanks, Ramon. I think I know what they were talking about. Goback home, pronto. If you were to be seen with me--"

"The señor is gracious. He has given me my life. I have nothing togive--but this. " And Ramon drew the little silver crucifix from hisshirt and pressed it in Waring's hand. 

"Oh, here, muchacho--"

But Ramon was already hastening down a side street. Waring smiled andshook his head. For a moment he stood looking at the little crucifixshining on the palm of his hand. He slipped it into his pocket andstrode back up the street. For an hour or more he walked about, listening casually to this or that bit of conversation. Occasionally heheard Mexicans discussing the Ortez robbery. Donovan's name, Waring'sown name, Vaca's, and even Ramon's were mentioned. It seemed strange tohim that news should breed so fast. Few knew that he had returned. Possibly Donovan had spread the report that the bandits had made theirescape with the money. That would mean that Waring had been outwitted. And Donovan would like nothing better than to injure Waring'sreputation. 

Finding himself opposite the hotel, Waring glanced about and strode in. As he entered the hallway leading to his room three men rose from theleather chairs near the lobby window and followed him. Waring's doorclosed. He undressed and went to bed. He had been asleep but a fewminutes when some one rapped on the door. He asked who it was. He wastold to open in the name of the city of Sonora. He rose and dressedquickly. 

When he opened the door two Sonora policemen told him to put up hishands. Donovan stood back of them, chewing a cigar. One of the policementook Waring's gun. The other searched the room. Evidently he did notfind what he sought. 

"When you get through, " said Waring, eyeing Donovan grimly, "you mighttell me what you're after. "

"I'm after that thousand, " said Donovan. 

"Oh! Well, why didn't you say so? Just call in Stanley, of the bank. Hisroom is opposite. "

Donovan hesitated. "Stanley's got nothing to do with this. "

"Hasn't he?" queried Waring. "Call him in and see. "

One of the police knocked at Stanley's door. 

The bank cashier appeared, rubbing his eyes. "Hello, Bill! Hello, Jim!What's the fuss?"

"Stanley, did I deposit a thousand dollars in gold to the credit of theOrtez Mine this afternoon?"

"You did. "

"Just show Donovan here the receipt I asked you to keep for me. "

"All right. I'll get it. "

Donovan glanced at the receipt. "Pretty smooth, " he muttered. 

Waring smiled. His silence enraged Donovan, who motioned to the policeto leave the room. 

Waring interrupted. "My gun?" he queried mildly. 

One of the police handed the gun to Waring. 

Their eyes met. "Why, hello, Pedro!" And Waring's voice expressedinnocent surprise. "When did you enroll as a policeman?"

Donovan was about to interrupt when the policeman spoke: "That is mybusiness. "

"Which means Bill here has had you sworn in to-day. Knew you would liketo get a crack at me, eh? You ought to know better, Salazar. "

"Come on!" called Donovan. 

The Mexicans followed him down the hallway. 

Waring thanked Stanley. "It was a frame-up to get me, Frank, " heconcluded. "Pedro Salazar would like the chance, and as a policeman hecould work it. You know that old game--resisting arrest. "

"Doesn't seem to worry you, " said Stanley. 

"No. I'm leaving town. I'm through with this game. "

"Getting too hot?"

"No. I'm getting cold feet, " said Waring, laughing. "And say, Stanley, I may need a little money to-morrow. "

"Any time, Jim. "

Waring nodded. Back in his room he sat for a while on the edge of thebed, gazing at the curtained window. Life had gone stale. He was sick ofhunting men and of being hunted. Pedro Salazar was now a member of theSonora police through Donovan's efforts. Eventually Salazar would findan excuse to shoot Waring. And the gunman had made up his mind to do nomore killing. For that reason he had spared Vaca and had befriendedRamon. He decided to leave Sonora. 

Presently he rose and dressed in his desert clothes. As he went throughhis pockets he came upon the little silver crucifix and transferred it, with some loose change, to his riding-breeches. He turned out the light, locked the room from the outside, and strode out of the hotel. 

At the livery-stable, he asked for his horse. The man in charge told himthat Dex had been taken by the police. That the Señor Bill Donovan andPedro Salazar had come and shown him a paper, --he could not read, --buthe knew the big seal. It was Pedro Salazar who had ridden the horse. 

The streets were still lighted, although the crowd was thinning. Waringturned a corner and drifted through the shadows toward the edge of town. As he passed open doorways he was greeted in Mexican, and returned eachgreeting pleasantly. The adobe at the end of the side street he was onwas dark. 

Waring paused. Pedro Salazar's house was the only unlighted house in thedistrict. The circumstance hinted of an ambushment. Waring crossed tothe deeper shadows and whistled. The call was peculiarly low andcajoling. He was answered by a muffled nickering. His horse Dex wasevidently corralled at the back of the adobe. 

Pedro Salazar knew that Waring would come for the horse sooner or later, so he waited, crouching behind the adobe wall of the enclosure. 

Waring knocked loudly on Salazar's door and called his name. Then heturned and ran to the corner, dodged round it, and crept along thebreast-high adobe wall. He whistled again. A rope snapped, and therecame the sound of quick trampling. A rush and the great, tawny shape ofDexter reared in the moonlight and swept over the wall. With head up, the horse snorted a challenge. Waring called softly. The horse wheeledtoward him. Waring caught the broken neck-rope and swung up. A flash cutthe darkness behind him. Instinctively he turned and threw two shots. Afigure crumpled to a dim blur in the corral. 

Waring raced down the alley and out into the street. At thelivery-stable he asked for his saddle and bridle. The Mexican, chattering, brought them. Waring tugged the cinchas tight and mounted. Far down the street some one called. 

Waring rode to the hotel, dismounted, and strode in casually, pausing atStanley's door. The cashier answered his knock. 

"I'm off, " said Waring. "And I'll need some money. "

"All right, Jim. What's up? How much?"

"A couple of hundred. Charge it back to my account. Got it?"

"No. I'll get it at the desk. "

"All right. Settle my bill for me to-morrow. Don't stop to dress. Rustle!"

A belated lounger glanced up in surprise as Waring, booted and spurred, entered the lobby with a man in pajamas. They talked with the clerk amoment, shook hands, and Waring strode to the doorway. 

"Any word for the Ortez people?" queried Stanley as Waring mounted. 

"I left a little notice for Donovan--at Pedro Salazar's house, " saidWaring. "Donovan will understand. " And Waring was gone. 

The lounger accosted Stanley. "What's the row, Stanley?"

"I don't know. Jim Waring is in a hurry--first time since I've knownhim. Figure it out yourself. "

Back in Pedro Salazar's corral a man lay huddled in a dim corner, hissightless eyes open to the soft radiance of the Sonora moon. A group ofMexicans stood about, jabbering. Among them was Ramon Ortego. Ramonlistened and said nothing. Pedro Salazar was dead. No one knew who hadkilled him. And only that day he had become one of the police! It wouldgo hard with the man who did this thing. There were many surmises. Pedro's brother had been killed by the gringo Waring down in the desert. As for Pedro, his name had been none too good. They shrugged theirshoulders and crossed themselves. 

Ramon slipped from the group and climbed the adobe wall. As hestraightened up on the other side, he saw something gleaming in themoonlight. He stooped and picked up a little silver crucifix. 

CHAPTER V

_The Tang of Life_

Waring rode until dawn, when he picketed Dex in a clump of chaparral andlay down to rest. He had purposely passed the water-hole, a half-milesouth, after having watered the horse and refilled his canteen. 

There was a distinction, even in Sonora, between Pedro Salazar, thecitizen, and Pedro Salazar, of the Sonora police. The rurales might getbusy. Nogales and the Arizona line were still a long ride ahead. 

Slowly the desert sun drew overhead and swept the scant shadows from thebrush-walled enclosure. Waring slept. Finally the big buckskin becamerestless, circling his picket and lifting his head to peer over thebrush. Long before Waring could have been aware of it, had he beenawake, the horse saw a moving something on the southern horizon. Trainedto the game by years of association with his master, Dex walked to whereWaring lay and nosed his arm. The gunman rolled to his side and peeredthrough the chaparral. 

Far in the south a moving dot wavered in the sun. Waring swept thesouthern arc with his glasses. The moving dot was a Mexican, a horsemanriding alone. He rode fast. Waring could see the rise and fall of aquirt. "Some one killing a horse to get somewhere, " he muttered, and hesaddled Dex and waited. The tiny figure drew nearer. Dex grew restless. Waring quieted him with a word. 

To the west of the chaparral lay the trail, paralleled at a distance ofa half-mile by the railroad. The glasses discovered the lone horseman tobe Ramon, of Sonora. The boy swayed in the saddle as the horse lungedon. Waring knew that something of grave import had sent the boy out intothe noon desert. He was at first inclined to let him pass and then rideeast toward the Sierra Madre. If the rurales were following, they wouldtrail Dex to the water-hole. And if Ramon rode on north, some of themwould trail the Mexican. This would split up the band--decrease the oddsby perhaps one half. 

But the idea faded from Waring's mind as he saw the boy fling pastdesperately. Waring swung to the saddle and rode out. Ramon's horseplunged to a stop, and stood trembling. The boy all but fell as hedismounted. Stumbling toward Waring, he held out both hands. 

"Señor, the rurales!" he gasped. 

"How far behind?"

"The railroad! They are ahead! They have shipped their horses toMagdalena, to Nogales!"

"How do you know that?"

"Pedro Salazar is dead. You were gone. They say it was you. "

"So they shipped their horses ahead to cut me off, eh? You're a goodboy, Ramon, but I don't know what in hell to do with you. Your cayuse isplayed out. You made a good ride. "

"Si, señor. I have not stopped once. "

"You look it. You can't go back now. They would shoot you. "

"I will ride with the señor. "

Waring shook his head. 

Ramon's eyes grew desperate. "Señor, " he pleaded, "take me with you! Icannot go back. I will be your man--follow you, even into the GreatBeyond. You will not lose the way. "

And as Ramon spoke he touched the little crucifix on his breast. 

"Where did you find _that?_" asked Waring. 

"In the Placeta Burro; near the house of Pedro Salazar. "

Waring nodded. "Has your horse had water?"

"No, señor. I did not stop. "

"Take him back to the water-hole. Or, here! Crawl in there and rest up. You are all in. I'll take care of the cayuse. "

When Waring returned to the chaparral, Ramon was asleep, flat on hisback, his arms outspread and his mouth open. Waring touched him with hisboot. Ramon muttered. Waring stooped and pulled him up. 

Within the hour five rurales disembarked from a box-car and crossed tothe water-hole, where one of them dismounted and searched for tracks. Alert for the appearance of the gringo, they rode slowly toward thechaparral. The enclosure was empty. After riding a wide circle round thebrush, they turned and followed the tracks toward the eastern hills, rein-chains jingling and their silver-trimmed buckskin jacketsshimmering in the sun. 

 * * * * *

"I will ride back, " said Ramon. "My horse is too weak to follow. Theseñor rides slowly that I may keep up with him. "

Waring turned in the saddle. Ahead lay the shadowy foothills of themother range, vague masses in the starlight. Some thirty miles behindwas the railroad and the trail north. There was no chance of picking upa fresh horse. The country was uninhabited. Alone, the gunman would haveridden swiftly to the hill country, where his trail would have been lostin the rocky ground of the ranges and where he would have had theadvantage of an unobstructed outlook from the high trails. 

Ramon had said the rurales had entrained; were ahead of him to intercepthim. But Waring, wise in his craft, knew that the man-hunters wouldsearch for tracks at every water-hole on the long northern trail. And ifthey found his tracks they would follow him to the hills. They were askeen on the trail as Yaquis and as relentless as wolves. Their horses, raw-hide tough, could stand a forced ride that would kill an ordinaryhorse. And Ramon's wiry little cayuse, though willing to go on until hedropped, could not last much longer. 

But to leave Ramon to the rurales was not in Waring's mind. "We'll keepon, amigo, " he said, "and in a few hours we'll know whether it's to be aride or a fight. "

"I shall pray, " whispered Ramon. 

"For a fresh horse, then. "

"No, señor. That would be of no use. I shall pray that you may escape. As for me--"

"We'll hit the glory trail together, muchacho. If you get bumped off, it's your own funeral. You should have stayed in Sonora. "

Ramon sighed. The señor was a strange man. Even now he hummed a song inthe starlight. Was he, then, so unafraid of death that he could sing inthe very shadow of its wings?

"You've got a hunch that the rurales are on our trail, " said Waring, asthey rode on. 

"It is so, señor. "

"How do you know?"

"I cannot say. But it is so. They have left the railroad and arefollowing us. "

Waring smiled in the dark. "Dex, here, has been trying to tell me thatfor an hour. "

"And still the señor does not hasten!"

"I am giving your cayuse a chance to make the grade. We'll ride an hourlonger. "

Ramon bowed his head. The horses plodded on, working up the firstgentle slope of the foothills. The brush loomed heavier. A hill starfaded on the edge of the higher range. Ramon's lips moved and he crossedhimself. 

Waring hummed a song. He was not unhappy. The tang of life was hisagain. Again he followed a trail down which the light feet of Romanceran swiftly. The past, with its red flare of life, its keen memories anddulled regrets, was swept away by the promise of dawn and the unknown. "A clean break and a hard fight, " he murmured, as he reined up to resthis horse. Turning, he could distinguish Ramon, who fingered thecrucifix at his throat. Waring's face grew grim. He felt suddenlyaccountable for the boy's life. 

The half-moon glowed against the edge of the world. About to ride onagain, Waring saw a tiny group of horsemen silhouetted against thehalf-disk of burning silver. He spoke to his horse. Slowly they climbedthe ridge, dropped down the eastern slope, and climbed again. 

In a shallow valley, Waring reined up, unsaddled Dex, and turned himloose. Ramon questioned this. "Turn your horse loose, " said Waring. "They'll keep together and find water. "

Ramon shook his head, but did as he was told. Wearily he followed Waringas he climbed back to a rocky depression on the crest. Without a wordWaring stretched behind a rock and was soon asleep. Ramon wondered atthe other's indifference to danger, but fatigue finally overcame him andhe slept. 

Just before dawn Ramon awakened and touched

Waring. "They are coming!" he whispered. 

Waring shook his head. "You hear our horses. The rurales won't ride intothis pocket before daylight. Stay right here till I come back. "

He rose and worked cautiously down the eastern slope, searching for Dexin the valley. In the gray gloom he saw the outline of his horse grazingalone. He stepped down to him. The big horse raised its head. Waringspoke. Reassured, Dex plodded to his master, who turned and tracked backto the pocket in the rocks. "I think your cayuse has drifted south, " hetold Ramon. 

The young Mexican showed no surprise. He seemed resigned to thesituation. "I knew when the señor said to turn my horse loose that hewould seek the horses of his kind. He has gone back to the horses ofthose who follow us. "

"You said it" said Waring. "And that's going to bother them. It tells methat the rurales are not far behind. They'll figure that I put you outof business to get rid of you. They'll look for a dead Mexican, and alive 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, getback of the next ridge, and strike south. Locate their horses and waittill they leave them to come up here. Get a horse. Pick a good one. I'llkeep 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 creptback to the rim and lay waiting, a handful of rifle shells loose on aflat rock in front of him. He munched some dried meat and drank from thecanteen. 

The red dawn faded quickly to a keen white light. Heat waves ran overthe rocks and danced down the hillside. Waring lighted a match andblackened the front sight of his carbine. The sun rolled up and struckat him, burning into the pocket of rock where he lay motionless gazingdown the slope. Sweat beaded his forehead and trickled down his nose. Scattered boulders seemed to move gently. He closed his eyes for aninstant. When he opened them he thought he saw a movement in the brushbelow. The heat burned into his back, and he shrugged his shoulders. Atiny 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 straightagainst the distant background of brownish-green. Waring smiled. He knewthat if he were to fire, the rurales would rush him. They suspected somekind of a trap. Waring's one chance was to wait until they had given upevery ruse to draw his fire. They were not certain of his whereabouts, but were suspicious of that natural fortress of rock. There was not arural in Old Mexico who did not know him either personally or byreputation. The fact that one of them had offered himself as a possibletarget proved that they knew they had to deal with a man as crafty asthemselves. 

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 canlook down on this pocket, but I won't be here. "

Waring planned every move with that care and instinct which marks a goodchess-player. And because he had to count upon possibilities far aheadhe drew Ramon's saddle to him and cut the stirrup-leathers, cinchas, andlatigos. If Ramon got one of their horses, his own jaded animal would beleft. 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 stagnantheat. The silence seemed like an ocean rolling in soundless waves acrossthe hills; a silence that became disturbed by a faint sound as of oneapproaching cautiously. Waring thought Ramon had shown cleverness inworking up to him so quietly. He raised on his elbow and turned hishead. On the eastern edge of the pocket stood a rural, and the ruralsmiled. 

Chapter VI

_Arizona_

Waring, who had known the man in Sonora, called him by name. The other'ssmile faded, and his eyes narrowed. Waring thrust up his hands andjokingly 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 andturned 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 puzzledthat his call should have been answered so promptly. He knew that hiscompanions had gone for their horses, picketed some distance from thepocket. 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 hisforehead, a gun in his hand. Waring drew a deep breath. Would Ramonbungle it by calling out, or would he have nerve enough to make an endof it on the instant?

Although Waring was unarmed, the rural dared not turn. The gringo hadbeen known to slip out of as tight a place despite the threat of a gunalmost against his chest. With a despondent shrug, Waring lowered hisarms. 

"You win the throw, " he said hopelessly. 

Still the Mexican dared not take his eyes from Waring. He would waituntil his companions appeared. 

A few yards behind the rural, Ramon reined up. Slowly he lowered themuzzle of his gun. The rural called the name of one of his fellows. Theanswer came in a blunt crash, which rippled its harsh echoes across thesounding hills. The rural flung up his arms and pitched forward, rollingto Waring's feet. The gunman leaped up, and, snatching his carbine fromthe rock, swung round and took his six-gun from the rural's limpfingers. Plunging to the brush beyond the pocket, he swung to the saddleand shot down the slope. Behind him he could hear Ramon's horsescattering the loose rock of the hillside. A bullet struck ahead of himand whined across the silence. A shrill call told him that the pursuershad discovered the body of their fellow. 

Dex, with ears laid back, took the ragged grade in great, uneven leapsthat shortened to a regular stride as they gained the level of thevalley. Glancing back, Waring saw Ramon but a few yards behind. Hesignaled 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 heindicated the range west. Under cover of the brush they angled acrossthe valley and began the ascent of the range which hid the westerndesert. 

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 afiesta, hombre; this is business. "

Ramon turned and put his horse up the slope, Dex following. Waringcurled behind a rock and swept the valley with his glass. The heads ofseveral rurales were visible in the brush. They had halted and werelooking for tracks. Finally one of them raised his arm and pointedtoward 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 longshot from where Waring lay. He centered on the leading rural, allowedfor a chance of overshooting, and pressed the trigger. The carbinesnarled. An echo ripped the shimmering heat. A horse reared and plungedup the valley, the saddle empty. 

Waring rose, and plodded up the slope. 

"Three would have trailed us. Two will ride back to the railroad andreport. I wonder how many of them are bushed along the trail betweenhere and Nogales?"

In the American custom-house at Nogales sat a lean, lank man gazing outof a window facing the south. His chair was tilted back, and his largefeet were crossed on the desk in front of him. He was in hisshirt-sleeves, and he puffed indolently at a cigar and blew smoke-ringstoward the ceiling. Incidentally his name was known throughout thecountry and beyond its southern borders. But if this distinctionaffected him in any way it was not evident. He seemed submerged in alassitude which he neither invited nor struggled against. 

A group of riders appeared down the road. The lean man brushed a cloudof smoke away and gazed at them with indifference. They drew nearer. Hesaw that they were Mexicans--rurales. Without turning his head, hecalled 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 theline. "

The lean man said nothing. He continued to gaze out of the window. Thewhite road ran south and south into the very haze of the beyond. Hisassistant picked up a hat and strolled out. A few doors down the streetstood several excellent saddle animals tied to the hitching-rail infront of the cantina. He didn't need to be told that they were thepicked horses of the rurales, and that for some strange reason hissuperior had sent him to find out just why these same rurales were intown. 

He entered the cantina and called for a drink. The lithe, dark riders ofthe south, grouped round a table in one corner of the room, glanced up, answered his general nod of salutation indifferently, and turned to talkamong themselves. Catering to authority, the Mexican proprietorproffered a second drink to the Americano. The assistant collector toyedwith his glass, and began a lazy conversation about the weather. Theproprietor, his fat, oily face in his hands and his elbows on the bar, grunted monosyllables, occasionally nodding as the Americano forced hisacknowledgment of a highly obvious platitude. 

And the assistant collector, listening for a chance word that wouldexplain the presence of armed Mexico on American soil, knew that theproprietor was also listening for that same word that might explaintheir unprecedented visit. Presently the assistant collector of customsbegan a tirade against Nogales, its climate, institutions, and citizenscollectively and singly. The proprietor awoke to argument. Their talkgrew loud. The assistant collector thumped the bar with his fist, andceased talking suddenly. A subdued buzz came from the corner where therurales sat, and he caught the name "Waring. "

"And the whole town ain't worth the matches to burn it up, " hecontinued. "If it wasn't for Pat, I'd quit right now. " And he emptiedhis 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 Waringisn'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 thedesk. The collector fumbled among some papers and drew out a bulky seedcatalogue, illustrated in glowing tints. 

"Oh, I'll buy, " laughed the assistant. "I reckon if I asked for apicture 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 JimWaring in Las Cruces. He was a kid then, but a comer. Had kind oflight, curly hair. His face was as smooth as a girl's. He wasn't whatyou'd call a dude, but his clothes always looked good on him. Wimminkind of liked him, but he never paid much attention to them. He workedfor me as deputy a spell, and I never hired a better man. But hewouldn't stay with one job long. When Las Cruces got quiet he pulled hisfreight. Next I heard of him he was married and living in Sonora. Itdidn't take Diaz long to find out that he could use him. Waring was awizard with a gun--and he had the nerve back of it. But Waring quitDiaz, for Jim wasn't that kind of a killer. I guess he found plenty ofwork down there. He never was one to lay around living on his reputationand waiting for nothing to happen. He kept his reputation sprouting newshoots 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 notstoppin' by to make a little explanation. "

The lank man nodded. "There's a time coming when they'll do more thanthat. That old man down south is losing his grip. I don't say this forgeneral information. And if Jim Waring happens to ride into town, justtell him who you are and pinch him for smuggling; unless I see himfirst. "

"What did I ever do to you?"

Pat laughed silently. "Oh, he ain't a fool. It's only a fool that'llthrow away a chance to play safe. "

"You got me interested in that Waring hombre. I'll sure nail him likeyou said; but if he goes for his gun I don't want you plantin' nocucumber seed on my restin'-place. Guess I'll finish those reports. "

The lank man yawned, and, rising, strode to the window. The assistantsauntered to the inner office and drew up to his desk. "Pablo's whiskeyis 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 blazingnoons on the high mesas and black nights in huddled adobe towns; LasCruces, Albuquerque, Caliente, Santa Fé--and weary ponies at thehitching-rails. 

Once, on an afternoon like this, he had ridden into town with a prisonerbeside him, a youth whose lightning-swift hand had snuffed out a scoreof lives to avenge the killing of a friend. The collector recalled thaton 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 samekind of a road--dusty, sun-white, edged with low brush. And down theroad, pace for pace with his thoughts, strode a buckskin horse, riddenby a man road-weary, gray with dust. Beside him rode a youth, his headbowed 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 deskand 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 flutteredthe 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, " hetold the assistant. 

Ramon, too weary to expostulate, followed the assistant to a corral backof 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 fromthe 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 thatdemanded Waring as prisoner. The collector, addressing the leader of therurales, suggested that they talk it over in the cantina. "And don'tforget you're on the wrong side of the line, " he added. 

The Captain of rurales and one of his men dismounted and followed theAmericans into the cantina. The leader of the rurales immediatelyexhibited a warrant for the arrest of Waring, signed by a high officialand sealed with the great seal of Mexico. The collector returned thewarrant 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 aheadof 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 surrenderto me one Ramon Ortego, of Sonora, who aided this man to escape, and whois 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 thecollector. "But he is under arrest for smuggling. He rode a horseacross 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 seizedthe horse of an Americano--in Sonora. "

The rural stopped short and turned as though awaiting furtherinstructions from his chief. The collector of customs rose and saunteredto the doorway. Leaning against the lintel, he lighted a cigar andsmoked, gazing at Waring's horse with an appreciative eye. The captainof rurales, seated opposite Waring, rolled a cigarette carefully; toocarefully, thought Waring, for a Mexican who had been daring enough toride across the line with armed men. Outside in the fading sunlight, thehorses of the rurales stamped and fretted. The cantina was strangelysilent. In the doorway stood the collector, smoking and toying with hiswatch-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 thequestion. 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 turnedback 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 hisleft hand. The assistant pushed back his hat and rumpled his black hair. 

All official significance set aside, Waring and the captain of ruralesfaced each other with the blunt challenge between them: "You didn't getyour man!"

The captain glanced at the two quiet figures in the doorway. Beyond themwere his own men, but between him and his command were two of thefastest guns in the Southwest. He was on alien ground. This gringo hadinsulted 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 captainas though waiting for him to depart. "You'll find that horse in thecorral--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 Americansfollowed a few paces behind. Opposite the office, they paused. 

"Go along with 'em and see that they get the right horse, " said thecollector. 

The assistant hesitated. 

The collector laughed. "Shake hands with Jim Waring, Jack. "

When the assistant had gone, the collector turned to Waring. "That'sJack 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' youhe thinks you're some smooth for not pullin' a fight when it looked likenothing 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 withslow emphasis, "you're makin' mighty free and familiar for a prisonerarrested for smuggling. Mebby you're all right personal, but officiallyI got a case against you. What do you know about raising cucumbers? Igot a catalogue in the office, and me and Jack has been aiming to raisecucumbers from it for three months. I like 'em. Jack says you can't doit 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 LasCruces way--"

"Let's go back to the cantina and talk it out. There goes Mexico leadinga horse with an empty saddle. I guess the boy will be all right in theoffice. "

"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 inhills and irrigate. I aim to just drill 'em in and let the A'mighty dothe rest. What do you think?"

"I think you're getting worse as you grow older, Pat. Say, did you everget 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 morralof grain from the saddle, and, slipping Dex's bridle, adjusted it. 

The rugged, lean face of the collector beamed. "I wondered if youthought as much of 'em as you used to. I aimed to see if I could makeyou 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 hisassistant. "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 yourhands and feet agoing and one ear laid back, you call us old because wechew slow. But you're right. Jim and I are getting kind of gray aroundthe ears. "

"Well, you fellas can fight it out. I came over to say that them ruralesgot their hoss. But one of 'em let it slip, in Mexican, that theyweren't through yet. "

"So?" said Pat. "Well, you go ahead and feed the stock. We'll be over tothe house poco tiempo. "

Waring and the collector entered the cantina. For a long time they satin 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 myshare of trouble. "

"Here, too, " said the collector. "I've put by enough to get a littleplace up north--cattle--and take it easy. That's why I stuck it out downhere. 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 straightAmerican, if he's living now. "

"You might stop by at Stacey, on the Santa Fé, " said the collectorcasually. "There's some folks running a hotel up there that you used toknow. "

Waring thanked him with a glance. "We don't need a drink and the sun isdown. Where do you eat?"

"We'll get Jack to rustle some grub. You and the boy can bunk in theoffice. 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'mplumb sick of the border. "

"If they do--" And Waring rose. 

The collector's hard-lined face softened for an instant. He thrust outhis bony hand. "I'll leave that to you, Jim. "

And that night, because each was a gunman unsurpassed in his grimprofession, they laughed and talked about things trivial, leaving thedeeper currents undisturbed. And the assistant collector, eating withthem in the adobe back of the office, wondered that two such men foundnothing more serious to talk about than the breeding of horses and thegrowing of garden truck. 

Late that night the assistant awoke to find that the collector was notin bed. He rose and stalked to the window. Across from the adobe he sawthe grim face of the collector framed in the office window. He wassmoking a cigar and gazing toward the south, his long arm resting on thesill and his chin in his hand. 

"Ole fool!" muttered the assistant affectionately. "That there JimWaring 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 forits bleached and weather-worn exterior by a refreshing neatness that wasalmost startling in contrast to the warped board front with its paintedsign scaled by the sun. 

The proprietress, Mrs. Adams, a rosy, dark-haired woman, had heard theOverland arrive and depart. Through habit she listened until the distantrumble of the train diminished to a faint purr. No guests had arrived onthe Overland. Stacey was not much of a town, and tourists seldom stoppedthere. Mrs. Adams stepped from the small office to the dining-room andarranged some flowers in the center of the long table. She happened tobe the only woman in the desert town who grew flowers. 

The Overland had come and gone. Another day! Mrs. Adams sighed, pattedher smooth black hair, and glanced down at her simple and neat attire. 

She rearranged the flowers, and was stepping back to view the effectwhen something caused her to turn and glance toward the office. Therehad been no sound, yet in the doorway stood a man--evidently a rider. Hewas looking at the calendar on the office wall. Mrs. Adams steppedtoward him. The man turned and smiled. She gazed with awakeningastonishment at the dusty, khaki-clad figure, the cool gray eyes beneaththe high-crowned sombrero, and last at the extended hand. Withoutmeeting 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 aright 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 theStarr 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 hisfather did. "

The man laughed and patted her shoulder affectionately. "You needn'thave said that, Annie. You knew what I was when I married you. And noman ever said I wasn't straight. Just what made you leave Sonora withoutsaying a word? Didn't I always treat you well?"

"I must say that you did, Jim. You never spoke a rough word to me inyour life. I wish you had. You'd be away for weeks, and then come backand tell me it was all right, which meant that you'd 'got your man, ' asthey say down there. At first I was too happy to care. And when the babycame and I tried to get you to give up hiring out to men who wantedkilling done, --for that's what it was, --you kept telling me that someday you would quit. Maybe they did pay big, but you could have beenanything else you wanted to. You came of good folks and had education. But you couldn't live happy without that excitement. And you thought Iwas 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, knowingthat it is you he sings about. I was afraid of you, Jim, and afraid ourboy would grow up to be like you. "

Waring nodded. "I'm not blaming you, Annie. I asked why you leftme--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 darethink about that part of it. I was afraid of you. I got so I couldn'tsleep, worrying about what might happen to you when you were away. Andyou always came back, but you never said where you'd been or what you'ddone. I couldn't stand it. If you had only told me--even about themen--that you were paid to kill, I might have stood it. But you neversaid a word. The wives of the American folks down there wouldn't speakto 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 thisearth!"

"You ought to know, Annie. But we won't argue that. Don't act as thoughyou had to defend yourself. I am not blaming you--now. You haveexplained. 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'seighteen, isn't he?"

Mrs. Adams smiled despite herself. "Yes, this fall. He started in withthe 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 Ido 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 youdon'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 tosee the boy. "

"Jim, you won't take him away!"

"You know me better than that. You quit me down there, and I won't saythat I liked it. I wondered how you'd get along. You left no word. WhenI 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 hadgone. 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 tomarry you then. But when I got sense enough to see how you earned yourmoney--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 wereuntil I hit Nogales. I wanted to see you and the boy. And I'm as hungryas a grizzly. "

"Anita is getting supper. Some of the folks in town board here. They'llbe 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 andshowed him to a room. So he hadn't come in on the Overland, but hadridden 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 bewithout money. But he had always been unaccountable, coming and goingwhen he pleased, saying little, always serene. And now he had not saidwhy he had ridden up from Sonora. "Why not?" was all that he had said inexplanation. 

He swung out of his coat and washed vigorously, thrusting his fingersthrough his short, curly hair and shaking his head in boyish enjoymentthat was refreshing to watch. She noticed that he had not aged much. Heseemed too cool, too self-possessed always, to show even the ordinarytrace of years. She could not understand him; yet she was surprised by aglow of affection for him now that he had returned. As he dried his headshe saw that his hair was tinged with gray, although his face was linedbut little and his gray eyes were as keen and quick as ever. If he hadonly 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 ofyou 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 makeyou feel bad. And I won't be here long. Can't we be friends while I'mhere? Of course the boy will know. But no one else need know. And--youbetter see to the folks downstairs. Some one just came in. "

She turned and walked down the hall, wondering if he had ever cared forher, and wondering if her boy, Lorry, would ever come to possess thatalmost unhuman quality of intense alertness, that incomprehensiblecoolness 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 factthat sheriff Buck Hardy, who dined at the hotel, noted with someinterest. The men ate hastily, rose, and departed, leaving Hardy andWaring, who called for a second cup of coffee and rolled a cigarettewhile waiting. 

Hardy had seen the stranger ride into town on the big buckskin. Thehorse bore a Mexican brand. The hotel register told Hardy who thestranger was. And the sheriff of Stacey County was curious to know justwhat the Sonora gunman was doing in town. 

Waring sat with his unlighted cigarette between his fingers. The sheriffproffered a match. Their eyes met. Waring nodded his thanks and blew asmoke-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!" AndLorry 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 heglanced up at the boy. The sheriff pulled a cigar from his vest andlighted it. In the street he paused in his stride, gazing at the end ofhis cigar. Lorry Adams looked mighty like Jim Waring, of Sonora. Hardyhad heard that Waring had been killed down in the southern country. Someone had made a mistake. 

Waring had risen. He stood with one hand touching the table, the tips ofhis fingers drumming the rhythm of a song he hummed to himself. Theboy's back was toward him. Waring's gaze traveled from his son's head tohis boot-heel. 

Lorry noticed that his mother seemed perturbed. He turned to Waringwith 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 politelyimpassive. 

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 withmild astonishment. 

"Smoke?" said Waring, proffering tobacco and papers. 

Lorry's gaze never left his father's face as he rolled a cigarette andlighted it. Mrs. Adams realized that Waring's attitude of coolindifference appealed to the boy. 

Lorry remembered his father dimly. He was curious to know just what kindof man he was. He didn't talk much; that was certain. The boy rememberedthat his mother had not said much about her husband, answering Lorry'schildish questionings with a promise to tell him some day. He recalled along journey on the train, their arrival at Stacey, and the taking overof the run-down hotel that his mother had refurnished and made a placeof neatness and comfort. And his mother had told him that she would beknown "Mrs. Adams. " Lorry had been so filled with the newness of thingsthat the changing of their name was accepted without question. Slowlyhis recollection of Sonora and the details of their life there came backto him. These things he had all but forgotten, as he had grown to loveArizona, its men, its horses, its wide ranges and magic hills. 

Mrs. Adams remembered that her husband had once told her he could findout more about a man by watching his hands than by asking questions. Shenoticed that Waring was watching his son's hands with that old, deliberate coldness of attitude. He was trying to find out just whatsort of a man his boy had grown to be. 

Lorry suddenly straightened in his chair. Mrs. Adams, anticipating hisquestion, nodded to Waring. 

"Yes, " said Waring; "I am the Waring of Sonora that you are thinkingabout. "

Lorry flushed. "I--I guess you are, " he stammered. "Mother, you nevertold 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 decenthombre to me. "

They laughed in a kind of relief. The occasion had seemed ratherstrained. 

"Ask your mother, Lorry. I am out of it. " And, rising Waring strode tothe doorway. 

Lorry rose. 

"I'll see you again, " said Waring. And he stepped to the street, humminghis song of "Sonora and the Silver Strings. "

Mrs. Adams put her arm about her son's shoulders. "Your father is a hardman, " 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 hecome 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 workedalone, whistling as he rode, swinging his glasses on this and thatarroyo and singling out the infrequent clumps of greasewood for a touchof brighter color in their shadows. He urged his pony from crest tocrest, carelessly easy in the saddle, alive to his work, and quietlyhappy in the lone freedom of thought and action. 

He felt a bit proud of himself that morning. Only last night he hadlearned 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 beingthe vague disquietude of mind attending his knowledge that his motherand father had become estranged. He thought he understood now why hismother had made him promise to go unarmed upon the range. Hiscompanions, to the last man, "packed a gun. "

Heretofore their joshing had not bothered him. In fact, he had ratherenjoyed the distinction of going unarmed, and he had added to thisdistinction by acquiring a skill with the rope that occasioned muchnatural jealousy among his fellows. To be top-hand with a rope amongsuch men as Blaze Andrews, Slim Trivet, Red Bender, and High-Chin Bob, the foreman, was worth all the patient hours he had given to persistentpractice with the reata. 

But to-day he questioned himself. His mother had made him promise to gounarmed because she feared he would become like his father. Why hadn'tshe told him more about it all? He felt that she had taken a kind ofmean advantage of his unwavering affection for her. He was a man, so faras earning his wage was concerned. And she was the best woman in theworld--but then women didn't understand the unwritten customs of therange. 

On a sandy ridge he reined up and gazed at the desert below. The bleakflats wavered in the white light of noon. The farthest hills to thesouth seemed but a few miles away. 

For some time he focused his gaze at the Notch, from which the roadsprang and flowed in slow undulations to a vanishing point in the blankspaces 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 animpatient forefoot, as though anxious to be off. Lorry lowered his glassand raised it again. In the circle of the binoculars he saw a tiny, distant figure dismount from a black horse and walk back and forthacross the road directly below the Notch. Lorry wiped his glasses andcentered them on the Notch again. The horseman had led his horse to aclump of brush. Presently the twinkling front of an automobileappeared--a miniature machine that wormed slowly through the Notch anddescended the short pitch beyond. Suddenly the car swerved and stopped. Lorry saw a flutter of white near the machine. Then the concealedhorseman appeared on foot. Lorry slipped the glass in his shirt. 

"We'll just mosey over and get a closer look, " he told his pony. "Thingsdon't look just right over there. "

Gray Leg, scenting a new interest, tucked himself together. The sandsprayed 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 themonotony of hunting stray cattle. Probably some Eastern tourist hadtaken the grade below the Notch too fast and ditched his machine. Lorrywould ride over and help him to right the car and set the pilgrim on hisway rejoicing. He had helped to right cars before. Last month, forinstance; that big car with the uniformed driver and the wonderfullygowned women. He recalled the fact that one of them had been absolutelybeautiful, despite her strange mufflings. She had offered to pay him forhis trouble. When he refused she had thanked him eloquently with herfine eyes and thrown him a kiss as he turned to go. She had thrown thatkiss with two hands! There was nothing stingy about that lady!

But possibly the machine toward which he rode carried nothing moreinteresting than men; fat, well-dressed men who smoked fat cigars andhad much to say about "high" and "low, " but didn't seem to know a greatdeal about "Jack" and "The Game. " If _they_ offered to pay him forhelping them--well, that was a different matter. 

The pony loped toward the Notch, quite as eager as his rider to attend aperformance that promised action. Within a half-mile of the Notch, Lorrypulled the pony to a walk. Just beyond the car he had seen the head andears 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 fewyards of the other man, who was evidently unwelcome. One of the twowomen 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 hishead above the brush. The strange horseman, noting her expression, turned quickly. Lorry's pony jumped at the thrust of the spurs. The ropecircled like a swallow and settled lightly on the man's shoulders. Thepony wheeled. The blunt report of a gun punctured the silence, followedby 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. Theman rolled over, his hands snatching at the noose about his neck. Lorrydismounted and ran to him. He eased the loop, and swiftly slipped itover 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 overto the car. One of the women was crouching on the running-board. Infront of her, pale, straight, stiffly indignant, stood a young womanwhose 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 tohold 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 saidsomething Lorry would have felt better. As it was he felt decidedlyuncomfortable. 

"If you'll say what is right, ma'am, I'll do it. You want me to turn himloose?"

"I--No. But can't you do something for him?"

Lorry laughed. "I reckon you don't sabe them kind, miss. And mebby youwant to get that car on the road again. "

"Yes, " said the girl's mother. "I think this young man knows what he isabout. "

Lorry stepped to the car to examine it. 

The girl followed him. "I think there is nothing broken. We just turnedto come down that hill. We were coasting when I saw a rope stretchedacross the road. I didn't know what to do. I tried to stop. We slid offthe edge. "

"Uh-uh. He had it all ribbed up to stop you. Now if you had kept ongoin'--"

"But I didn't know what the rope meant. I was frightened. And before Iknew what had happened he stepped right on the running-board and toldus to give him our money. "

"Yes, ma'am. If you can start her up, I'll get my rope on the axle andhelp. "

"But the man might get up!" said the girl. 

Lorry grinned. A minute or two ago she had been afraid that the manwouldn't get up. Lorry slipped the rope from the man's ankles and tiedit to the front axle. The girl got in the car. The pony buckled to hiswork. The machine stuttered and purred. With a lurch it swung back intothe road. The girl's mother rose, brushed her skirt, and stepped to thecar. 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 fromhere 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 mymother 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-handroad 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 turnaround. " 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 pleasedon't do anything to that man, " she pleaded. "He has been punishedenough. You almost killed him. He looked so wretched. Can't you give hima 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 longin the West. Such as him steals hosses and holds up folks and robstrains--"

"But you're not an officer, " she said, somewhat unkindly. 

"I reckon any man is an officer when wimmin-folk is gettin' robbed. AndI 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 androde to where the man lay. 

The car crept up the slope. Lorry watched it until it had topped theridge. Then he dismounted and turned the man over. 

"What you got to say about my turnin' you loose?" he queried as theother 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 shirtwas faded and buttonless. His boots were split at the sole, showing partof a bare foot. He was grimy, unshaven, and puffed unhealthily beneaththe eyes. Lorry knew that he was but an indifferent rider without seeinghim 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. Hopalong. I'll take care of him. "

The man plodded across the sand. Lorry followed on Gray Leg, and led theother horse. Flares of noon heat shot up from the reddish-gray levels. Lorry whistled, outwardly serene, but inwardly perturbed. That girl hadasked him to let the man go and she had said "please. " But, like allwomen, she didn't understand such things. 

They approached a low ridge and worked up a winding cattle trail. On thecrest 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 hestopped and turned to meet a level gaze that was impersonal; thatpromised nothing. Lorry would have liked to let the other ride. The manwas 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 didescape? No one need know about it. Yet Lorry knew that he was doingright in arresting him. In fact, he felt a kind of secret pride inmaking the capture. It would give him a name among his fellows. But wasthere any glory in arresting such a man?

Lorry recalled the other's wild shot as he was whirled through thebrush. "He sure tried to get me!" Lorry argued. "And any man that'd holdup 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 turnedquestioningly. Lorry gestured toward the right-hand trail. The manstaggered on. The horses fretted at the slow pace. Keen to anticipatesome trickery, Lorry hardened himself to the other's condition. Perhapsthe man was hungry, sick, suffering. Well, a mile beyond was thewater-hole. The left-hand trail led directly to Stacey, but there was nowater 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 barespot burning like white fire in the desert sun. It was the water-hole. The trail became paralleled by other trails, narrow and rutted bycountless hoofs. 

Within a hundred yards of the water-hole the prisoner collapsed. Lorrydismounted and went for water. 

The man drank, and Lorry helped him up and across the sand to the rim ofthe 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 seemedto 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. Lorrypondered. 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 herealized how much the other was at his mercy a tinge of sympathysoftened his gray eyes. Justice was undeniably a fine thing. Folks wereentitled to the pursuit of happiness, to life and liberty he had readsomewhere. He glanced up. Waco, seated opposite, had drifted back into astupor, head sunk forward and arms relaxed. The stub of his cigarettelay 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 thetobacco and papers. 

Lorry proffered a match. "It makes me sick to see a husky like you allshot 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, " heasserted. 

"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 nacherallyplug 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 thedough. Blood-money changes easy to booze-money when a lot of cow-chasersget their hooks on it. "

"Don't get gay!" said Lorry. "I aim to use you white as long as you workgentle. If you don't--"

"That's the way with you guys that do nothin' but chase a cow's tailover the country. You handle folks the same as stock--rough stuff and tohell 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 thedistant northern hillside. In the fluttering silken bandanna and thetwinkle of silver-studded trappings Lorry recognized the foreman of theStarr 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 ofhorses--the black there. "

"He's your boss?"

"Yes. And I'm right sorry he's ridin' into this camp. You was talkin' offeelin'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 tothe black. 

Lorry admitted that he had found the horse tied in the brush near theNotch. 

High Chin swung round. "You fork your bronc and get busy. There's eightyhead and over strayin' in here, and the old man ain't payin' you toentertain hobos. I'll herd this hombre to camp. "

With his arm outflung the tramp staggered up to the foreman. "I comeback--to tell you--that I'm going to live to get you right. I got ahunch 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 onthe big buckskin meant what he said when he asserted that there would beno 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, spurringtoward Waco, who had started to walk away. 

"Not this journey, " said Waring, pushing his horse between them. "Theboy 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 nokiller. "

The foreman holstered the gun and reined round toward Waring. "Now doyour 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 meanbusiness, go ahead. I'll let you get your gun out--and then I'll getyou--and you know it!" And with insulting ease he flicked his burned-outcigarette 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 hisfather. 

"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 theStarr Ranch, " he told Lorry. "I think I can make it all right withStarr, 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 manover to Buck Hardy as soon as you get in town. Where did you pick himup?"

"He was holdin' up some tourists over by the Notch. He changed his mindand came along with me. "

Waring rode down the west fork, and Lorry and the tramp continued theirjourney to Stacey. 

Chapter X

_East and West_

Mrs. Adams, ironing in the kitchen, was startled by a peremptory ringingof the bell on the office desk. The Overland had arrived and departedmore than an hour ago. She patted her hair, smoothed her apron, andstepped through the dining-room to the office. A rather tired-looking, stylishly gowned woman immediately asked if there were comfortableaccommodations for herself and her daughter. Mrs. Adams assured her thatthere were. 

"We had an accident, " continued the woman. "I am Mrs. Weston. This is mydaughter. "

"You are driving overland?"

"We were. We have had a terrible time. A man tried to rob us, and wealmost wrecked our car. "

"Goodness! Where did it happen?"

"At a place called 'The Notch, ' I think, " said Alice Weston, taking thepen Mrs. Adams proffered and registering. 

"I can give you a front double room, " said Mrs. Adams. "But the singlerooms are cooler. "

"Anything will do so long as it is clean, " said Mrs. Weston. 

Mrs. Adams's rosy face grew red. "My rooms are always clean. I attendto them myself. "

"And a room with a bath would be preferable, " said Mrs. Weston. 

Her daughter Alice smiled. Mrs. Adams caught the twinkle in the girl'seyes and smiled in return. 

"You can have the room next to the bathroom. This is a desert town, Mrs. Weston. We don't have many tourists. "

"I suppose it will have to do, " sighed Mrs. Weston. "Of course we mayhave the exclusive use of the bath?"

"Mother, " said Alice Weston, "you must remember that this isn't NewYork. I think we are fortunate to get a place as comfortable and neat asthis. We're really in the desert. We will see the rooms, please. "

Mrs. Weston could find no fault with the rooms. They were neat andclean, even to the window-panes. Alice Weston was delighted. From herwindow she could see miles of the western desert, and the far, mysterious ranges bulked against the blue of the north; ranges thatseemed to whisper of romance, the unexplored, the alluring. 

While Mrs. Adams was arranging things, Alice Weston gazed out of thewindow. Below in the street a cowboy passed jauntily. A stray burrocrossed the street and nosed among some weeds. Then a stolid Indianstalked by. 

"Why, that is a real Indian!" exclaimed the girl. 

"A Navajo, " said Mrs. Adams. "They come in quite often. "

"Really? And--oh, I forgot--the young man who rescued us told us that hewas your son. "

"Lorry! Rescued you?"

"Yes. " And the girl told Mrs. Adams about the accident and the tramp. 

"I'm thankful that he didn't get killed, " was Mrs. Adams's comment whenthe girl had finished. 

Alone in her room, Alice Weston bared her round young arms and enjoyed areal, old-fashioned wash in a real, old-fashioned washbowl. Who could beunhappy in this glorious country? But mother seemed so unimpressed! "AndI hope that steering-knuckle doesn't come for a month, " the girl told aframed lithograph of "Custer's Last Fight, " which, contrary to allprecedent, was free from fly specks. 

She recalled the scene at the Notch: the sickening sway of the car; theheavy, brutal features of the bandit, who seemed to have risen from theground; the unexpected appearance of the young cowboy, the flash of hisrope, and a struggling form whirling through the brush. 

And she had said "please" when she had asked the young cowboy to let theman go. He had refused. She thought Western men more gallant. But whatdifference did that make? She would never see him again. The youngcowboy had seemed rather nice, until just toward the last. As for theother man--she shivered as she wondered what would have happened if thecowboy had not arrived when he did. 

It occurred to her that she had never been refused a request in her lifeuntil that afternoon. And the fact piqued her. The fate of the tramp wasa secondary consideration now. She and her mother were safe. The carwould have to be repaired; but that was unimportant. The fact that theywere stranded in a real desert town, with Indians and cowboys in thestreets, and vistas such as she had dreamed of shimmering in theafternoon sun, awakened an erstwhile slumbering desire for a draught ofthe real Romance of the West, heretofore only enjoyed in unsatisfyingsips as she read of the West and its wonder trails. 

A noise in the street attracted her attention. She stepped to thewindow. Just across the street a tall, heavy man was unlocking a door ina little adobe building. Near him stood the young cowboy whom she hadnot expected to see again. And there was the tramp, handcuffed andstrangely white of face. The door swung open, and the tall man steppedback. The tramp shuffled through the low doorway, and the door wasclosed and locked. The cowboy and the tall man talked for a while. Shestepped back as the men separated. 

Presently she heard the cowboy's voice downstairs. She flushed, andgazed at herself in the glass. 

"I am going to make him sorry he refused to let that man go, " she toldthe mirror. "Oh, I shall be nice to him! So nice that--" She did notcomplete the thought. She was naturally gracious. When she set out to beexceptionally nice--"Oo, la, la!" she exclaimed. "And he's nothing but acowboy!"

She heard Lorry clump upstairs and enter a room across the hall. Sheknew it was he. She could hear the clink of his spurs and the swish ofhis chaps. While she realized that he was Mrs. Adams's son and had aright to be there, she rather resented his proximity, possibly becauseshe had not expected to see him again. 

She had no idea that he had been discharged by his foreman, nor that hehad earned the disapproval of his mother for having quarreled. Of coursehe had ridden to Stacey to bring the prisoner in, but he knew they werein Stacey, and Alice Weston liked to believe that he would make excuseto stay in town while they were there. It would be fun--for her. 

After supper that evening Mrs. Weston and Alice were introduced toWaring, who came in late. Waring chatted with Mrs. Weston out on theveranda in the cool of the evening. Alice was surprised that her motherseemed interested in Waring. But after a while, as the girl listened, she admitted that the man was interesting. 

The conversation drifted to mines and mining. Mrs. Weston declared thatshe had never seen a gold mine, but that her husband owned some stockin one of the richest mines in Old Mexico. Waring grew enthusiastic ashe described mine operating in detail, touching the subject with theease of experience, yet lightly enough to avoid wearisometechnicalities. The girl listened, occasionally stealing a glance at theman's profile in the dusk. She thought the boy Lorry looked exceedinglylike Mr. Waring. 

And the person who looked exceedingly like Mr. Waring sat at the far endof the veranda, talking to Buck Hardy, the sheriff. And Lorry was notaltogether happy. His interest in the capture and reward had waned. Hehad never dreamed that a girl could be so captivating as Alice Weston. At supper she had talked with him about the range, asking manyquestions; but she had not referred to that morning. Lorry had hopedthat he might talk with her after supper. But somehow or other she hadmanaged to evade his efforts. Just now she seemed to be mightilyinterested in his father. 

Presently Lorry rose and strode across the street to the station. Hetalked with the agent, who showed him a telegraph duplicate for an orderon Albuquerque covering a steering-knuckle for an automobile. When Lorryreappeared he was whistling. It would take some time for thatsteering-knuckle to arrive. Meanwhile, he was out of work, and theWestons would be at the hotel for several days at least. 

There was some mighty fine scenery back in the Horseshoe Range, west. Perhaps the girl liked Western scenery. He wondered if she knew how toride. He was rather inclined to think that her mother did not. He wouldsuggest a trip to the Horseshoe Mountains, as it would be pretty dull atthe hotel. Nothing but cowboys and Indians riding in and out of town. But there were some Hopi ruins over in the Horseshoe. Most Easternerswere interested in ruins. He wished that the Hopis had left a ruinsomewhat nearer town. 

Yet withal, Lorry was proud to think that his father could be sointeresting to real Easterners. If they only knew who his father was!Lorry's train of thought was making pretty good time when he checked itsuddenly. Folks in town didn't know that Waring was his father. And "Thewhole dog-gone day had just been one gosh-awful mess!"

"Weston, you said?" Waring queried. 

"Yes--John Archibald Weston, of New York. " And Mrs. Weston nodded. 

Waring smiled. J. A. Weston was one of the stockholders in the OrtezMine, near Sonora. 

"The principal stockholder, " said Mrs. Weston. 

"I met him down there, " said Waring. 

"Indeed! How interesting! You were connected with the mining industry, Mr. Waring?"

"In a way. I lived in Sonora several years. "

"That accounts for your wonderful descriptions of the country. I neverimagined it could be so charming. "

"We have some hill country west of here worth looking at. If you intendto stay any length of time, I might arrange a trip. "

"That's nice of you. But I don't ride. Perhaps Alice would like to go. "

"Yes, indeed! But--"

"We might get Mrs. Adams to come. She used to ride. "

"I'll ask her, " said Alice Weston. 

"But, Alice--" And Mrs. Weston smiled. Alice had already gone to lookfor Mrs. Adams. 

Lorry, who had heard, scowled at a veranda post. He had thought of thattrip to the Horseshoe Range long before it had been mentioned by hisfather. Wimmin made him tired, he told the unoffending post. 

Shortly afterward Alice appeared. She had cajoled Mrs. Adams intopromising that she would ride to the Hopi ruins with them, as thejourney there and back could be made in a day. Alice Weston was aglowwith excitement. Of course the young cowboy would be included in theinvitation, and Alice premeditated a flirtation, either with thatgood-looking Mr. Waring or Mrs. Adams's son. It didn't matter much whichone; it would be fun. 

The Westons finally went to their rooms. Lorry, out of sorts withhimself and the immediate world, was left alone on the veranda. 

"She just acted so darned nice to me I forgot to eat, " he told the postconfidentially. "And then she forgot I was livin' in the samecounty--after supper. And she did it a-purpose. I reckon she's tryin' toeven up with me for jailin' that hobo after she said 'please. ' Well, twocan play at that even-up game. "

He rose and walked upstairs quietly. As he entered his room he heard theWestons talking. He had noticed that the door of one of their rooms wasopen. 

"No, I think he went away with that tall man, " he heard the girl say. "Cowboys don't go to bed early when in town. "

"Weren't you a little too nice to him at dinner?" Mrs. Weston said. 

Lorry heard the girl laugh. "Oh, but he's only a boy, mother! And it'ssuch fun to watch his eyes when he smiles. He is really good-looking andinteresting, because he hasn't been tamed. I don't think he has any realfeeling, though, or he wouldn't have brought that poor creature toStacey and put him in jail. But Mr. Waring is different. He seems soquiet and kind--and rather distinguished. "

Lorry closed his door. He had heard enough for one evening. 

He did not want to go to bed. He felt anything but sleepy, so he tiptoeddownstairs again and out into the night. He found Buck Hardy in a saloonup the street. Men in the saloon joked with Lorry about his capture. Heseldom drank, but to-night he did not refuse Hardy's invitation to"have something. " While they were chatting a rider from the Starr Ranchocame in. Edging up to Lorry, he touched his arm. "Come on out a minute, "he whispered. 

Outside, he told Lorry that High Chin, with several of the men, wascoming to town that night and "put one over" on the sheriff by stealingthe prisoner. 

"And you know what that means, " said the Starr cowboy. "High Chin'll gettanked, and the hobo'll be lucky if the boys don't string him up. HighChin's awful sore about something. "

Lorry's first idea was to report all this to Buck Hardy. But he fearedridicule. What if the Starr cowboys didn't come?

"Why don't you tell Buck yourself?" he queried. 

His companion insisted that he dare not tell the sheriff. If High Chinheard that he had done so, he would be out of a job. And there was thereward. If the prisoner's identity was proven, Lorry would get thereward. The cowboy didn't want to see Lorry lose such easy money. 

The subject seemed to require some liquidation, and Lorry finallydecided that he himself was the only and legal custodian of theprisoner. As for the reward--shucks! He didn't want blood-money. ButHigh Chin would never lay a hand on the hobo if he could help it. 

 * * * * *

Alice Weston, anticipating a real ride into the desert country and thehills, was too excited to sleep. She drew a chair to the window, and satback where she could view the vague outline of the hills and a worldfilled with glowing stars. The town was silent, save for the occasionalopening or closing of a door and the infrequent sound of feet on thesidewalk. She forgot the hazards of the day in dreaming of the West; nolonger a picture out of books, but a reality. She scarcely noticed thequiet figure that came round the opposite corner and passed into theshadows of the jail across the street. She heard the clink of a chainand a sharp, tearing sound as of wood being rent asunder. She peeredfrom her window, trying to see what was going on in the shadows. 

Presently a figure appeared. The hat, the attitude, and manner seemedfamiliar. Then came another figure; that of the tramp. She grew tensewith excitement. She heard Lorry's voice distinctly:--

"The best thing for you is to fan it. Don't try the train. They'll getyou sure if you do. No, I don't explain anything. Just ramble--and keepa-ramblin'. "

She saw one of the figures creep along the opposite wall and shuffleacross the street. She felt like calling out. Instead she rose andopened her door. She would tell her mother. But what good would that do?She returned to the window. Lorry, standing on the street corner, seemedto be watching an invisible something far down the street. Alice Westonheard the sound of running horses. A group of cowboys galloped up. Sheheard the horses stop. Lorry had disappeared. 

She went to bed. It seemed an age before she heard him come in. 

Lorry undressed in the dark. As he went to bed he grinned. "And theworst of it is, " he soliloquized, "she'll think I did it because sheasked me to let him go. Guess I been steppin' on my foot the wholedog-gone day. "

Chapter XI

_Spring Lamb_

Mrs. Adams had decided to have roast spring lamb for dinner thatevening. Instead, her guests had to content themselves with cannedsalmon and hot biscuit. And because . .. 

Lorry appeared at the breakfast table in overalls and jumper. He hadpurposely waited until the Westons had gone downstairs. He anticipatedan invitation to ride to the hills with them. He would decline, andsmile as he did so. If that girl thought he cared anything about _her_!

He answered their greeting with a cheery "Good-mornin', " and immediatelyturned his whole attention to bacon and eggs. 

Alice Weston wondered that his eyes should be so clear and care-free, knowing what she did of last night's escapade. 

Mrs. Adams was interested in the girl's riding-habit. It made her ownplain riding-skirt and blouse appear rather countrified. And afterbreakfast Lorry watched the preparations for the ride with a criticaleye. No one would know whether or not he cared to go. They seemed tohave taken it for granted that he would. He whistled softly, and shookhis head as his mother suggested that he get ready. 

"Of course you're coming with us, " said Alice Weston. 

"I got to look after the hotel, " he said with conclusive emphasis. 

Lorry disappeared, and in the bustle of preparation and departure Mrs. Adams did not miss him until they were some distance out on the mesa. 

"Where's Lorry?" she queried. 

"He said he had to look after the hotel, " said Alice Weston. 

"Well, he didn't. I had everything arranged for. I don't know what's gotinto him lately. "

Back at the hotel Lorry was leaning against the veranda rail, talking toMrs. Weston. "I reckon it will be kind of tame for you, ma'am. I waswondering, now, if you would let me look over that machine. I've helpedfix 'em up lots of times. "

"Why, I don't know. It wouldn't do any harm to look, would it?"

"I guess not. "

Mrs. Weston gazed at Lorry curiously. He had smiled, and he resembledWaring so closely that Mrs. Weston remarked it aloud. 

Lorry flushed. "I think Mr. Waring is a right good-lookin' man, don'tyou?"

Mrs. Weston laughed. "Yes, I do. "

"Yes, ma'am. But honest, Mrs. Weston, I never did see a finer-lookin'girl than your girl. I seen plenty of magazine pictures like her. I'dfeel some proud if I was her mother. "

The morning was not so dull, after all. Mrs. Weston was not used to suchfrankness, but she was not displeased. "I see you have on your workingclothes. If you really think you can repair the car--"

"I got nothin' else to do. The sun is gettin' round to the front. If youwould like to sit in the car and watch, I would look her over; there, inthe shade. "

"I'll get a hat, " said Mrs. Weston, rising. 

"Your hair is right pretty without a hat. And besides you would be inthe shade of the top. "

It had been some time since any one had complimented Mrs. Weston abouther hair, and especially a man young enough to be her son. What was thecowboy going to say next?

Mrs. Weston stepped into the car, which was parked on the south side ofthe building. Lorry, whistling blithely, searched until he found awrench in one of the forward-door pockets. He disappeared beneath thecar. Mrs. Weston could hear him tinkering at something. She leaned back, breathing deep of the clean, thin air. She could not recall having feltso thoroughly content and keenly alive at the same time. She had nodesire to say or do anything. 

Presently Lorry appeared, his face grimy and his hands streaked withoil. "Nothin' busted, " he reported cheerfully. "We got a car over tothe ranch. She's been busted a-plenty. I fixed her up more times than Ican remember. Cars is like horses ma'am; no two just alike, but kind ofgenerally the same. The steering-knuckle ain't broke. It's the left axlethat's sprung. That won't take long to straighten. "

Mrs. Weston smiled. Lorry thought she was actually pretty. She saw thisin his eyes, and flushed slightly. 

"And I'll just block her up and take off the wheel, and I reckon theblacksmith can straighten that axle easy. "

"It's very nice of you. But I am wondering why you didn't go on thepicnic--with the others. "

"Well, who'd 'a' kept you company, ma'am? Anita, she's busy. Anyhow, Iseen plenty of scenery. I'd rather be here. "

"Talking to a woman old enough to be your mother?"

"Huh! I never thought of you like that. I'm only eighteen. Anyhow, whatdifference does it make how old a lady is, if she is pretty?"

Mrs. Weston's eyes twinkled. "Do you ever pay compliments to yourselfwhen you are combing your hair or tying your scarf?"

"Me! Why, not so anybody could hear 'em. Now, I think my mother is rightpretty, Mrs. Weston. "

"So do I. And it was nice of you to say it. "

"But I don't see anything wrong in sayin' what's so, " he argued. "I seenyou kind of raise your eyebrows, and I thought mebby I was bein' took asa joke. "

"Oh, no, indeed!"

Lorry disappeared again. As he worked he wondered just how long it wouldbe before Buck Hardy would look for him. Lorry knew that some one musthave taken food and water to the prisoner by this time, or to where theprisoner was supposed to be. But he did not know that Hardy and hisdeputy had questioned Anita, and that she had told the sheriff the folkshad all gone on a picnic to the hills. The car, at the back of thehotel, was not visible from the street. 

With some pieces of timber Lorry jacked up the front of the machine andremoved the damaged wheel and axle. 

He took the bent axle to the blacksmith, and returned to the hotel. Nothing further offered just then, so he suggested that he clean thecar. Mrs. Weston consented, deciding that she would not pay him untilher daughter returned. 

He attached the hose to a faucet, and suggested that Mrs. Weston take achair, which he brought from the veranda. He hosed the car, and as hepolished it, Mrs. Weston asked him about Waring. 

"Why, he's a friend of ours, " replied Lorry. 

"Of course. But I was wondering what he did. "

Lorry hesitated. "Didn't you ever hear that song about Waring ofSonora-Town? It's a whizzer. Well, that's him. All the cowboys sing thatsong. "

"I have never heard it. "

"Well, mebby dad wouldn't like that I sing it. He's kind of funny thatway. Now you wouldn't think he was the fastest gunman in the Southwest, would you?"

"Gunman! Your father?"

Lorry straightened up from polishing the car. "I clean forgot what I wassayin'. I guess my foot slipped that time. "

"I am sorry I asked, " said Mrs. Weston. "It really doesn't matter. "

"Oh, it ain't your fault. But I wasn't aimin' to tell. Dad he married mymother, and they went to live in Sonora, down in Mexico. Some of theminin' outfits down there hired him regular to--to protect theirinterests. I guess ma couldn't stand that kind of life, for after a fewyears she brought me up here. I was just a kid then. Ma she built up agood trade at this hotel. Folks call her Mrs. Adams. Her name was Adamsafore she got married. We been here ten years. Dad didn't know where shewas till last week he showed up here. I reckon she thought he got killedlong ago. Folks would talk about it if they knowed he was her husband, so I guess she asked dad to say nothin' about that. He said he came upto see me. I guess he don't aim to stay long. "

"I think I understand, " said Mrs. Weston. 

"Well, it ain't none of my business, long as ma is all right. Say, sheshines like a new hack, eh?"

"You have cleaned the car beautifully. "

"Oh, I dunno. Now, if it was a hoss--And say, I guess you'll be startin'to-morrow. That axle will be all right in about an hour. "

Just then Anita came to call them to luncheon. She had heard themtalking at the rear of the hotel shortly after Sheriff Hardy hadinquired for Lorry. Several townsfolk came in, ate, and departed ontheir several ways. 

After luncheon Mrs. Weston went to her room. She thought she would liedown and sleep for an hour or so, but the noon heat made the room ratherclose. She picked up a book and came down, where she found itcomfortably cool on the veranda. 

The town was quiet. A hand-car with its section crew of Mexicans clickedpast, and hummed on down the glittering rails. A stray burro meanderedabout, and finally came to a stop in the middle of the street, where hestood, stoically enduring the sun, a veritable long-eared statue ofdejection. Mrs. Weston turned a page, but the printed word was flat andinsignificant. 

She felt as though she were in a kind of twilight valley, midway betweenthe hills of slumber and wakefulness. For the moment she forgot the nameof the town itself. She knew that she could recall it if she tried. Adog lay asleep beneath the station platform opposite, one relaxed pawover his nose. Some one was calling to some one in the kitchen. A figurepassed in the street; a young man who smiled and nodded. It was the boy, Lorry. He had been working on the car that morning. She had watched himwork, rather enjoying his energy. A healthy young animal asunsophisticated as a kitten, and really innately kind and innocent ofintent to flatter. He was not at all like the bright young savage whohad roped and almost choked to death that awful man. 

It was impossible to judge a person at first sight and especially underunusual circumstances. And he seemed not at all chagrined that he hadnot gone with the others to the hills. Alice had enjoyed reading aboutWesterners--rough, boisterous beings intolerable to Mrs. Weston even inprint. And Mrs. Weston thought that proper environment and associationmight bring out their better qualities, even as the boy, Lorry, seemedto have improved--well, since yesterday morning. Perhaps he was on hisgood behavior because they were there. 

It seemed past comprehension that anything startling could happen inthat drowsy atmosphere. 

The young cowboy was coming back down the street, some part of the carover his shoulder. Mrs. Weston anticipated his nod, and nodded lazily ashe passed. She could hear him tinkering at the car. 

A few blocks up the street, Buck Hardy was seated in his office talkingwith the undersheriff. The undersheriff twisted the end of his blackmustache and looked wise. 

"They told me at the hotel that he had gone riding with themEasterners, " said Hardy. "And now you say he's been in town all dayworking on that automobile. "

"Yep. He's been to the blacksmith twice to-day. I didn't say anything tohim, seein' you was over to Larkins's, and said he was out of town. I'dhate to think he done anything like that. "

"That hobo was gone when I went to talk to him this morning. The lockwas busted. I can't figure it out. Young Lorry stood to win the reward, and he could use the money. "

"Hear anything by wire?" queried the undersheriff. 

"Nothing. The man didn't get by on any of the trains. I notified bothstations. He's afoot and he's gone. "

"Well, I guess the kid loses out, eh?"

"That ain't all. This county will jump me for letting that guy get away. It won't help us any next election. "

"Well, my idea is to have a talk with Adams, " said the undersheriff. 

"I'm going to do that. I like the kid, and then there's his mother--"

"And you'd hold him for lettin' the guy loose, eh?"

"I would. I'd hold my own brother for playing a trick like that. "

"Well, I don't sabe it, " asserted the undersheriff. "Lorry Adams alwayshad a good name. "

"We'll have a talk with him, Bill. "

"Are you sure Adams did it, Buck?"

"No, not sure, but I'm going to find out. I'll throw a scare into himthat'll make him talk. "

"Mebby he won't scare. "

"Then I'll run him in. He's some enterprising, if I do say it. He putHigh-Chin Bob out of business over by the water-hole yesterday. "

"High Chin! The hell you say!"

"That's what I thought when I heard it. High was beating up the hobo, and Lorry claimed him as his prisoner. Jim Waring says the kid wallopedHigh on the head and knocked him stiff. "

"Whew! Bob will get his hide for that. "

"I don't know. Jim Waring is riding the country just now. "

"What's that got to do with it?"

"More than I'm going to tell you, Bill. But take it from me, he'sinterested in young Adams a whole lot. "

 * * * * *

When Hardy and his deputy rode over to the hotel there was a pause inthe chatter. Alice Weston was describing their journey to her mother andcalling upon Waring to substantiate her vivid assertions of thewonderful adventure. The saddle-horse still stood at the hitching-rail, and Hardy, who had an eye for a good horse, openly admired the bigbuckskin. Waring was talking with Lorry. Mrs. Adams had gone in. Hardyindicated that he wanted to speak to Lorry, and he included Waring inhis gesture. Lorry rose and glanced quickly at Alice Weston. She wasleaning forward in her chair, suddenly aware of a subtle undercurrent ofseriousness. The undersheriff was patting the nose of the big buckskin. 

The men stepped down from the veranda, and stood near the horses. 

"That hobo got away, " said the sheriff. "Do you know anything about it?"

"I turned him loose, " said Lorry, without hesitation. 

"What for?"

"I changed my mind. I didn't want any blood-money for arrestin' atramp. "

"That's all right. But you can't change the law so easy. That man was myprisoner. Why didn't you come to me?"

"Well, if you want to know, in company, " said Lorry, "High Chin and theboys had it framed up to give that hobo a goin'-over for stealin' aStarr horse. They figured to bust in the jail, same as I did. I got thatstraight; I didn't aim to let High Chin get his hands on my prisoner. "

"Well, Lorry, I don't like to do it, but I got to hold you till we gethim. "

"How do you figure that?"

"You've aided a prisoner to escape. You broke the law. "

"What right had you to hold him?"

"Your own story. You brought him in yourself. "

"I sure did. But supposin' I say I ain't got nothin' against him, andthe folks over there won't appear against him, how could you proveanything?"

"He's under suspicion. You said yourself he was holding up themtourists. "

"But you can't make me swear that in court. "

Buck Hardy glared at the younger man. "See here, Lorry, I don'tunderstand your game. Suppose the man ain't guilty. He was lockedup--and by me, representing this county. You can't prove that the Starrboys would have done anything to him. And you can't monkey with the lawto suit yourself as long as I'm sheriff. Am I right?" And Hardy turnedto Waring. 

"You're right, Hardy. "

Lorry's gray eyes shone with a peculiar light. "What you goin' to doabout it, Buck?"

"Two of my boys are out looking for the man. You're under arrest till heis brought in. "

"You aim to lock me in that calaboose?"

"No. But, understand, you're under arrest. You can't leave town. "

"Say, now, Buck, ain't you kind of crowdin' me into the fence?"

"I'd arrest my own brother for a trick like that. "

Lorry gazed at the ground for a minute. He glanced up. Alice Weston satwatching them. She could not hear what they were saying, but theirattitudes confirmed her apprehension. 

"I'd like to speak to ma a minute, " said Lorry. 

"Go ahead. There's no hurry. "

Waring, who had been watching his son closely, strolled to the verandasteps and sat down. 

Hardy lighted a cigar. "I hate to do this, Waring, " he told the other. 

"That's all right, Hardy. "

The sheriff leaned close. "I figured to bluff him into telling which waythe hobo went. Mebby he'll talk later. "

Waring smiled. "You have a free hand so far as I am concerned, " he said. 

Alice Weston was talking with her mother when she heard a cautious stepon the stairway behind her. She turned her head slightly. Lorry, bootedand spurred, stood just within the doorway. He had something in hishand; a peculiarly shaped bundle wrapped loosely in a newspaper. Hardywas talking to Waring. The undersheriff was standing close to Waring'shorse. Alice Weston had seen the glint in Lorry's eyes. She held herbreath. 

Without a word of warning, and before the group on the veranda knew whatwas happening, Lorry shot from the doorway, leaped from the edge of theveranda rail, and alighted square in the saddle of Waring's horse, Dex. The buckskin whirled and dashed down the road, one rein dragging. Lorryreached down, and with a sinuous sweep of his body recovered the looserein. As he swung round the first corner he waved something that lookedstrangely like a club in a kind of farewell salute. 

Alice Weston had risen. The undersheriff grabbed the reins of the horsenearest him and mounted. Hardy ran to the other horse. Side by side theyraced down the street and disappeared round a corner. 

"What is it?" queried Alice Weston. 

Waring still sat on the steps. He was laughing when he turned to answerthe girl's question. 

"Lorry and the sheriff had a little argument. Lorry didn't wait tofinish it. It was something about that hobo that bothered youyesterday. "

Alice crushed her handkerchief to her mouth. "I--shall we get ready fordinner?" she stammered. 

Mrs. Weston rose. "It's nothing serious, I hope. Do you think your--Mr. Adams will be back to-night?"

"Not this evening, " replied Waring. 

"You mean that he won't be back at all?"

"Not unless he changes his mind. He's riding my horse. "

"He took your horse?"

"Yes. I think he made a mistake in leaving so suddenly, but he didn'tmake any mistake about the best horse. "

"Aren't you worried about him?" queried Mrs. Weston. 

"Why, no. The boy will take care of himself. Did you happen to noticewhat he had in his hand when he ran across the veranda?"

"No. It happened so suddenly. Was it a pistol?"

Waring grinned. "No. It was a shoulder of lamb. The next town is thirtymiles south, and no restaurants on the way. "

"But his mother--" began Alice Weston. 

"Yes, " said Waring. "I think that leg of lamb was for dinner to-night. "

Alice Weston said nothing further, but as she got ready for dinner sheconfessed to herself that the event of Lorry's escape would have beenmuch more thrilling, in retrospect at least, had he chosen to wave hishasty farewell with a silken bandanna, or even a pistol. To ride offlike that, waving a leg of lamb!

Chapter XII

_Bud Shoop and Bondsman_

As a young man, Bud Shoop had punched cattle on the southern ranges, cooked for a surveying outfit, prospected in the Mogollons, and essayedhomesteading on the Blue Mesa, served as cattle inspector, and held formany years the position of foreman on the great Gila Ranch, where, withdiligence and honor, he had built up a reputation envied by many alively cow-puncher and seldom tampered with even by Bud's mostvindictive enemies. And he had enemies and many friends. 

Meanwhile he had taken on weight until, as one of his friends remarked, "Most any hoss but a Percheron draft would shy the minute Bud tried toput his foot in the stirrup. "

And when Bud came to that point in his career when he summed up his pastand found that his chief asset was experience, garnished with a somewhatworn outfit of pack-saddles, tarps, bridles, chaps, and guns, he sighedheavily. 

The old trails were changing to roads. The local freight intermittentlydisgorged tons of harvesting machinery. The sound of the Klaxton washeard in the land. Despite the times and the manners, Bud's girthincreased insidiously. His hard-riding days were past. Progress marchedsteadily onward, leaving an after-guard of homesteaders intrenchedbehind miles of barbed-wire fence and mazes of irrigating-ditches. Theonce open range was now a chessboard of agricultural endeavor, with thepawns steadying ploughshares as they crept from square to square untilthe opposing cattle king suffered ignominious checkmate, his prerogativeof free movement gone, his army scattered, his castles taken, and hisglory surviving only in the annals of the game. 

Incidentally, Bud Shoop had saved a little money, and his largepopularity would have won for him a political sinecure; but he dislikedpolitics quite as heartily as he detested indolence. He needed work nothalf so much as he wanted it. 

He had failed as a rancher, but he still held his homestead on the BlueMesa, some twenty miles from the town of Jason, an old Mormon settlementin the heart of the mesa country. 

Friday morning at sunup Bud saddled his horse, closed the door of hiscabin on the Blue Mesa, and, whistling to his old Airedale, Bondsman, rode across the mesa and down the mountain trail toward Jason. Bysundown that night he was in town, his horse fed, and he and Bondsmansitting on the little hotel veranda, watching the villagers as theypassed in the dusk of early evening. 

Coatless and perspiring, Bud betook himself next morning to the officeof the supervisor of that district of the Forest Service. Bondsmanaccompanied him, stalking seriously at his master's heels. Thesupervisor was busy. Bud filled a chair in the outer office, polishedhis bald spot with a blue bandanna, and waited. 

Presently the supervisor called him in. Bud rose heavily and plodded toanother chair in the private office. Torrance, the supervisor, knew Bud;knew that he was a solid man in the finer sense of the word from theshiny dome of his head to his dusty boot. And Torrance thought he knewwhy Bud had called. The Airedale sat in the outer office, watching hismaster. Occasionally the big dog rapped the floor with his stubby tail. 

"He's just tellin' me to go ahead and say my piece, John, and that he'llwait till I get through. That there dog bosses me around somethin'scandalous. "

"He's getting old and set in his ways, " laughed Torrance. 

"So be I, John. Kind of settin' in my own way mostly. "

"Well, Bud, how are things up on the mesa?"

"Growin' and bloomin' and singin' and feedin' and keepin' still, same asalways. "

"What can I do for you?"

"Well, I ain't seen a doctor for so long I can't tell you; but I reckonI need more exercise and a little salary thrown in for luck. "

"I'm glad you came in. You needn't say anything about it, but I'mscheduled to leave here next month. "

"Then I reckon I'm left. Higher up, John?"

"Yes. I have this end of it pretty well whipped into shape. They seem tothink they can use me at headquarters. "

Bud frowned prodigiously. The situation did not seem to promise much. And naturally enough, being a Westerner, Bud disliked to come outflatfooted and ask for work. 

His frown deepened as the supervisor asked another question: "Do youthink you could hold down my job, Bud?"

"Say, John, I've stood for a lot in my time. But, honest, I was lookin'for a job as ranger. I can ride yet. And if I do say it I know everyhill and cañon, every hogback and draw and flat from here to the TontoBasin. "

"I know it. I was coming to that. The grazing-leases are the mostimportant items just now. You know cattle, and you know something aboutthe Service. You have handled men. I am not joking. "

"Well, this is like a hobo gettin' up his nerve to ask for a san'wich, and havin' the lady of the house come runnin' with a hot apple pie. I'lltackle anything. "

"Well, the Department has confidence enough in me to suggest that I namea successor, subject to their approval. Do you think that you could holddown this job?"

"If settin' on it would hold it down, it would never get up alive, John. But I ain't no author. "

"Author?"

"Uh-uh. When it comes to facts, I aim to brand 'em. But them reports toheadquarters--"

The supervisor laughed. "You would be entitled to a clerk. The man Ihave would like to stay. And another thing. I have just had anapplication from young Adams, of Stacey. He wrote from St. Johns. Hewants to get into the Service. While we are at it, what do you knowabout him?"

"Nothin'. But his mother runs a right comf'table eatin'-house over toStacey. She's a right fine woman. I knew her when she was wearin' herhair in a braid. "

"I have stopped there. It's a neat place. Would you take the boy on ifyou were in my place?"

Bud coughed and studied the ends of his blunt fingers. "Well, now, John, if I was in your place, I could tell you. "

Torrance was amused and rather pleased. Bud's careful evasion wascharacteristic. He would do nothing hastily. Moreover, with Shoop assupervisor, it was safe to assume that the natives would hesitate toattempt their usual subterfuges in regard to grazing-leases. Bud was toowell known for that. Torrance had had trouble with the cattlemen andsheepmen. He knew that Shoop's mere name would obviate much argument andbickering. 

"The White Mountain Apaches are eating a lot of beef these days, " hesaid suddenly. 

Shoop grinned. "And it ain't all Gov'ment beef, neither. The line fencecrost Still Cañon is down. They's been a fire up on the shoulder of OleBaldy--nothin' much, though. Your telephone line to the lookout issaggin' bad over by Sheep Crossin'. Some steer'll come along and take itwith him in a hurry one of these days. A grizzly killed a yearlin' overby the Milk Ranch about a week ago. I seen your ranger, young Winslow, day before yesterday. He says somebody has been grazin' sheep on theposted country, west. He was after 'em. The grass is pretty good on theBlue. The Apaches been killin' wild turkey on the wrong side of theirline. I seen their tracks--and some feathers. They's some down timberalong the north side of the creek over on the meadows. And a couple ofwimmin was held up over by the Notch the other day. I ain't heard thepartic'lars. Young Adams--"

"Where do you get it all, Bud? Only two of the things you mentioned havebeen reported in to this office. "

"Who, me? Huh! Well, now, John, that's just the run of news that floatsin when you're movin' around the country. If I was to set out to getinfo'mation--"

"You'd swamp the office. All right. I'll have my clerk draft a letter ofapplication. You can sign it. I'll add my word. It will take some timeto put this through, if it goes through. I don't promise anything. Comein at noon and sign the letter. Then you might drop in in about twoweeks; say Saturday morning. We'll have heard something by then. "

Bud beamed. "I'll do that. And while I'm waitin' I'll ride over some ofthat country up there and look around. "

Torrance leaned forward. "There's one more thing, Bud. I know this joboffers a temptation to a man to favor his friends. So far as this officeis concerned, I don't want you to have any friends. I want things runstraight. I've given the best of my life to the Service. I love it. Ihave dipped into my own pocket when Washington couldn't see the need forimprovements. I have bought fire-fighting tools, built trails, and paidextra salaries at times. Now I will be where I can back you up. Keepthings right up to the minute. If you get stuck, wire me. Here's yourterritory on this map. You know the country, but you will find thissystem of keeping track of the men a big help. The pins show where eachman is working. We can go over the office detail after we have heardfrom headquarters. "

Bud perspired, blinked, shuffled his feet. "I ain't goin' to say thanks, John. You know it. "

"That's all right, Bud. Your thanks will be just what you make of thiswork when I leave. There has been a big shake-up in the Service. Some ofus stayed on top. "

"Congratulations, John. Saturday, come two weeks, then. "

And Bud heaved himself up. The Airedale, Bondsman, thumped the floorwith his tail. Bud turned a whimsical face to the supervisor. "Nowlisten to that! What does he say? Well, he's tellin' me he sabes I got achanct at a job and that he'll keep his mouth shut about what you said, like me. And that it's about time I quit botherin' folks what's busy andwent back to the hotel so he can watch things go by. That there dogbosses me around somethin' scandalous. "

Torrance smiled, and waved his hand as Bud waddled from the office, withBondsman at his heels. 

About an hour later, as Torrance was dictating a letter, he glanced up. Bud Shoop, astride a big bay horse, passed down the street. For a momentTorrance forgot office detail in a general appreciation of the Westernrider, who, once in the saddle, despite age or physical attributes, bears himself with a subconscious ease that is a delight to behold, behe lean Indian, lithe Mexican, or bed-rock American with a girth, say, of fifty-two inches and weighing perhaps not less than two hundred andtwenty pounds. 

"He'll make good, " soliloquized the supervisor. "He likes horses anddogs, and he knows men. He's all human--and there's a lot of him. Andthey say that Bud Shoop used to be the last word in riding 'em straightup, and white lightning with a gun. "

The supervisor shook his head. "Take a letter to Collins, " he said. 

The stenographer glanced up. "Senator Collins, Mr. Torrance?"

"Yes. And make an extra copy. Mark it confidential. You need not filethe copy. I'll take care of it. And if Mr. Shoop is appointed to myplace, he need know nothing about this letter. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Because, Evers, " Said Torrance, relaxing from his official manner abit, "it is going to be rather difficult to get Mr. Shoop appointedhere. I want him. I can depend on him. We have had too many theorists inthis field. And remember this; stay with Shoop through thick and thinand some day you may land a job as private secretary to a StateSenator. "

"All right, sir. I didn't know that you were going into politics, Mr. Torrance. "

"You're off the trail a little, Evers. I'll never run for Senator. I'mwith the Service as long as it will have me. But if some cleverpolitician happens to get hold of Shoop, there isn't a man in this mesacountry that could win against him. He's just the type that the mesapeople like. He is all human. --Dear Senator Collins--"

The stenographer bent over his book. 

Later, as Torrance closed his desk, he thought of an incident in Shoop'slife with which he had long been familiar. The Airedale, Bondsman, hadonce been shot wantonly by a stray Apache. Shoop had found the dog asit crawled along the corral fence, trying to get to the cabin. Bud hadridden fifty miles through a winter snowstorm with Bondsman across thesaddle. An old Mormon veterinary in St. Johns had saved the dog's life. Shoop had come close to freezing to death during that tedious ride. 

Bud Shoop's assets in the game of life amounted to a few acres of mesaland, a worn outfit of saddlery, and a small bank account. But hisgreatest asset, of which he was blissfully unconscious, was a big, homely love for things human and for animals; a love that set him apartfrom his fellows who looked upon men and horses and dogs as merelyuseful or otherwise. 

Chapter XIII

_The Horse Trade_

The following day a young cowboy, mounted upon a singularly noticeablebuckskin horse, rode down the main street of Jason and dismounted at theForestry Office. Torrance was reading a letter when his clerk profferedthe young man a chair and notified the supervisor that a Mr. Adamswished to see him. 

A few minutes later, Lorry was shown in. The door closed. 

Torrance surveyed the strong, young figure with inward approval. "I haveyour letter. Sit down. I see your letter is postmarked St. Johns. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Know anything about the Service?"

"No, sir. "

"Why do you want to get into it?"

"I thought mebby I'd like the work. "

"Have you any recommendations?"

"Nothin'--except what you're lookin' at. "

Torrance smiled. "Could you get a letter from your last employer?"

"Not the kind of letter that would do any good. I had an argument withthe foreman, and he fired me. "

Torrance had heard something about the matter, and did not questionfurther at the time. 

"Do you drink?" queried Torrance. 

"I never monkeyed with it much. I reckon I could if I wanted to. "

Torrance drummed on the desk with his long, strong fingers. He reachedin a drawer and drew out a letter. 

"How about that?"

Lorry glanced at the heading. Evidently the sheriff knew of his generalwhereabouts. The letter stated that the sheriff would appreciateinformation leading to the apprehension of Lawrence Adams, wanted foraiding a prisoner to escape and for having in his possession a horsethat did not belong to him. 

"What he says is right, " Lorry asserted cheerfully. "I busted into thejail and turned that hobo loose, and I borrowed the horse I'm riding. Iaim to send him back. My own horse is in the corral back at Stacey. "

"What was your idea in letting the man go after arresting him?"

Lorry's clear color deepened. "I wasn't figurin' on explainin' that. "

"You don't have to explain. But you will admit that the charges in thisletter are rather serious. We don't want men in the Service who are opento criticism. You're pretty young to have such a record. It's up to youto explain--or not, just as you like. But anything you tell me will betreated as absolutely confidential, Adams. "

"All right. Well, everything I done that day went wrong. I caught thehobo tryin' to rob a couple of wimmin over by the Notch. I was takin'him to Stacey when Bob Brewster butted in. The hobo was sick, and Ididn't aim to stand and see him kicked and beat up with a quirt, even ifhe did steal one of the Starr horses. I told High Chin to quit, but hishearin' wasn't good, so I had to show him. Then I got to thinkin' Iwasn't so much--takin' a pore, busted tramp to jail. And it made me sickwhen everybody round town was callin' me some little hero. Then one ofthe Starr boys told me High Chin was cinchin' up to ride in and get thehobo, anyhow, so I busted the lock and told him to fan it. "

"Why didn't you appeal to the sheriff?"

"Huh! Buck Hardy is all right. But I can tell you one thing; he's notthe man to stand up to High Chin when High is drinkin'. Why, I see Highshove a gun in Hardy's face once and tell him to go home and go to bed. And Hardy went. Anyhow, that hobo was my prisoner, and I didn't aim tolet High Chin get his hands on him. "

"I see. Well, you have a strange way of doing things, but I appreciatewhy you acted as you did. Of course, you know it is a grave offense toaid a prisoner to escape. "

"Buck Hardy seems to think so. "

"So do I. And how about that horse?"

"Well, next day I was fixin' up the machine and foolin' around--thatmachine belonged to them tourists that the fella stuck up--when alongabout sundown Buck Hardy comes swellin' up to me and tells me I'm underarrest. He couldn't prove a darned thing if I hadn't said I done thejob. But, anyhow, he didn't see it my way, so I borrowed Waring's horseand come down this way. Everybody saw me take the horse. You can't callthat stealin'. "

"Did Hardy ride after you?"

"Yes, sir. But he was so far behind I couldn't hear what he wanted. Thatbig buckskin is a wonder. I wish I owned him. "

Torrance mentally patched the fragments of evidence together. He decidedthat a young man who could capture a holdup man, best the notorious HighChin in a fight, repair a broken automobile, turn a prisoner loose, andmake his own escape all within the short compass of forty-eight hourswas a rather capable person in a way. And Torrance knew by Lorry'sappearance and manner that he was still on the verdant side of twenty. If such a youth chose to turn his abilities in the right direction hemight accomplish much. Lorry's extreme frankness satisfied Torrance thatthe boy had told the truth. He would give him a chance. 

"Do you know Bud Shoop?" queried the supervisor. 

"No, sir. I know what he looks like. He's been to our hotel. "

"Well, you might look him up. He may be out of town. Possibly he is upat his homestead on the Blue Mesa. Tell Mr. Shoop that I sent you tohim. He will understand. But you will have to square yourself with theauthorities before I can put you to work. "

"Yes, sir. But I don't aim to ride back to Stacey just because I knowwhere it is. If they want me, they can find me. "

"That is your affair. When your slate is clear--"

"Mr. Waring to see you, " said the clerk, poking his head through thedoorway. 

Torrance stepped out and greeted Waring heartily. Lorry was surprised;both to see his father and to learn that Torrance and he were oldfriends. 

"I saw this horse as I rode up, and I took a fancy to him, " said Waring, after having nodded to Lorry. "Sorry to bother you, Torrance. "

"Here's the man you'll bother, I think, " said Torrance, indicatingLorry. "He's riding that horse. "

Lorry grinned. "Want to trade horses?"

"I don't know. Is that your horse?"

"Nope. I borrowed him. Is that your horse?" And he indicated Gray Leg. 

"No. I borrowed him. "

Torrance laughed. "The buckskin seems to be a pretty fair horse. "

"Then I ought to get somethin' to boot, " suggested Lorry. 

"How much?" laughed Waring. 

"Oh, I don't know. You'll find that buckskin a mighty likely rambler. "

Waring turned to Torrance. "You'll witness that we made this trade, John?"

"All right. But remember; neither of you owns the horse you aretrading. "

"But we're goin' to, " asserted Lorry. 

Waring reached beneath his coat and unbuckled a heavy belt. From buckleto tongue it glittered with cartridges and a service-worn holster bulgedwith a short-barreled Colt's . 45. He handed the belt to Lorry. 

"It's a good gun, " he said, "and I hope you'll never need to use it. "

Lorry stammered his thanks, untied Dex, and gave the reins into Waring'shand. "The trade goes, " he said. "But we change saddles. "

"Correct, " said Waring. "And here's a letter--from your mother. "

Lorry slid the letter in his shirt. "How's the Weston folks?"

"They were to leave this morning. Mrs. Weston asked me to pay you forrepairing their machine. She gave me the money. "

"You can keep it. I wasn't workin' for pay. "

"All right. Going to stay down here awhile?"

"I aim to. Did you see anything of Buck Hardy on the way down?"

"Hardy? Why, no. But I rode part way with his deputy. He's due here sometime to-day. "

"That bein' the case, " said Lorry, swinging to the saddle, "I reckonI'll hunt up Bud Shoop. Thanks for my horse. Mebby I'll be back in thistown in two, three days. " And he was gone. 

Waring dropped Dex's reins. "Got a minute to spare, Torrance?"

"Yes, indeed. You're looking well, Jim. "

In the office they shook hands again. 

"It's a long time, " said Torrance, proffering a cigar. "You werepunching cattle for the Box S and I was a forest ranger those days. DidMexico get too hot?"

"Warm. What's the boy doing down here?"

"He seems to be keeping out of the way of the sheriff, " laughedTorrance. "Incidentally he applied for a position as ranger. "

"Did he? I'm glad of that. I was afraid he might get to riding the hightrails. He's got it in him. "

"You seem to know him pretty well. "

"Not so well as I would like to. I'm his father. "

"Why, I had no idea--but, come to think of it, he does resemble you. Ididn't know that you were married. "

"Yes. I married Annie Adams, of Las Cruces. He's our boy. "

Torrance saw that Waring did not care to talk further on the subject ofhis married life. And Torrance recalled the fact that Mrs. Adams, wholived in Stacey, had been in Mexico. 

"He's a live one, " said Torrance. "I think I'll take him on. "

"I don't ask you to, John. He's got to play the game for himself. He maynot always do right, but he'll always do what he thinks is right, if Iam any judge. And he won't waste time doing it. I told Hardy's deputy onthe way down that he might as well give up running after the boy. Hardyis pretty sore. Did Lorry tell you?"

"Yes. And I can understand his side of it. "

"I think that little Weston girl dazzled him, " said Waring. "She'sclever, and Lorry hasn't seen many of her kind. I think he would havestayed right in Stacey and faced the music if she hadn't been there whenHardy tried to arrest him. Lorry is only eighteen. He had to show off alittle. "

"Will Hardy follow it up?"

"Not too strong. The folks in Stacey are giving Hardy the laugh. He'snot so popular as he might be. "

"I can't say that I blame Hardy, either. The boy was wrong. "

"Not a bit. Lorry was wrong. "

"It will blow over, " said Torrance. "I had no idea he was your son. "

Waring leaned back in his chair. "John, I had two reasons for comingdown here. One was to get my horse. That's settled. Now I want to talkabout leasing a few thousand acres down this way, with water-rights. I'mthrough with the other game. I want to run a few cattle in here, underfence. I think it will pay. "

Torrance shook his head. "The Mormons and the Apaches will keep youpoor, Jim. "

"They might, if I tried it alone. But I have a partner just up from theborder. You remember Pat. He's been customs inspector at Nogales forsome time. "

"I should say I do remember him!"

"Well, he asked me to look around and write to him. I think we could dowell enough here. What do you know about the land north of here, on uptoward the Santa Fé?"

Torrance pondered the situation. The times were, indeed, changing whenmen like Waring and Pat ceased to ride the high trails and settled downto ranching under fence. The day of the gunman was past, but two suchmen as Pat and Waring would suppress by their mere presence in thecountry the petty rustling and law-breaking that had made Torrance'sposition difficult at times. 

"I'll see what I can do, " said he. "About how much land?"

"Ten or twenty thousand, to begin with. "

"There's some Government land not on the reservation between here andthe railroad. There are three or four families of squatters on it now. Idon't know how they manage to live, but they always seem to have beefand bacon. You might have some trouble about getting them off--and aboutthe water. I'll let you know some time next month just what I can do. "

"We won't have any trouble, " said Waring. "That's the last thing wewant. I'll ride over next month. You can write to me at Stacey ifanything turns up. "

"I'll write to you. Do you ever get hungry? Come on over to the hotel. I'm as hungry as a bear. "

Chapter XIV

_Bondsman's Decision_

Bud Shoop's homestead on the Blue Mesa lay in a wide level of grassland, round which the spruce of the high country swept in a great, blue-edgedcircle. To the west the barren peak of Mount Baldy maintained a solitaryvigil in sunshine and tempest. Away to the north the timbered plateausdropped from level to level like a gigantic stair until they merged withthe horizon-line of the plains. The air on the Blue Mesa was thin andkeen; warm in the sun, yet instantly cool at dusk. A mountain stream, all but hidden by the grasses, meandered across the mesa to an emeraldhollow of coarse marsh-grass. A few yards from this pool, and on itssouthern side, stood the mountain cabin of the Shoop homestead, a roomybuilding of logs, its wide, easy-sloping veranda roof covered withhome-made shakes. Near the house was a small corral and stable of logs. Out on the mesa a thin crop of oats wavered in the itinerant breeze. Round the cabin was a garden plot that had suffered from want ofattention. Above the gate to the door-yard was a weathered sign on whichwas lettered carefully:

 "The rose is red; the violet blue; Please shut this gate when you come through. "

And on the other side of the sign, challenging the possiblecarelessness of the chance visitor, was the legend:--

 "Now you've been in and had your chuck, Please close this gate, just once, for luck. "

Otherwise the place was like any mountain homestead of the better sort, viewed from without. The interior of the cabin, however, was unusual inthat it boasted of being the only music-room within fifty miles in anydirection. 

When the genial Bud had been overtaken with the idea of homesteading, hehad had visions of a modest success which would allow him to entertainhis erstwhile cow-puncher companions when they should ride his way. Tothis end he had labored with more heart than judgment. 

The main room was large and lighted by two unusually large windows. Thedimensions of the room were ample enough to accommodate a fair number ofdancers. Bud knew that if cowboys loved anything they loved to dance. The phonograph was so common that it offered no distinction in gracingBud's camp; so with much labor and expense he had freighted an uprightpiano from the distant railroad, an innovation that at first had stunnedand then literally taken the natives off their feet. Riders from allover the country heard of Bud's piano, questioned its reality, andfinally made it a point to jog over and see for themselves. 

For a time Bud's homestead was popular. A real piano, fifty miles froma settlement, was something worth riding far to see. But respect for theshining veneer of the case was not long-lived. In a moment ofinspiration, a cowboy pulled out his jackknife and carved his home brandon the shining case. Bud could have said more than he did when hediscovered it. Later another contingent, not to be outdone, followedthis cowboy's incisive example and carved its brand on the piano. Naturally it became a custom. No visitor in boots and chaps left thecabin without first having carved some brand. 

Bud suffered in silence, consoling himself with the thought that whilethere were many pianos in the lower country, there were none like his. And "As long as you don't monkey with her works or shoot her up, " hetold his friends, "I don't care how much you carve her; only leaveenough sidin' and roof to hold her together. "

Cowboys came, danced long and late as Bud pumped the mechanical player, and thrilled to the shuffle of high-heeled boots. Contingent aftercontingent came, danced, and departed joyously, leaving Bud short onrations, but happy that he could entertain so royally. Finally thenovelty wore off, and Bud was left with his Airedale, his saddle-ponies, and the hand-carved piano. 

But Bud had profited by the innovation. An Easterner sojourning with Budfor a season, had taught him to play two tunes--"Annie Laurie" and"Dixie. " "Real hand-made music, " Bud was wont to remark. And with thesetunes at his disposal he was more than content. Many a long evening hesat with his huge bulk swaying in the light of the hanging lamp as hewandered around Maxwelton's braes in search of the true Annie Laurie; orhopped with heavy sprightliness across the sandy bottoms of Dixie, whileBondsman, the patient Airedale, sat on his haunches and accompanied Budwith dismal energy. 

Bud was not a little proud of his accomplishment. The player was allright, but it lacked the human touch. Even when an occasional Apachestrayed in and borrowed tobacco or hinted at a meal, Bud was not aboveentertaining the wondering red man with music. And Bud disliked Apaches. 

And during these latter days Bud had had plenty of opportunity toindulge himself in music. For hours he would sit and gently strike thekeys, finding unexpected harmonies that thrilled and puzzled him. Thediscords didn't count. And Bondsman would hunch up close with watchfuleye and one ear cocked, waiting for the familiar strains of "AnnieLaurie" or "Dixie. " He seemed to consider these tunes a sort ofaccompaniment to his song. If he dared to howl when Bud wasextemporizing, Bud would rebuke him solemnly, explaining that it was notconsidered polite in the best circles to interrupt a soloist. And anevening was never complete without "Annie Laurie, " and "Dixie, " withBondsman's mournful contralto gaming ascendance as the eveningprogressed. 

"That dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous, " Bud was wont toremark, as he rose from his labors and prepared for bed. "There I washuntin' around for that chord I lit on the other night and almostfindin' it, when he has to howl like a coyote with a sore throat andspile the whole thing. I ought to learned more tunes. "

 * * * * *

It was almost dusk when Lorry topped the trail that led across the BlueMesa to Bud's cabin. Gray Leg pricked his ears, and jogged over the widelevel, heading straight for the corral. The cabin was dark. Lorryhallooed. A horse in the corral answered, nickering shrilly. Lorry foundsome loose gramma grass in the stable and threw it to the horse. If thiswas Shoop's place, Shoop would not be gone long, or he'd have turned thehorse to graze on the open mesa. 

Lorry entered and lighted the lamp. He gazed with astonishment at thepiano. But that could wait. He was hungry. In a few minutes he had afire going, plates laid for two, had made coffee and cut bacon. He wasmixing the dough for hot biscuit when he heard some one ride up. Hestepped to the door. A bulky figure was pulling a saddle from a horse. Lorry called a greeting. 

"Just a minute, friend, " came from the darkness. 

Lorry stepped to the kitchen, and put the biscuit pan in the oven. Asaddle thumped on the veranda, and Bud Shoop, puffing heavily, strodein. He nodded, filled a basin, and washed. As he polished his bald spot, his glance traveled from the stove to the table, and thence to Lorry, and he nodded approval. 

"Looks like you was expectin' comp'ny, " he said, smiling. 

"Yep. And chuck's about ready. "

"So am I, " said Bud, rubbing his hands. 

"I'm Adams, from Stacey. "

"That don't make me mad, " said Bud. "How's things over to your town?"

"All right, I guess. Mr. Torrance--"

Bud waved his hand. "Let's eat. Been out since daylight. Them biscuitsis just right. Help yourself to the honey. "

"There's somebody outside, " said Lorry, his arm raised to pass the honeyjar. 

"That's my dog, Bondsman. He had to size up your layout, and he'sthrough and waitin' to size up you. Reckon he's hungry, too. Butbusiness before pleasure is his idea mostly. He's tellin' me to let himin. That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous. When did youget in?"

"About sundown. "

"Uh-uh. I seen that your horse hadn't grazed out far yet. How do youlike this country?"

"Good summer country, all right. Too high for stock in winter. "

"Yes. Four feet of snow on the mesa last winter. When you say 'Arizona'to some folks, they don't think of snow so deep a hoss can't get fromthe woods over there to this cabin. " Bud Shoop sighed and rose. "Nevermind them dishes. Mornin' 'll do. "

"Won't take a minute, " said Lorry. 

Bud's blue eyes twinkled as he waddled to the living-room. Young Adamswas handy around a kitchen. He had laid plates for two, knew how topunch dough, was willing to wash the dishes without a hint, and had fedthe horse in the corral. 

"He trots right along, like he knew where he was goin', " Bud said tohimself. "I like his looks--but that ain't always a sign. "

Lorry whistled as he dried the dishes. Bud was seated in a huge armchairwhen Lorry entered the room. Shoop seemed to pay no attention toBondsman, who whined and occasionally scratched on the door. 

"Funny thing happened this mornin', " said Shoop, settling himself in hischair. "I was ridin' down the ole Milk Ranch Trail when I looked up andseen a bobcat lopin' straight for me. The cat didn't see me, but my hossstopped, waitin' for me to shoot. Well, that kittycat come right alongtill I could 'a' almost roped him. Bondsman--that's my dog--never seenhim, neither, till I hollered. You ought to seen that cat start backwithout losin' a jump. I like to fell off the hoss, laughin'. Bondsmanhe lit out--"

"I'll let him in, " said Lorry, moving toward the door. 

"--After that cat, " continued Shoop, "but the cat never treed, I reckon, for pretty soon back comes Bondsman, lookin' as disgusted as a hen in arainstorm. 'We're gettin' too old, ' I tells Bondsman--"

"Ain't you goin' to let him in?" queried Lorry. 

"--We're gettin' too old to chase bobcats just for fun, " concludedShoop. "What was you sayin'?"

"Your dog wants to come in. "

"That's right. Now I thought you was listenin' to me. "

"I was. But ain't he hungry?"

Shoop chuckled. "Let him in, son. "

Lorry opened the door. Bondsman stalked in, sniffed at Lorry's boots, and padded to the kitchen. 

"What do you feed him?" said Lorry, hesitating. 

"He won't take nothin' from you, " said Shoop, heaving himself up. "I'vehad him since he was a pup. You set down and I'll 'tend to him. 

"And I says to him, " said Shoop, as he returned to his chair, --"I says, 'Bondsman, that there cat was just passin' the buck to us to see if wewas game. ' And he ain't got over it yet. "

"I've roped 'em, " said Lorry--"roped 'em out of a tree. "

"Uh-uh. Where'd you learn to rope?"

"At the Starr Ranch. I worked there once. "

"Git tired of it?"

"Nope. I had a argument with the foreman. "

"Uh-uh. I reckon it ain't hard to pick a fuss with High Chin. "

"I wasn't lookin' for a fuss. It was his funeral. "

"So I heard; all but the procession. "

"And that's why I came up to see you. Mr. Torrance told me to hunt youup. "

"He did, eh? Well, now, John sure gets queer idees. I don't need a manround here. "

"I was after a job in the Service. "

"And he sends you to me. Why, I ain't ever worked a day for theService. "

"I guess he wanted you to look me over, " said Lorry, smiling. 

"Well, they's lots of time, 'less you're in a hurry. "

"If I can't get in the Service, I'll look up a job punchin', " saidLorry. "I got to get somethin'. "

Bondsman stalked in, licking his chops. He nuzzled Shoop's hand. Lorrysnapped his fingers. Bondsman strode to him. Lorry patted his knee. Thebig dog crouched and sprang to Lorry's knees, where he sat, studying himquizzically, his head to one side, his keen eyes blinking in thelamplight. Lorry laughed and patted the dog. 

"He's trying to get my number, " said Lorry. 

"He's got it, " said Shoop. "You could 'a' snapped your fingers off aforehe'd 'a' come nigh you, 'less he wanted to. And while we're talkin'about it, you can tell John Torrance I said to give you a try. "

Lorry sat up quickly. "Guess you didn't know that Buck Hardy is lookin'for me, " said Lorry. "Mr. Torrance says I got to square myself with Buckafore I get the job. "

"He did, eh? Well, speakin' of Buck, how would you like to hear a littletalk from a real music-box?"

"Fine!"

Shoop waddled to the piano. "I ain't no reg'lar music sharp, " heexplained unnecessarily, "but I got a couple of pieces broke to gopolite. This here piano is cold-mouthed, and you got to rein her justright or she'll buffalo you. This here piece is 'Annie Laurie. '"

As Bud struck the first note, Bondsman leaped from Lorry's knees andtook his place beside the piano. The early dew had just begun to fallwhen Bondsman joined in. Lorry grinned. The dog and his master wereabsolutely serious in their efforts. As the tune progressed, Lorry'sgrin faded, and he sat gazing intently at the huge back of his host. 

"Why, he's playin' like he meant it, " thought Lorry. "And folks says BudShoop was a regular top-hand stem-winder in his day. "

Shoop labored at the piano with nervous care. When he turned to Lorryhis face was beaded with sweat. 

"I rode her clean through to the fence, " he said, with a kind ofapologetic grin. "How did you like that piece?"

"I always did like them old tunes, " replied Lorry. "Give us another. "

Shoop's face beamed. "I only got one more that I can get my rope on. Butif you can stand it, I can. This here one is 'Dixie. '"

And Bud straightened his broad shoulders, pushed back his sleeves, andwaded across the sandy bottoms of Dixie, hitting the high spots withstaccato vehemence, as though Dixie had recently suffered from aninundation and he was in a hurry to get to dry land. Bondsman's moodybaritone reached up and up with sad persistency. 

Lorry was both amused and astonished. Shoop's intensity, his real lovefor music, was a revelation. Lorry felt like smiling, yet he did notsmile. Bud Shoop could not play, but his personality forced its ownrecognition, even through the absurd medium of an untutored performanceon that weird upright piano. Lorry began to realize that there wassomething more to Bud Shoop than mere bulk. 

Bud swung round, puffing. "I got that tune where I can keep her in sightas long as she lopes on the level. But when she takes to jumpin' stumpsand makin' them quick turns, I sure have to do some hard ridin' to keepher from losin' herself. Me and Bondsman's been worryin' along behindthem two tunes for quite a spell. I reckon I ought to started inyounger. But, anyhow, that there piano is right good comp'ny. When Ibeen settin' here alone, nights, and feelin' out her paces, I get so hetup and interested that I don't know the fire's out till Bondsman takesto shiverin' and whinin' and tellin' me he'd like to get some sleepafore mornin'. "

And Bondsman, now that the music had stopped, stalked to Lorry and eyedhim with an expression which said plainly: "It's his weak spot--thismusic. You will have to overlook it. He's really a rather decent sort ofperson. "

"I got a mechanical player in the bedroom, " said Shoop. "And a reg'laroutfit of tunes for dances. "

Lorry was tempted to ask to hear it, but changed his mind. "I've heardthem players. They're sure good for a dance, but I like real playin'better. "

Bud Shoop grinned. "That's the way with Bondsman here. Now he won't openhis head to one of them paper tunes. I've tried 'em all on him. Youcan't tell me a dog ain't got feelin's. "

Chapter XV

_John and Demijohn_

The grass on the high mesa was heavy with dew when Lorry stepped fromthe cabin next morning. His pony, Gray Leg, stood close to the corral, where Shoop's horses were playfully biting at him over the bars. Lorryunhobbled Gray Leg and turned Shoop's horses out to water. The threeponies trotted to the water-hole, sniffed at the water, and, whirling, raced across the mesa, pitching and kicking in the joy of liberation. 

After breakfast Bud and Lorry sat out in the sun, enjoying the slowwarmth. The morning air was still keen in the shade. Bondsman laybetween them, watching the distant horses. 

"He won't let 'em get far into the timber, " said Shoop. "He sure savesme a lot of steps, roundin' up them hosses. "

"I can whistle Gray Leg to me, " said Lorry. "Then the other horses'llcome. "

Shoop nodded. "What you goin' to do to-day?"

"Me? Well, it's so kind of quiet and big up here I feel like settin'around and takin' it all in. I ain't been in the high country much. 'Course I don't aim to camp on you. "

"You're sure welcome, " said Shoop heartily. "It gets lonesome up here. But if you ain't got no reg'lar plan I was thinkin' of ridin' over toSheep Crossin'--and mebby on down to Jason. "

"Suits me fine!"

Shoop heaved himself up. Lorry whistled shrilly. Gray Leg, across themesa, raised his head. Lorry whistled again. The pony lowered his headand nipped at the bunch-grass as he moved slowly toward the house. Shoop's horses watched him, and finally decided that they would follow. Gray Leg stopped just out of reach. 

"Get in the corral, there!" said Lorry, waving his arm. 

The pony shied and trotted into the corral, the other horses following. 

Bondsman was not exactly disgruntled, but he might have been happier. Shoop had told him to "keep house" until they returned. 

"It's a funny thing, " said Shoop as he mounted. "Now, if I was to tellthat dog he was gettin' too old to ramble with me, he'd feel plumb sickand no account. But when I tell him he's got to do somethin'--likewatchin' the house--he thinks it's a reg'lar job. He's gettin' old, but, just like folks, he wants to think he's some use. You can't tell me dogsdon't know. Why, I've seen young folks so durned fussy about theirgrandmas and grandpas, trying to keep 'em from putterin' around, thatthe old folks just nacherally folded their hands and set down and died, havin' nothin' else to do. And a dog is right proud about bein' able todo somethin'. Bondsman there keeps me so busy thinkin' of how I can keephim busy that I ain't got time to shine my boots. That there dog bossesme around somethin' scandalous. "

"That's right, " acquiesced Lorry. "I seen a ole mule once that theyturned loose from a freight wagon because he was too old to pull his ownweight. And that mule just followed the string up and down the hills andacross the sand, doin' his best to tell the skinner that he wanted toget back into the harness. He would run alongside the other mules, andtry to get back in his old place. They would just naturally kick him, and he'd turn and try to wallop 'em back. Then he'd walk along, with hishead hangin' down and his ears floppin', as if he was plumb sick ofbein' free and wanted to die. The last day he was too stiff to get onhis feet, so me and Jimmy Harp heaved him up while the skinner wasgettin' the chains on the other mules. That ole mule was sure wabblin'like a duck, but he come aside his ole place and followed along all day. We was freightin' in to camp, back in the Horseshoe Hills. You know thatgrade afore you get to the mesa? Well, the ole mule pulled the grade, sweatin' and puffin' like he was pullin' the whole load. And I guess hewas, in his mind. Anyhow, he got to the top, and laid down and died. Mules sure like to work. Now a horse would have fanned it. "

Shoop nodded. "I never seen a animile too lazy to work if it was onlygettin' his grub and exercise. But I've seen a sight of folks too lazyto do that much. Why, some folks is so dog-gone no account they got togit killed afore folks ever knowed they was livin'. Then they's somefolks so high-chinned they can't see nothin' but the stars when they'ddo tol'able well if they would follow a good hoss or a dog around andlearn how to live human. But this ain't gettin' nowhere, and the sun'skeepin' right along doin' business. "

They rode across the beautiful Blue Mesa, and entered the timberlands, following a ranger trail through the shadowy silences. At the lowerlevel, they came upon another mesa through which wound a mountainstream. And along a stream ran the trail, knee-high in grass on eitherside. 

Far below them lay the plains country, its hazy reaches just visibleover the tree-tops. Where the mountain stream merged with a deeperstream the ground was barren and dotted with countless tracks of cattleand sheep. This was Sheep Crossing, a natural pass where the cattlemenand sheepmen drifted their stock from the hills to the winterfeeding-grounds of the lower country. It was a checking point for therangers; the gateway to the hills. 

The thin mountain air was hot. The unbridled ponies drank eagerly, andwere allowed to graze. The men moved over to the shade of a blue-toppedspruce. As Lorry was about to sit down he picked an empty whiskey bottlefrom the grass, turned the label toward Shoop, and grinned. He tossedthe bottle into the edge of the timber. 

Shoop rolled a cigarette, and Lorry squatted beside him. PresentlyShoop's voice broke the indolent silence of noon: "Just why did youchuck that bottle over there?"

"I don't know. Horse might step on it and cut himself. "

"Yes. But you chucked it like you was mad at somethin'. Would you thrunit away if it was full?"

"I don' know. I might 'a' smelt of it to see if it was whiskey orkerosene some herder forgot. "

"It's right curious how a fella will smell of a bottle to see what's init or what's been in it. Most folks does that. I guess you know whatwhiskey smells like. "

"Oh, some; with the boys once or twice. I never did get to like it rightwell. "

Shoop nodded. "I ain't what you'd call a drinkin' man myself, but Istarted out that way. I been tol'able well lit up at times. Buttemperance folks what never took a drink can tell you more about whiskeythan I can. Now that there empty bottle, a hundred and thirty miles froma whiskey town, kind of set me thinkin'. "

Lorry leaned back against the spruce and watched a hawk float in easycircles round the blue emptiness above. He felt physically indolent; atone with the silences. Shoop's voice came to him clearly, but as thoughfrom a distance, and as Shoop talked Lorry visualized the theme, forgetting where he was in the vivid picture the old ex-cowboy sketchedin the rough dialect of the range. 

"I've did some thinkin' in my time, but not enough to keep me awakenights, " said Shoop, pushing back his hat. "That there whiskey bottlekind of set me back to where I was about your years and some lively. Long about then I knowed two fellas called 'John' and 'Demijohn. ' Johnwas young and a right good cow-hand. Demijohn was old, but he was alwaysdressed up like he was young, and he acted right lively. Some folksthought he was young. They met up at a saloon down along the Santa Fé. They got acquainted, and had a high ole time. 

"That evenin', as John was leavin' to go back to the ranch, Demijohntells him he'll see him later. John remembers that. They met up ag'in. And finally John got to lookin' for Demijohn, and if he didn't show upreg'lar John would set out and chase Demijohn all over the country, afoot and ahorseback, and likin' his comp'ny more every time they met. 

"Now, this here Demijohn, who was by rights a city fella, got to takin'to the timber and the mesas, with John followin' him around lively. OleDemijohn would set in the shade of a tree--no tellin' how he gotthere--and John would ride up and light down; when mebby Demijohn wouldstart off to town, bein' empty, and John after him like hell wasn't hotenough 'less he sweat runnin'. And that young John would ride clean totown just to say 'How' to that ole hocus. And it come that John got topayin' more attention to Demijohn than he did to punchin' cows. Thencome a day when John got sick of chasin' Demijohn all over the range, and he quit. 

"But the first thing he knowed, Demijohn was a chasin' him. Every timeJohn rode in and throwed off his saddle there'd be ole Demijohn, settin'in the corner of the corral or under his bunk or out in the box stall, smilin' and waitin'. Finally Demijohn got to followin' John right intothe bunk-house, and John tryin' his durndest to keep out of sight. 

"One evenin', when John was loafin' in the bunk-house, ole Demijohncrawls up to his bunk and asks him, whisperin', if he ain't most alwaysgive John a good time when they met up. John cussed, but 'lowed thatDemijohn was right. Then Demijohn took to pullin' at young John's sleeveand askin' him to come to town and have a good time. Pretty soon Johngets up and saddles his cayuse and fans it for town. And that time himand Demijohn sure had one whizzer of a time. But come a week later, whenJohn gits back to the ranch, the boss is sore and fires him. Then Johngits sore at the boss and at himself and at Demijohn and the wholeworks. So he saddles up and rides over to town to have it out withDemijohn for losin' a good job. But he couldn't lick Demijohn rightthere in town nohow. Demijohn was too frequent for him. 

"When young John wakes up next mornin' he is layin' under a tree, mightysick. He sees he is up on the high mesa, but he don' know how he gotthere; only his pony is grazin' near by, with reins all tromped and thesaddle 'way up on his withers. John sets up and rubs his eyes, and therehe sees ole Demijohn settin' in the grass chucklin' to hisself, and hisback is turned to young John, for he don't care nohow for a fella whenhe is sick. Ole Demijohn is always feelin' good, no matter how hisfriends feel. Well, young John thinks a while, and pretty soon he moseysover to a spring and gets a big, cold drink and washes his head, andfeels better. 

"He never knowed that just plain water tasted so good till that mornin'. Then he sets awhile, smellin' of the clean pine air and listenin' to thewind runnin' loose in the tree-tops and watchin' the clouds driftin' by, white and clean and proud-like. Pretty soon he rares up and walks overto the tree where ole Demijohn sets rockin' up and down and chucklin'. He takes a holt of Demijohn by the shoulder, and he says: 'You darnedole hocus, you, I lost my job, and I'm broke, lopin' around this countrywith you. '

"'Forget it!' says ole Demijohn. 'Ain't I good comp'ny?'

"'Mebby you be--for some folks, ' says young John. 'But not for me. Youdon't belong up in this here country; you belong back in town, and Ireckon you better fan it. '

"Ole Demijohn he laughed. 'You can't run me off the range that easy, ' hesays. 

"'I can't, eh?' says young John, and he pulls his gun and up and bustsole Demijohn over the head. Then, bein' a likely young fella, he shutshis jaw tight and fans it back to the ranch. The fo'man is somesurprised to see him come ridin' up, whistlin' like he owned the works. Fellas what's fired mostly looks for work some place else. But youngJohn got the idee that he owed it to hisself to make good where hestarted as a cow-hand. 'I busted my ole friend Demijohn over the head, 'he says to the fo'man. 'We ain't friends no more. '

"The fo'man he grins. 'All right, Jack, ' he says. 'But if I see himhangin' round the corrals ag'in, or in the bunk-house, you needn't towait for me to tell you which way is north. '

"Well, young John had done a good job. 'Course ole Demijohn used to comesneakin' round in the moonlight, once in a spell, botherin' some of theboys, but he stayed clear of young John. And young John he took toridin' straight and hard and 'tendin' to business. I ain't sayin' heever got to be president or superintendent of a Sunday School, for thisain't no story-book yarn; but he always held a good job when he wantedit, and he worked for a good boss--which was hisself. "

Lorry grinned as he turned to Shoop. "That ole Demijohn never got closeenough to me to get busted on the head. "

"Them hosses is strayin' down the creek, " said Shoop, rising. 

They turned and rode north, somewhat to Lorry's surprise. The trail wasragged and steep, and led from the mesa to the cañon bottom of the WhiteRiver. Before Lorry realized where they were, Jason loomed before themon the mesa below. 

"She's a quick trail to town in summer, " explained Shoop. "Snow hangstoo heavy in the cañon to ride it in winter. "

At Jason they tied their horses, and entered the ranger's office. Lorrywaited while Shoop talked with Torrance in the private office. PresentlyShoop came to the door and gestured to Lorry. 

"Mr. Shoop says he thinks you could qualify for the Service, " Torrancesaid. "We will waive the matter of recommendations from the Starrpeople. But there is one thing I can't do. I can't hire a man who iswanted by the authorities. There's a deputy sheriff in town with awarrant for you. That is strictly your affair. If you can squareyourself with the deputy, I'll put you to work. "

"I'll go see what he wants, " said Lorry. 

"He wants you. Understand, you'll only jeopardize your chances bystarting a row. "

"They won't be a row, " said Lorry. 

When he returned he was accompanied by the deputy. Lorry took his standwithout parley. 

"I want to ask you folks a question, and then I'm through, " he asserted. "Will you listen to what he says and what I say, and then say who isright?"

"That might not settle it, " said Torrance. "But go ahead. "

"Then all I got to say is, was I right or wrong when I turned that hoboloose and saved him from gettin' beat up by High Chin and the boys, andmebby strung up, afore they got through?"

"Morally you were right, " said Torrance. "But you should have appealedto Sheriff Hardy to guard his prisoner. "

"That's all right, Mr. Torrance. But suppose they wasn't time. Andsuppose, --now Buck's deputy is here to listen to it, --suppose I was tosay that Buck is scared to death of High-Chin Bob. Everybody knows it. "

The deputy flushed. He knew that Lorry spoke the truth. 

Torrance turned to Shoop. "What do you think, Bud?"

Bud coughed and shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Bein' as I'm drug intothis, I say the boy did a good job and he's right about Hardy, whichyou can tell him, " he added, turning to the deputy. 

"Then that's all I got to say, " and Lorry pushed back his hat andrumpled his hair. 

The deputy was not there to argue. He had been sent to get Lorry. 

"I don't say he ain't right. But how about my job if I ride back toStacey with nothin' to show for the trip but my expense card?"

"Buck Hardy isn't a fool, " said Torrance. 

"Oh, hell!" said Lorry, turning to the deputy. "I'll go back with you. I'm sick of jawin' about the right and the wrong and who's to blame. ButI want to say in company that I'll go just as far as the county line ofthis county. You're south of your county. If you can get me across theline, I'll go on to Stacey. "

Bud Shoop mopped his face with a bandanna. He was not overhot, but hewanted to hide the grin that spread over his broad countenance. Heimagined he could see the deputy just about the time they arrived at thecounty line, and the mental picture seemed to amuse him. 

"The idee is, the kid thinks he's right, " said Shoop presently. "Speakin' personal, I never monkey with a man when he thinks he'sright--and he is. "

"All I got to go by is the law, " asserted the deputy. "As for Adams heresayin' I won't run him in, I got orders to do it, and them orders goes. "

"Adams has applied for a position in the Service, " said Torrance. 

"I ain't got anything against Lorry personal, " said the deputy. 

"Then just you ride back an' tell Buck Hardy that Bud Shoop says he'llstand responsible for Adams keepin' the peace in Jason County, same as Istood responsible for Buck oncet down in the Panhandle. Buck willremember, all right. "

"Can't you give me a letter to Buck, explainin' things?" queried thedeputy. 

Bud glanced at Torrance. "I think we can, " said the supervisor. 

Lorry stepped to the door with the deputy. There was no personal feelingevident as they shook hands. 

"You could tell ma to send down my clothes by stage, " said Lorry. 

Shoop and Torrance seemed to be enjoying themselves. 

"I put in my say, " said Bud, "'cause I kind of like the kid. And Ireckon I saved that deputy a awful wallopin'. When a fella like youngAdams talks pleasant and chokes his hat to death at the same time youcan watch out for somethin' to fall. "

"Do you think Adams would have had it out with him?"

"He'd 'a' rode along a spell, like he said. Mebby just this side of thecounty line he'd 'a' told the deputy which way was north. And if thedeputy didn't take the hint, I reckon Adams would 'a' lit into him. Iknowed Adams's daddy afore he married Annie Adams and went to live inSonora. "

"Then you knew that his father was Jim Waring?"

"I sure did. And I reckon I kep' somebody from gettin' a awfulwallopin'. I was a kid oncet myself. "

Chapter XVI

_Play_

The installation of Bud Shoop as supervisor of the White MountainDistrict was celebrated with an old-fashioned barbecue by the cattlemenand sheepmen leasing on the reserve. While John Torrance had alwaysdealt fairly with them, the natives felt that he was more or less of atheorist in the matter of grazing-leases. Shoop was a practical cowman;one of themselves. Naturally there was some dissatisfaction expressed bydisgruntled individuals who envied Shoop's good fortune. But this wasoverwhelmed by the tide of popular acclaim with which Shoop was hailedas a just administrator of their grazing-rights. 

The barbecue was a boisterous success. Although the day of largeholdings was past, the event lacked nothing in numbers or enthusiasm. The man who owned a hundred head of cattle was quite as popular as hisneighbor who owned perhaps eight hundred or a thousand. Outfitsfraternized, ran pony races, roped for prizes, and rode bucking horses, as their predecessors had raced, roped, and "rode 'em" in the days ofold. 

Lorry, itching to enter the roping contest, was checked by a suggestionfrom the genial Bud. 

"I've heard you was top-hand with a rope. But you're a ranger, by thegrace of God and me and John Torrance. Let the boy's play, but don'tplay with 'em yet. Keep 'em guessin' just how good you are. Let 'em getto know you slow--and solid. "

Lorry accepted Bud's advice, and made himself popular with the variousoutfits by maintaining a silence when questioned as to how he "putHigh-Chin Bob out of business. " The story of that affair had had a widecirculation, and gained interest when it became known that High Chin andhis men were present. Their excuse for coming was only legitimate inthat a barbecue draws no fine lines of distinction. Any one who has ahorse and an appetite is welcome. The Starr riders were from thenorthern county, but they would have been quite as welcome had they comefrom Alaska. 

Bud Shoop was present in a suit of religiously severe black, his pantsoutside his boots. He had donned a white shirt and knotted a black silkbandanna round his short neck. 

The morning was noisy with pony races, roping contests, and the ridingof pitching horses. The events were not tabulated, but evolved throughthe unwritten law of precedent. 

After the noon feast there was talk of a shooting-match. Few of thelocal men packed guns, and none of them openly. The Starr riders werethe only exception. This fact was commented upon by some of theold-timers, who finally accosted Bud with the suggestion that he "showthat Starr outfit what a gun was made for. " Bud declined. 

"I ain't had a gun in my hand, except to clean it, since I quitpunchin', " he told them. "And, anyhow, I'm no fancy gun sharp. "

"High Chin and his outfit is sure handin' it to us, " complained theold-timers. "And you're about the only man here who could show 'em. "

"No use provin' it to 'em when they know it, " Bud said. 

The committee retired and consulted among themselves. Bud was talkingwith a cattleman when they again accosted him. 

"Say, Bud, them Starr boys has cleaned us out on ropin' and racin'. Wetrimmed 'em on ridin'. Now that makes two to one, and we're askin' youas a old-timer if we're goin' to let them fellas ride north a-tellin'every hay-tosser atween here and Stacey that we're a bunch of jays?"

"Oh, shucks!" was all Bud had to say. 

"And that High-Chin Bob says he aims to hang young Adams's scalp on hisbelt afore he gits through, " asserted a townsman. 

"I'll set in the game, " said Bud. 

And he waddled across the street to his office. In a few minutes he cameback and mingled with the crowd. The Starr boys were pitching dollars ata mark when Bud and a companion strolled past. High Chin invited Shoopto join in the game. Shoop declined pleasantly. 

"Things is runnin' slow, " said a Starr man. "Wish I'd 'a' fetched mymusic along. Mebby I could git somebody to sing me to sleep. "

Bud laughed. "Have a good time, boys. " And he moved on. 

"That was one for you--and yore piano, " said his companion. 

"Mebby so. We'll let that rest. I'm lookin' for a friend of mine. " AndShoop edged along the crowd. 

The man that Shoop was looking for was standing alone beneath the shadeof an acacia, watching the crowd. He was a tall, heavy man, dark-featured, with a silver-gray beard and brown eyes that seemed totwinkle with amusement even when his lips were grim. The giant sheepmanof the south country was known to every one on account of his greatphysique and his immense holdings in land and sheep. Shoop talked withhim for a few minutes. Together they strolled back to the crowd. 

The Starr boys were still pitching dollars when Shoop and the sheepmanapproached. 

"Who's top-hand in this game?" queried Shoop genially. 

"High Chin--and at any game you got, " said a Starr man. 

"Well, now!"

"Any game you got. "

Shoop gazed about, saw Lorry, and beckoned to him. 

"Here's my candidate, " said Shoop. "He kep' out of the ropin' so as togive you fellas a chance. " And he turned to Lorry. "Give him a whirl, "he said, indicating High Chin. "It's worth a couple of dollars just tofind out how good he is. "

High Chin surveyed the circle of faces, poised a dollar, and threw it. Lorry threw and lost. High Chin pocketed the two dollars. The Starr boysgrinned. High Chin threw again. The dollar slid close to the line. Lorryshied his dollar and knocked the other's coin several feet away from theline. 

"Try him ag'in, " said Shoop. 

Lorry tossed again. His dollar dropped on the line. High Chin threw. Hiscoin clinked squarely on Lorry's, but spun off, leaving it undisturbed. 

"You break even--at that game, " said Shoop. "It was a good shot. "

"Folks been sayin' the same of you, " said High Chin, turning to thesupervisor. 

"Oh, folks will talk. They're made that way, " chuckled Shoop. 

"Well, I got ten bucks that says High Chin can outshoot any hombre inthis crowd, " said a Starr boy. 

"I'm right glad you got it, " said Shoop pleasantly. 

"Meanin' I stand to lose it, eh?"

"Oh, gosh, no! You're steppin' on your bridle. I was congratulatin' youon your wealth. "

"I ain't seen that you been flashin' any money, " said the cowboy. 

"Nope. That ain't what money's made for. And I never bet on a surething. Ain't no fun in that. "

The giant sheepman, whose movements were as deliberate as the sun's, slowly reached in his pocket and drew out a leather pouch. He countedout forty dollars in gold-pieces. 

"I'll lay it even, " he said, his eyes twinkling, "that Bud Shoop canoutshoot any man in the crowd. "

"I'll take ten of that, " said the Starr man. 

"And I'll take ten, " said another cowboy. 

"John, " said Shoop, turning to the sheepman, "you're a perpendiculardam' fool. "

Word went forth that High-Chin Bob, of the Starr, and Bud Shoop were toshoot a match for a thousand dollars a side, and some of the moreenthusiastic believed it. In a few minutes the street was empty of allsave the ponies at the hitching-rails. 

In a shallow arroyo back of town the excited throng made wagers andtalked of wonderful shots made by the principals. High Chin was known asa quick and sure shot. Shoop's reputation was known to fewer of thecrowd. The Starr boys backed their foreman to the last cent. A judge wassuggested, but declined as being of the locality. Finally the giantsheepman, despite his personal wager, was elected unanimously. He wasknown to be a man of absolute fairness, and qualified to judgemarksmanship. He agreed to serve, with the proviso that the Starr boysor any of High Chin's friends should feel free to question hisdecisions. The crowd solidified back of the line, where Shoop and HighChin stood waiting for the test. 

The marksmen faced two bottles on a rock some thirty paces away. At theword, each was to "go for his gun" and shoot. High Chin carried his gunin the usual holster. Bud Shoop's gun was tucked in the waistband of hispants. 

"Go!" said the sheepman. 

High Chin's hand flashed to his hip. His gun jumped and spoke. Shoop'swrist turned. Both bottles were shattered on the instant. A tie wasdeclared. 

The men were placed with their backs toward the targets--two emptybottles. The sheepman faced them, with his hands behind his back. Whenhe snapped his fingers they were to turn and fire. Many of the onlookersthought this test would leave High Chin a point ahead. 

Both men swung and fired at the signal. Again both bottles wereshattered. Although a tie was again declared, the crowd cheered forShoop, realizing his physical handicap. Yet many asserted that High Chinwas the faster man, won to this decision by his lightning speed ofmovement and his easy manner, suggesting a kind of contemptuousindifference to results. 

In contrast to High Chin's swift, careless efficiency, Shoop's solidpoise and lack of elbow motion showed in strong relief. Their methodswere entirely dissimilar. But it was evident to the old-timers thatShoop shot with less effort and waste motion than his lithe competitor. And High Chin was the younger man by twenty years. 

Thus far the tests had not been considered difficult. But when thesheepman stepped off ten paces and faced the competitors with a cigarheld at arm's length, the chattering of the crowd ceased. High Chin, asguest, was asked to shoot first. He raised his gun. It hung poised for asecond. As it jumped in his hand the ash flirted from the end of thecigar. The crowd stamped and cheered. Shoop congratulated High Chin. Thecrowd hooted and called to Shoop to make good. Even as they called, hishand flashed up. Hardly had the report of his gun startled them tosilence when they saw that his hands were empty. A roar of laughtershook the crowd. Some one pointed toward the sheepman. The laughter dieddown. He held a scant two inches of cigar in his fingers. Then theyunderstood, and were silent again. They gathered round the sheepman. Heheld up his arms. Shoop's bullet had nipped the cigar in two before theyhad realized that he intended to shoot. 

"You're havin' the luck, " said High. 

"You're right, " said Shoop. "And luck, if she keeps steady gait, is justas good a hoss to ride as they is. "

Still, there were those who maintained that Shoop had made a chancehit. But High Chin knew that this was not so. He had met his master atthe six-gun game. 

Bud Shoop's easy manner had vanished. As solid as a rock, his lips in astraight line, he waited for the next test while High Chin talked andjoked with the bystanders. 

"You'll shoot when you see something to shoot at, " was the sheepman'sword. The crowd laughed. He stood behind the marksmen, a tin can in eachhand. Both High Chin and Shoop knew what was coming, and Shoop decidedto surprise the assemblage. The main issue was not the shooting contest, and if High-Chin Bob had not already seen enough of Shoop's work tosatisfy him, the genial Bud intended to clinch the matter right there. 

Without warning, the sheepman tossed the cans into the air. Shoop andHigh Chin shot on the instant. But before High Chin's can touched theground Shoop shot again. It was faster work than any present had everseen. A man picked up the cans and brought them to the sheepman. One canhad a clean hole in it. The other had two holes through it. Thosenearest the marksmen wondered why Shoop had not shot twice at his owncan. But the big sheepman knew that Shoop had called High Chin's bluffabout "any game going. "

Even then the match was a tie so far as precedent demanded. Each manhad made a hit on a moving target. 

The crowd had ceased to applaud. 

"How about a try from the saddle?" suggested High Chin. 

"I reckon I look just as fat and foolish settin' in a saddle asanywhere, " said Shoop. 

The crowd shuffled over to a more open spot, on the mesa. Shoop and HighChin mounted their horses. A tin cracker box was placed on a flat rockout in the open. 

The men were to reload and shoot at top speed as they rode past the box. The Starr foreman immediately jumped his pony to a run, and, swayingeasily, threw a shot at the box as he approached it, another and anotherwhen opposite, and, turning in the saddle, fired his three remainingshots. The box was brought back and inspected. The six shots had allhit. 

Shoop, straight and solid as a statue, ran his pony down the course, butheld his fire until almost opposite the box. Then six reports rippledout like the drawing of a stick quickly across a picket fence. It wasfound that the six shots had all hit in one side of the box. Thesheepman was asked for a decision. He shook his head and declared thematch a draw. And technically it was a draw. Every one seemed satisfied, although there was much discussion among individuals as to the relativemerits of the contestants. 

As the crowd dispersed and some of them prepared to ride home, twohorsemen appeared on the northern road, riding toward town. As they drewnearer Shoop chuckled. Lorry, standing a few paces away, glanced at him. 

The supervisor was talking to Bob Brewster. "High, you're the best Iever stacked up against, exceptin' one, and it's right curious that heis just a-ridin' into this powwow. If you want to see what real shootin'is, get him to show you. "

"I don't know your friend, " said High, eyeing the approaching horsemen, "but he's a beaut if he can outshoot you. "

"Outshoot me? Say, High, that hombre ridin' the big buckskin hoss therecould make us look about as fast as a couple of fence-posts when itcomes to handlin' a gun. And his pardner ain't what you'd call slow. "

High Chin's lean face darkened as he recognized Waring riding beside agaunt, long-legged man whose gray eyes twinkled as he surveyed thelittle group. 

"Pat--and Jim Waring, " muttered Shoop. "And us just finished what somewould call a ole-time shootin'-bee!"

"Who's your friend?" queried High Chin, although he knew. 

"Him? That's Jim Waring, of Sonora. And say, High, I ain't hisadvertisin' agent, but between you and me he could shoot the fuzz out ofyour ears and never as much as burn 'em. What I'm tellin' you isfirst-class life insurance if you ain't took out any. And before you goI just want to pass the word that young Adams is workin' for _me_. Reckon you might be interested, seein' as how he worked for you aspell. "

High Chin met Shoop's gaze unblinkingly. He was about to speak when Patand Waring, rode up and greeted the supervisor. High Chin wheeled hishorse and loped back to town. A few minutes later he and his men rodepast. To Shoop's genial wave of farewell they returned a whoop thatseemed edged with a vague challenge. 

Pat, who was watching them, asked Shoop who the man was riding thepinto. 

"Why, that's High-Chin Bob Brewster, Starr fo'man. He's kind of a wildbird. I reckon he came over here lookin' for trouble. He's been walkin'around with his wings and tail spread like he was mad at somethin'. "

"I thought I knew him, " said Pat. And he shrugged his shoulders. 

Shoop noticed that Waring was gazing at Pat in a peculiar manner. Heattached no significance to this at the time, but later he recalled thefact that there had been trouble between Pat and the Brewster boys someyears ago. The Brewsters had then openly threatened to "get Pat if heever rode north again. "

Chapter XVII

_Down the Wind_

Waring, several miles out from the home shack, on the new range, sat hishorse Dexter, watching his men string fence. They ran the barbed wirewith a tackle, stringing it taut down the long line of bare posts thattwinkled away to dots in the west. Occasionally Waring rode up andtested the wire with his hand. The men worked fast. Waring and Pat hadpicked their men; three husky boys of the high country who consideredstringing fence rather pleasant exercise. There was no recognizedforeman. Each knew his work, and Waring had added a foreman's pay totheir salaries, dividing it equally among them. Later they would lookafter the ranch and the cattle. 

Twenty thousand acres under fence, with plenty of water, would take careof eight hundred or a thousand head of cattle. And as a provisionagainst a lean winter, Waring had put a mowing-machine in at the easternend of the range, where the bunch-grass was heavy enough to cut. Itwould be necessary to winter-feed. Four hundred white-faced Herefordsgrazed in the autumn sunshine. Riding round and among them leisurely wasthe Mexican youth, Ramon. 

Backed against a butte near the middle of the range was the broad, low-roofed ranch-house. A windmill purred in the light breeze, its lean, flickering shadow aslant the corrals. The buildings looked new and rawin contrast to the huge pile of grayish-green greasewood and scrub cedargathered from the clearing round them. 

In front of the house was a fenced acre, ploughed and harrowed to a deadlevel. This was to be Pat's garden, wherein he had planned to grow allsorts of green things, including cucumbers. At the moment Pat wasstanding under the veranda roof, gazing out across the ranch. The olddays of petty warfare, long night rides, and untold hardships were past. Next spring his garden would bloom; tiny green tendrils would swell tosturdy vines. Corn-leaves would broaden to waving green blades shot withthe rich brown of the ripening ears. Although he had never spoken of it, Pat had dreamed of blue flowers nodding along the garden fence;old-fashioned bachelor's-buttons that would spring up as though byaccident. But he would have to warn Waco, the erstwhile tramp, not tomistake them for weeds. 

"Peace and plenty, " muttered Pat, smiling to himself. "The Book sureknows how to say those things. "

The gaunt, grizzled ex-sheriff reached in his vest for a cigar. As hebit the end off and felt for a match, he saw a black speck wavering inthe distance. He shaded his eyes with his hand. 

"'Tain't a machine, " he said. "And it ain't a buckboard. Some puncherlookin' for a job, most likely. "

He turned and entered the house. Waco, shaven and in clean shirt andoveralls, was "punching dough" in the kitchen. 

"Did Jim say when he would ride in?" queried Pat. 

"About sundown. I fixed 'em up some chuck this morning. Jim figuresthey're getting too far out to ride in every noon. "

"Well, when you get your bread baked we'll take a whirl at thoseditches. How are the supplies holding out?"

"We're short on flour. Got enough to last over till Monday. Plenty baconand beans and lard. "

"All right. We'll hook up to-morrow and drive in. "

Waco nodded as he tucked a roll of dough into the pan. Pat watched himfor a moment. Waco, despite his many shortcomings, could cook, and, strangely enough, liked to putter round the garden. 

Picked up half-starving on the mesa road, near St. Johns, he had beenbrought to the ranch by Pat, where a month of clean air and industry hadreshaped the tramp to something like a man. Both Pat and Waring knewthat the hobo was wanted in Stacey. They had agreed to say nothing aboutthe tramp's whereabouts just so long as he made himself useful aboutthe ranch. They would give him a chance. But, familiar with his kind, they were mildly skeptical as to Waco's sincerity of purpose. If he tookto drinking, or if Buck Hardy heard of his whereabouts, he would have togo. Meanwhile, he earned his keep. He was a good cook, and a good cook, no matter where or where from, is a power in the land. 

As Waco closed the oven door some one hallooed. Pat stepped to theveranda. A cowboy astride a bay pony asked if Waring were around. 

"I can take your message, " said Pat. 

"Well, it's for you, I guess. Letter from Buck Hardy. "

"Yes, it's for me, " said Pat. "Who sent you?"

"Hardy. Said something about you had a man down here he wanted. "

"All right. Stay for chuck?"

"I got to git back. How's things down this way?"

"Running on time. Just tell Buck I'll be over right soon. "

"To-day?"

Pat's gray eyes hardened. "Buck tell you to ask me that?"

"Well--no. I was just wonderin'. "

"Then keep right on wondering, " said Pat. "You got your answer. "

The cowboy swung up and rode off. "To hell with him!" he said. "Thinkshe can throw a scare into me because he's got a name for killin'. Tohell him!"

Pat climbed the hill back of the house and surveyed the glimmeringlevels. 

"Wish Jim would ride in. Funny thing--Hardy sending a Starr boy withword for me. But perhaps the kid was riding this way, anyhow. "

Pat shook his head, and climbed slowly down to the house. Waco was busyin the kitchen when he came in. 

After the noon meal, Pat again climbed the hill. He seemed worried aboutsomething. When he returned he told Waco to hitch the pintos to thebuckboard. 

"Get your coat, " he told Waco. "We're going over to Stacey. "

Waco's hands trembled. "Say, boss, if you don't mind--"

"Get your coat. I'll talk to Buck. You needn't to worry. I'll square youwith Buck. We can use you here. "

Waco did as he was told. They drove out of the yard. Waco leaped downand closed the gate. 

The pintos shook themselves into the harness and trotted down thefaintly marked new road. The buckboard swayed and jolted. Somethingrubbed against Waco's hip. He glanced down and saw Pat's gun on the seatbetween them. Pat said nothing. He was thinking hard. The cowboymessenger's manner had not been natural. The note bore the printedheading of the sheriff's office. Perhaps it was all right. And if itwere not, Pat was not the man to back down from a bluff. 

Several miles out from the ranch ran the naked posts of the line fence. Pat reined in the ponies and gazed up and down the line. A mile beyond, the ranch road merged with the main-traveled highway running east andwest. He spoke to the horses. They broke into a fast trot. Waco, gripping the seat, stared straight ahead. Why had Pat laid that gun onthe seat?

A thin, gray veil drifted across the sun. From the northwest a lightwind sprang up and ran across the mesa, whipping the bunch-grass. Thewind grew heavier, and with it came a fine, dun-colored dust. An hourand the air was thick with a shifting red haze of sand. The sun gloweddimly through the murk. 

Waco turned up his coat-collar and shivered. The air was keen. Theponies fought the bit, occasionally breaking into a gallop. Pat bracedhis feet and held them to a trot. A weird buzzing came down the wind. The ponies reared and took to the ditch as a machine flicked past anddrummed away in the distance. 

To Waco, rigid and staring, the air seemed filled with a kind ofhovering terror, a whining threat of danger that came in bursts ofdriving sand and dwindled away to harsh whisperings. He stood it aslong as he could. Pat had not spoken. 

[Illustration: A huddled shape near a boulder]

Waco touched his arm. "I got a hunch, " he said hoarsely, --"I got a hunchwe oughta go back. "

Pat nodded. But the ponies swept on down the road, their manes and tailswhipping in the wind. Another mile and they slowed down in heavy sand. The buckboard tilted forward as they descended the sharp pitch of anarroyo. Unnoticed, Pat's gun slipped to the floor of the wagon. 

In the arroyo the wind seemed to have died away, leaving a startledquietness. It still hung above them, and an occasional gust filled theireyes with grit. Waco drew a deep breath. The ponies tugged through theheavy sand. 

Without a sound to warn them a rider appeared close to the front wheelof the buckboard. Waco shrank down in sodden terror. It was the Starrforeman, High-Chin Bob. Waco saw Pat's hand flash to his side, thenfumble on the seat. 

"I'm payin' the Kid's debt, " said High Chin, and, laughing, he threwshot after shot into the defenseless body of his old enemy. 

Waco saw Pat slump forward, catch himself, and finally topple from theseat. As the reins slipped from his fingers the ponies lunged up thearroyo. Waco crouched, clutching the foot-rail. A bullet hummed over hishead. Gaining the level, the ponies broke into a wild run. The red windwhined as it drove across the mesa. The buckboard lurched sickeningly. A scream of terror wailed down the wind as the buckboard struck atelegraph pole. A blind shock--and for Waco the droning of the wind hadceased. 

Dragging the broken traces, the ponies circled the mesa and set off at agallop toward home. At the side of the road lay the splinteredbuckboard, wheels up. And Waco, hovering on the edge of the black abyss, dreamed strange dreams. 

 * * * * *

Waring, riding in with the crew, found the ranch-house deserted and thepinto ponies dragging the shreds of a broken harness, grazing along thefence. Waring sent a man to catch up the team. Ramon cooked supper. Themen ate in silence. 

After supper Waring changed his clothes, saddled Dex, and packed somefood in the saddle-pockets. "I am going out to look for Pat, " he toldone of his men. "If Waco shows up, keep him here till I get back. Thosehorses didn't get away from Pat. Here's a signed check. Get what youneed and keep on with the work. You're foreman till I get back. "

"If there's anything doing--" began the cowboy. 

"I don't know. Some one rode in here to-day. It was along about noonthat Pat and Waco left. The bread was baked. I'd say they drove to townfor grub; only Pat took his gun--without the holster. It looks bad tome. If anything happens to me, just send for Lorry Adams at the RangerStation. "

Waring rode out, looking for tracks. His men watched him until he haddisappeared behind a rise. Bender, the new foreman, turned to hisfellows. 

"I'd hate to be the man that the boss is lookin' for, " he said, shakinghis head. 

"Why, he's lookin' for Pat, ain't he?" queried one of the men. 

"That ain't what I mean, " said the foreman. 

 * * * * *

The wind died down suddenly. The sun, just above the horizon, glowedlike a disk of burnished copper. The wagon ruts were filled with finesand. Waring read the trail. The buckboard had traveled briskly. It hadstopped at the line. The tracks of the fretting ponies showed thatclearly. Alongside the tracks of the ponies were the half-hidden tracksof a single horse. Waring glanced back at the sun, and put Dex to alope. He swung into the main road, his gaze following thehalf-obliterated trail of the single horseman. Suddenly he reined up. The horseman had angled away from the road and had ridden north acrossthe open country. He had not gone to Stacey. Waring knew that thehorseman had been riding hard. Straight north from where Waring hadstopped was the Starr Ranch. 

He rode on, his heart heavy with a black premonition. The glowingcopper disk was now half-hidden by the western hills. 

At the brink of the arroyo he dismounted. He could see nothingdistinctly in the gloom of its depths. Stooping, he noted the wagontracks as he worked on down. His foot struck against something hard. Hefumbled and picked Pat's gun from the sand. Every chamber was loaded. 

"He didn't have a chance. " Waring was startled by his own voice. Hethrust the gun in his waistband. The twilight deepened rapidly. Rocksand ridges in the arroyo assumed peculiar shapes like those of mencrouching; men prone; men with heads up, listening, watching, waiting. Yet Waring's instinct for hidden danger told him that there was noliving thing in the arroyo--unless--Suddenly he sprang forward anddropped to his knees beside a huddled shape near a boulder. 

"Pat!" he whispered. 

Then he knew; saw it all as clearly as though he had witnessed it--theambushment in the blinding sandstorm; the terror-stricken Waco; thefrightened ponies; the lunging and swaying buckboard. And Pat, left fordead, but who had dragged himself from the roadway in dumb agony. 

The dole of light from the sinking sun was gone. Waring's hands cameaway from the opened shirt shudderingly. He wiped his hands on the sand, and, rising, ran back to Dex. He returned with a whiskey flask. Pat wasof tough fiber and tremendous vitality. If the spark were stillunquenched, if it could be called back even for a breath, that whichWaring knew, yet wanted to confirm beyond all doubt, might be given in aword. He raised Pat's head, and barely tilted the flask. The spirit ofthe mortally stricken man, perchance loath to leave such a bravehermitage, winged slowly back from the far shore of dreams. In the blackpit of the arroyo, where death crouched, waiting, life flamed for aninstant. 

Waring felt the limp body stir. He took Pat's big, bony hand in his. 

"Pat!" he whispered. 

A word breathed heavily from the motionless lips. "You, Jim?"

"Yes! For God's sake, Pat, who did this thing?"

"Brewster--Bob. Letter--in my coat. "

"I'll get _him_!" said Waring. 

"Shake!" exclaimed the dying man, and the grip of his hand was likeiron. Waring thought he had gone, and leaned closer. "I'm--kind oftired--Jim. Reckon--I'll--rest. "

Waring felt the other's grip relax. He drew his hand from the stiffeningfingers. A dull pain burned in his throat. He lighted a match, and foundthe message that had lured Pat to his death in the other's coat-pocket. He rose and stumbled up the arroyo to his horse. 

Halfway back to the ranch, and he met Ramon riding hard. "Ride back, "said Waring. "Hook up to the wagon and come to the arroyo. "

"Have you found the Señor Pat?"

"Yes. He is dead. "

Ramon whirled his pony and pounded away in the darkness. 

Out on the highway two long, slender shafts of light slid across themesa, dipped into an arroyo, and climbed skyward as a machine buzzed upthe opposite pitch. The lights straightened again and shot on down theroad, swinging stiffly from side to side. Presently they came to a stop. In the soft glow of their double radiance lay a yellow-wheeledbuckboard, shattered and twisted round a telegraph pole. The lightsmoved up slowly and stopped again. 

A man jumped from the machine and walked round the buckboard. Beneath itlay a crumpled figure. The driver of the machine ran a quick hand overthe neck and arms of Waco, who groaned. The driver lifted him andcarried him to the car. Stacey lay some twenty miles behind him. He wasbound south. The first town on his way was thirty miles distant. But theroads were good. He glanced back at the huddled figure in the tonneau. The car purred on down the night. The long shafts of light lifted over arise and disappeared. 

In about an hour the car stopped at the town of Grant. Waco was carriedfrom the machine to a room in the hotel, and a doctor was summoned. Waco lay unconscious throughout the night. 

In the morning he was questioned briefly. He gave a fictitious name, andmentioned a town he had heard of, but had never been in. His horses hadrun away with him. 

The man who had picked him up drove away next morning. Later the doctortold Waco that through a miracle there were no bones broken, but that hewould have to keep to his bed for at least a week. Otherwise he wouldnever recover from the severe shock to his nervous system. 

And Waco, recalling the horror of the preceding day, twisted his headround at every footstep in the hall, fearing that Waring had come toquestion him. He knew that he had done no wrong; in fact, he had toldPat that they had better drive back home. But a sense of shame at hiscowardice, and the realization that his word was as water in evidence, that he was but a wastrel, a tramp, burdened him with an aching desireto get away--to hide himself from Waring's eyes, from the eyes of allmen. 

He kept telling himself that he had done nothing wrong, yet fear shookhim until his teeth chattered. What could he have done even had he beencourageous? Pat had had no chance. 

He suffered with the misery of indecision. Habit inclined him to fleefrom the scene of the murder. Fear of the law urged him. Three nightsafter he had been brought to Grant, he dressed and crept down the backstairs, and made his way to the railroad station. Twice he had heard themidnight freight stop and cut out cars on the siding. He hid in theshadows until the freight arrived. He climbed to an empty box-car andwaited. Trainmen crunched past on the cinders. A jolt and he was sweptaway toward the west. He sank into a half sleep as the iron wheelsroared and droned beneath him. 

Chapter XVIII

_A Piece of Paper_

In the little desert hotel at Stacey, Mrs. Adams was singing softly toherself as she moved about the dining-room helping Anita clear away thebreakfast dishes. Mrs. Adams had heard from Lorry. He had secured aplace in the Ranger Service. She was happy. His letter had been filledwith enthusiasm for the work and for his chief, Bud Shoop. This initself was enough to make her happy. She had known Bud in Las Cruces. Hewas a good man. And then--Jim had settled down. Only last week he hadridden over and told her how they were getting on with the work at theranch. He had hinted then that he had laid his guns away. Perhaps he hadwanted her to know _that_ more than anything else. She had kissed himgood-bye. His gray eyes had been kind. "Some day, Annie, " he had said. Her face flushed as she recalled the moment. 

A boot-heel gritted on the walk. She turned. Waring was standing in thedoorway. His face was set and hard. Involuntarily she ran to him. 

"What is it, Jim? Lorry?"

He shook his head. She saw at once that he was dressed for a long rideand that--an unusual circumstance--a gun swung at his hip. He usuallywore a coat and carried his gun in a shoulder holster. But now he wasin his shirt-sleeves. A dread oppressed her. He was ready on the instantto fight, but with whom? Her eyes grew big. 

"What is it?" she whispered again. 

"The Brewster boys got Pat. "

"Not--they didn't kill him!"

Waring nodded. 

"But, Jim--"

"In the Red Arroyo on the desert road. I found him. I came to tell you. "

"And you are going--"

"Yes. I was afraid this would happen. Pat made a mistake. "

"But, Jim! The law--the sheriff--you don't have to go. "

"No, " he said slowly. 

"Then why do you go? I thought you would never do that again. I--I--prayed for you, Jim. I prayed for you and Lorry. I asked God tosend you back to me with your two hands clean. I told Him you wouldnever kill again. Oh, Jim, I wanted you--here! Don't!" she sobbed. 

He put his arm round her shoulders. Stooping, he kissed her. 

"You are going?" she asked, and her hands dropped to her sides. 

"Yes; I told Pat I would get Brewster. Pat went out with his hand inmine on that word. My God, Annie, do you think I could ride back to theranch and face the boys or sleep nights with Pat's hand reaching for mein the dark to remind me of my word? Can't you see where I stand? Do youthink I could look Lorry in the face when he knew that I sat idle whilethe man that murdered Pat was riding the country free?"

"Pat was your friend. I am your wife, " said Mrs. Adams. 

Waring's lips hardened. "Pat's gone. But I'm calling myself his friendyet. And the man that got him is going to know it. "

Before she could speak again Waring was gone. 

She dropped to a chair and buried her face in her arms. Anita came toher and tried to comfort her. But Mrs. Adams rose and walked to theoffice doorway. She saw Waring riding down the street. She wanted tocall out to him, to call him back. She felt that he was riding to hisdeath. If he would only turn! If he would only wave his hand to showthat he cared--But Waring rode on, straight and stern, black hate in hisheart, his free hand hollowed as though with an invisible vengeance thatwas gone as he drew his fingers tense. 

He rode north, toward the Starr Ranch. He passed a group of ridersdrifting some yearlings toward town. A man spoke to him. He did notreply. 

And as he rode he heard a voice--the Voice of his desert wanderings, theVoice that had whispered to him from the embers of many a night fire inthe Southern solitudes. Yet there, was this difference. That voice hadbeen strangely dispassionate, detached; not the voice of a human being. But now the Voice was that of his friend Pat softly reiterating: "Notthis way, Jim. "

And Waring cursed. His plan was made. He would suffer no interference. If Brewster were at the Starr Ranch, he would question him first. If hewere not, there would be no questioning. Waring determined to trail him. If Brewster had left that part of the country, that would prove hisguilt. 

Waring knew that Hardy and his men had ridden south, endeavoring to findsome clue to the murderer's whereabouts. Waring, guided by almostabsolute knowledge, rode in the opposite direction and against a keeninstinct that told him High-Chin Bob was not at the ranch. Yet Waringwould not overlook the slightest chance. Brewster was of the type thatwould kill a man in a quarrel and ride home, depending on his nerve andlack of evidence to escape punishment. 

The Voice had said, "Not this way, Jim. " And Waring knew that it hadbeen the voice of his own instinct. Yet a stubborn purpose held him tohis course. There was one chance in a thousand that Bob Brewster was atthe ranch and would disclaim all knowledge of the shooting. 

Starr was away when Waring arrived. Mrs. Starr made Waring welcome, andtold him that her husband would be in that evening. He was out with oneof his men running a line for a new fence. The old days of open rangewere past. And had Mr. Waring heard that Pat had been killed? Buck Hardywas out searching for the murderer. Did Mr. Waring know of a likelyforeman? Bob Brewster had left suddenly. Jasper--her husband--was notwell: had the rheumatics again. He could hardly walk--and his foremanhad left. "Things always happened that way. "

Mrs. Starr paused for lack of breath. 

"When did Brewster leave, Mrs. Starr?"

"Why, the last Jasper seen of him was Wednesday morning. Jasper isworried. I'm right glad you rode over. He'll be glad to see you. "

"Do you mind if I look over the horses in your corral?"

"Goodness, no! I'll have Sammy go with you--"

"Thanks; but I'd rather you said nothing to the boys. "

"You don't think that Bob--"

"Mrs. Starr, I wouldn't say so if I knew it. Bob Brewster has friends uphere. I'm looking for one of them. "

"Goodness, Mr. Waring, I hope you don't think any of our boys was mixedup in that. "

"I hope not. Have you seen Tony or Andy Brewster lately?"

"Why, no. I--why, yes! Tony and Andy rode over last Sunday. I rememberit was Sunday because Bob was out to the line shack. Tony and Andy hungaround for a while, and then rode out to look for Bob. "

"Well, I'll step over and look at the horses. You say Jasper will be inthis evening?"

"If he ain't too stiff with rheumatics to ride back. "

Waring walked round the corrals, looking for a pony lame forward andwith half a front shoe gone. Finally he noticed a short-coupled bay thathad not moved when he had waved his arm. Waring climbed through the barsand cornered the horse. One front shoe was entirely gone, and the ponylimped as Waring turned him loose. 

Mrs. Starr was getting supper when Waring returned to the house. 

"Any of the boys coming in with Jasper?" he queried. 

"Why, nobody except Pete. Pete's been layin' off. He claims his horsestepped in a gopher hole and threw him. Jasper took him along, feelin'like he wanted some one on account of his rheumatics. Jasper gets sostiff ridin' that sometimes he can hardly get on his horse. Mebby younoticed Pete's pony, that chunky bay in the corral--lame forward. "

"Yes, I noticed that. But that pony didn't step in a gopher hole. He wasridden down by some one in a hurry to get somewhere. He cast a shoe andwent tender on the rocks. "

Mrs. Starr stared at Waring. 

He shook his head and smiled. "I don't know. I can only guess at it. "

"Well, you'll stay for supper--and you can talk to Jasper. He'sworried. "

"Thank you. And would you mind asking this man Pete in to supper withus?"

"I figured to, him being with Jasper and not feeling right well. "

About sundown Starr rode in. Waring helped him from his horse. Theyshook hands in silence. The old cattleman knew at once why Waring hadcome, but he had no inkling of what was to follow. 

The cowboy, Pete, took care of the horses. A little later he clumpedinto the house and took a seat in a corner. Waring paid no attention tohim, but talked with Starr about the grazing and the weather. 

Just before supper Starr introduced Waring. 

The cowboy winced at Waring's grip. "Heard tell of you from the boys, "he said. 

"You want to ride over to our place, " said Waring pleasantly. "Pat and Iwill show you some pretty land under fence. "

The cowboy's eyelids flickered. How could this man Waring speak of Patthat way, when he must know that Pat had been killed? Everybody knewthat. Why didn't Mrs. Starr or Starr say something? But Starr waslimping to the table, and Mrs. Starr was telling them to come and havesupper. 

In the glow of the hanging lamp, Starr's lined, grizzled features wereas unreadable as carved bronze. Waring, at his left, sat directlyopposite the cowboy, Pete. The talk drifted from one subject to another, but no one mentioned the killing of Pat. Waring noted the cowboy's lackof appetite. 

"I looked over your saddle-stock this afternoon, " said Waring. "Noticedyou had a bay out there, white blaze on his nose. You don't want to sellthat pony, do you?"

"Oh, that's Pete's pony, Baldy, " said Mrs. Starr. 

Starr glanced at Waring. The horse Baldy was good enough as cow-ponieswent, but Waring had not ridden over to buy horses. 

"I aim to keep that cayuse, " said Pete, swallowing hard. 

"But every man has his price, "--and Waring smiled. "I'll make my offer;a hundred, cash. "

"Not this evenin', " said the cowboy. 

Waring felt in the pocket of his flannel shirt. "I'll go you one better. I'll make it a hundred, cash, and this to boot. " And his armstraightened. 

Pete started back. Waring's hand was on the table, the fingers closed. His fingers slowly opened, and a crumpled piece of paper lay in hispalm. The cowboy's lips tightened. His eyes shifted from Waring toStarr, and then back again. 

Mrs. Starr, who could not understand the strange silence of the men, breathed hard and wiped her forehead with her apron. 

"Read it!" said Waring sharply. 

The cowboy took the piece of paper, and, spreading it out, glanced at ithurriedly. 

"This ain't for me, " he asserted. 

"Did you ever see it before?"

"This? No. What have I got to do with the sheriff's office?"

"Pete, " said Waring, drawing back his hand, "you had better read thatnote again. "

"Why, I--Pete can't read, " said Mrs. Starr. "He can spell out printedreading some, but not writing. "

"Then how did you know this paper was from the sheriff's office?"queried Waring. 

The cowboy half rose. 

"Sit down!" thundered Waring. "Who sent you with a note to Pat lastWednesday?"

"Who said anybody sent me?"

"Don't waste time! I say so. That broken shoe your cayuse cast says so, for I trailed him from my ranch to the line fence. And you have said soyourself. This paper is not from the sheriff's office. It's a taxreceipt. "

The cowboy's face went white. 

"Honest, so help me, Mr. Waring, I didn't know the Brewster boys wasafter Pat. Bob he give me the paper. Said it was from the sheriff, andI was to give it to Pat if you weren't around. "

"And if I happened to be around?"

"I was to wait until you was out with the fence gang--"

"How did you know I would be out with them?"

"Bob Brewster told me you would be. "

Waring folded the piece of paper and tore it across. 

"Starr, " he said, turning to the old cattleman, "you have heard and seenwhat has happened since we sat down. " And Waring turned on the cowboy. "How much did Bob Brewster give you for this work?"

"I was to get fifty dollars if I put it through. "

"And you put it through! You knew it was crooked. And you call yourselfa man! And you took a letter to Pat that called him out to be shot downby that coyote! Do you know that Pat's gun was loaded when I found it;that he didn't have a chance?"

Waring's face grew suddenly old. He leaned back wearily. 

"I wonder just how you feel?" he said presently. "If I had done a tricklike that I'd take a gun and blow my brains out. God, I'd rather bewhere Pat is than have to carry your load the rest of my life! Butyou're yellow clean through, and Bob Brewster knew it and hired you. Nowyou will take that lame cayuse and ride north just as quick as you canthrow a saddle on him. And when you go, "--and Waring rose and pointedtoward the doorway, --"forget the way back to this country. "

The cowboy shuffled his feet and picked up his hat. Starr got up stifflyand limped to his room. He came out with a check, which he gave to thecowboy. 

Waring pushed back his chair as though to step round the table andfollow the cowboy, but he hesitated, and finally sat down. 

"I'm sorry it happened this way, Mrs. Starr, " he said. 

"It's awful! And one of our men!"

"That's not your fault, Mrs. Starr. "

Starr fumbled along the clock shelf, found his pipe, and lighted it. Hesat down near Waring as Mrs. Starr began to clear away the dishes. 

"If I can do anything to help run down that white-livered skunk--"

"You can, Jasper. Just keep it to yourself that I have been here. Peteleft of his own accord. I don't want the Brewster boys to know I'm outon their trail. "

Starr nodded and glanced at his wife. "I looked to see you kill him, " hesaid, gesturing toward the doorway. 

"What! That poor fool? I thought you knew me better, Jasper. "

Chapter XIX

_The Fight in the Open_

Starr was awakened at midnight by the sound of boot-heels on theranch-house veranda. He lighted a lamp and limped to the door. Thelamplight shone on the smooth, young face of a Mexican, whose blacksombrero was powdered with dust. 

"What do you want?" queried Starr. 

"I am look for the Señor Jim. I am Ramon, of his place. From the ranchoI ride to Stacey. He is not there. Then I come here. "

"And you ain't particular about wakin' folks up to tell 'em, either. "

"I would find him, " said Ramon simply. 

"What's your business with Jim Waring?"

"It is that I am his friend. I know that he is ride looking for the menwho killed my patron the Señor Pat. I am Ramon. "

"Uh-uh. Well, suppose you are?"

"It is not the suppose. I am. I would find Señor Jim. "

"Who said he was here?"

"The señora at the hotel would think that he was here. "

Starr scratched his grizzled head. Waring had said nothing about theMexican. And Starr did not like Mexicans. Moreover, Waring had said totell no one that he had been at the Starr Ranch. 

"I don't know where Jim Waring is, " said Starr, and, stepping back, heclosed the door. 

Ramon strode to his horse and mounted. All gringos were not like theSeñor Jim. Many of them hated Mexicans. Ah, well, he would ride back toStacey. The señora at the cantina was a pleasant woman. She would notshut the door in his face, for she knew who he was. He would ask for aroom for the night. In the morning he would search for Señor Jim. Hemust find him. 

Mrs. Adams answered his knock at the hotel door by coming down andletting him in. Ramon saw by the office clock that it was past three. She showed him to a room. 

No, the señor had not been at the Starr Rancho. But he would find him. 

Ramon tiptoed to the open window, and knelt with his arms on the sill. Afalling star streaked the night. 

"And I shall as soon find him as I would find that star, " he murmured. "Yet to-morrow there will be the sun. And I will ask the Holy Mother tohelp me. She will not refuse, knowing my heart. "

Without undressing, he flung himself on the bed. As he slept he dreamed;a strange, vivid dream of the setting sun and a tiny horseman limnedagainst the gold. The horseman vanished as he rose to follow. If hewere only sure that it was the Señor Jim! The dream had said that theseñor had ridden into the west. In the morning--

With the dawn Ramon was up. Some one was moving about in the kitchenbelow. Ramon washed and smoothed his long black hair with his hands. Hestepped quietly downstairs. Breakfast was not ready, so he walked to thekitchen and talked with Anita. 

To her, who understood him as no gringo could, he told of his quest. Sheknew nothing of the Señor Jim's whereabouts, save that he had comeyesterday and talked with the señora. Anita admired the handsome youngMexican, whose face was so sad save when his quick smile lightened theshadow. And she told him to go back to the ranch and not becomeentangled in the affairs of the Americanos. It would be much better forhim so. 

Ramon listened patiently, but shook his head. The Señor Jim had beenkind to him; had given him his life down in the Sonora desert. Was RamonOrtego to forget that?

Mrs. Adams declined to take any money for Ramon's room. He worked forher husband, and it was at Ramon's own expense that he would make thejourney in search for him. Instead she had Anita put up a lunch forRamon. 

He thanked her and rode away, taking the western trail across themorning desert. 

Thirty miles beyond Stacey, he had news of Waring. A Mexican rancherhad seen the gringo pass late in the evening. He rode a big buckskinhorse. He was sure it must be the man Ramon sought. There was notanother such horse in Arizona. 

Ramon rode on next day, inquiring occasionally at a ranch or crossroadstore. Once or twice he was told that such a horse and rider had passedmany hours ago. At noon he rested and fed his pony. All that afternoonhe rode west. Night found him in the village of Downey, where he madefurther inquiry, but without success. 

Next morning he was on the road early, still riding west. No dream hadcome to guide him, yet the memory of the former dream was keen. If thatdream were not true, all dreams were lies and prayer a useless ceremony. 

For three days he rode, tracing the Señor Jim from town to town, butnever catching up with him. Once he learned that Waring had slept in thesame town, but had departed before daybreak. Ramon wondered why no dreamhad come to tell him of this. 

That day he rode hard. There were few towns on his way. He reined inwhen he came to the fork where the southern highway branches from theOverland Road. The western road led on across the mountains past thegreat cañon. The other swept south through cattle land and into therough hills beyond which lay Phoenix and the old Apache Trail. He haileda buck-board coming down the southern road. The driver had seen nothingof a buckskin horse. Ramon hesitated, closing his eyes. Suddenly in thedarkness glared a golden sun, and against it the tiny, black silhouetteof a horseman. His dream could not lie. 

Day by day the oval of his face grew narrower, until his cheek-bonesshowed prominently. His lips lost their youthful fullness. Only his eyeswere the same; great, velvet-soft black eyes, gently questioning, veiledby no subtlety, and brighter for the deepening black circles beneaththem. 

The fifth day found him patiently riding west, despite the fact that alltrace of Waring had been lost. Questioned, men shook their heads andwatched him ride away, his lithe figure upright, but his head bowed asthough some blind fate drew him on while his spirit drowsed in stagnanthopelessness. 

To all his inquiries that day he received the same answer. Finally, inthe high country, he turned and retraced his way. 

A week after he had left Stacey he was again at the fork of the highway. The southern road ran, winding, toward a shallow valley. He took thisroad, peering ahead for a ranch, or habitation of any kind. Thatafternoon he stopped at a wayside store and bought crackers and cannedmeat. He questioned the storekeeper. Yes, the storekeeper had seen sucha man pass on a big buckskin cayuse several days ago. Ramon thanked himand rode on. He camped just off the road that evening. In the morning heset out again, cheered by a new hope. His dream had not lied; onlythere should have been another dream to show him the way before he hadcome to the fork in the road. 

That afternoon three men passed him, riding hard. They were in theirshirt-sleeves and were heavily armed. Their evident haste caused Ramonto note their passing with some interest. Yet they had thundered pasthim so fast, and in such a cloud of dust, that he could not see themclearly. 

 * * * * *

Waring, gaunt as a wolf, unshaven, his hat rimmed with white dust, pulled up in front of the weathered saloon in the town of Criswell onthe edge of the desert. 

He dismounted and stepped round the hitching-rail. His face was linedand gray. His eyes were red-rimmed and heavy. As he strode toward thesaloon door, he staggered and caught himself. Dex shuffled uneasily, knowing that something was wrong with his master. 

Waring drew his hand across his eyes, and, entering the saloon, askedfor whiskey. As in a dream, he saw men sitting in the back of the place. They leaned on their elbows and talked. He drank and called for more. The loafers in the saloon glanced at each other. Three men had justridden through town and down into the desert, going over-light for sucha journey. And here was the fourth. They glanced at Waring's boots, hisbelt, his strong shoulders, and his dusty sombrero. Whoever he was, hefitted his clothes. But a man "going in" was a fool to take more thanone drink. The three men ahead had not stopped at the saloon. One ofthem had filled a canteen at the tank near the edge of the town. Theyhad seemed in a great hurry for men of their kind. 

Waring wiped his lips and turned. His eyes had grown bright. For aninstant he glanced at the men, the brown walls spotted with "PoliceGazette" pictures, the barred window at the rear of the room. He drewout his gun, spun the cylinder, and dropped it back into the holster. 

The stranger, whoever he was, seemed to be handy with that kind of tool. Well, it was no affair of theirs. The desert had taken care of suchaffairs in the past, and there was plenty of room for more. 

From the saloon doorway they saw Waring ride to the edge of town, dismount, and walk out in the desert in a wide circle. He returned tohis horse, and, mounting, rode at right angles to the course the threeriders had taken. 

One of the men in the doorway spoke. "Thought so, " he said withfinality. 

The others nodded. It was not their affair. The desert would take careof that. 

About the middle of the afternoon, Waring rode down a sandy draw thatdeepened to an arroyo. Near the mouth of the arroyo, where it broke offabruptly to the desert level, he reined up. His horse stood with headlowered, his gaunt sides heaving. Waring patted him. 

"Not much longer, old boy, " he said affectionately. 

With his last burst of strength, the big buckskin had circled the coursetaken by the three men, urged by Waring's spur and voice. They wereheading in a direct line across the level just beyond the end of thearroyo where Waring was concealed. He could not see them, but as usualhe watched Dex's ears. The horse would be aware of their nearnesswithout seeing them. And Waring dared not risk the chance of discovery. They must have learned that he was following them, for they had riddenhard these past few days. Evidently they had been unwilling to chance afight in any of the towns. And, in fact, Waring had once been ahead ofthem, knowing that they would make for the desert. But that night he hadoverslept, and they had passed him in the early hours of morning. 

Slowly Dex raised his head and sniffed. Waring patted him, afraid thathe would nicker. He had dismounted to tighten the cinches when hethought he heard voices in argument. He mounted again. The men must haveridden hard to have made such good time. Again he heard voices. The menwere near the mouth of the arroyo. Waring tossed his hat to the groundand dropped his gauntlets beside his hat. Carefully he wiped hissweating hands on his bandanna. Dex threw up his head. His nostrilsworked. Waring spoke to him. 

A shadow touched the sand at the mouth of the arroyo. Waring leanedforward and drove in the spurs. The big buckskin leaped to a run as herounded the shoulder of the arroyo. 

The three horsemen, who had been riding close together, spread out onthe instant. Waring threw a shot at the foremost figure even as HighChin's first shot tore away the front of his shirt. Waring fired again. Tony Brewster, on the ground, emptied his gun as Waring spurred overhim. Turning in the saddle as he flashed past High Chin, Waring fired atclose range at the other's belt buckle. Out on the levels, AndyBrewster's horse was running with tail tucked down. Waring threw hisremaining shot at High Chin, and, spurring Dex, stood in his stirrups ashe reloaded his gun. 

The rider ahead was rocking in the saddle. He had been hit, althoughWaring could not recall having shot at him. Suddenly the horse wentdown, and Andy Brewster pitched to the sand. Waring laughed and reinedround on the run, expecting each instant to feel the blunt shock of abullet. High Chin was still sitting his horse, his gun held muzzle up. Evidently he was not hard hit, or, if he were, he was holding himselffor a final shot at Waring. Behind him, almost beneath his horse, hisbrother Tony had raised himself on his elbow and was fumbling with hisempty gun. 

Waring rode slowly toward High Chin. High Chin's hand jerked down. Waring's wrist moved in answer. The two reports blended in a blunt, echoless roar. Waring felt a shock that numbed his thigh. High Chin satstiffly in the saddle, his hand clasping the horn. He turned and gazeddown at his brother. 

"Thought you got him, " said Tony Brewster from the ground. "Sit stilland I'll get him from under your horse. "

Waring knew now that High Chin was hit hard. The foreman had let his gunslip from his fingers. Waring saw a slight movement just beneath HighChin's horse. A shock lifted him from the saddle, and he dropped to theground as Tony Brewster fired. But there was no such thing as quit justso long as Waring could see to shoot. Dragging himself to his gun, heshook the sand from its muzzle. He knew that he could not last long. Already flecks of fire danced before his eyes. He bit his lip as heraised himself and drew fine on that black figure beneath High Chin'shorse. The gun jumped in his hand. Waring saw the black figure twitchand roll over. Then his sight grew clouded. He tried to brush away theblur that grew and spread. For an instant his eyes cleared. High Chinstill sat upright in the saddle. Waring raised his gun and firedquickly. As his hand dropped to the sand, High Chin pitched headlong andlay still. 

Then came a soft black veil that hid the glimmering sun and the widedesert reaches. 

High Chin, his legs paralyzed by a slug that had torn through hisabdomen and lodged in his spine, knew that he had made his last fight. He braced himself on his hands and called to his brother Tony. But hisbrother did not answer. High Chin's horse had strayed, and was grazingup the arroyo. The stricken man writhed round, feeling no pain, butconscious of a horrible numbness across his back and abdomen. 

"When it hits my heart I'm done, " he muttered. "Guess I'll go over andkeep Tony company. "

Inch by inch he dragged himself across the sand. Tony Brewster lay onhis back. High Chin touched him; felt of the limp arm, and gazedcuriously at the blue-edged hole in his brother's chest. With awfullabor that brought a clammy moisture to his face, he managed to draghimself close to his brother and writhe round to a position where hecould sit up, braced against the other's body. He gazed out across thedesert. It had been a fast fight. Waring was done for. High Chinwondered how long he would last. The sun was near the horizon. It seemedonly a few minutes ago that the sun had been directly overhead and heand his brothers had been cursing the heat. It was growing cold. Heshivered. A long shadow reached out toward him from the bank of thearroyo. In a few minutes it would touch him. Then would come night andthe stars. The numbness was creeping toward his chest. He could notbreathe freely. He moved his arms. _They_ were alive yet. He opened andclosed his fingers, gazing at them curiously. It was a strange thingthat a man should die like this; a little at a time, and not suffer muchpain. The fading flame of his old recklessness flared up. 

"I'm goin' across, " he said. "But, by God, I'm takin' Jim Waring withme!"

He glanced toward the buckskin horse that stood so patiently beside thatsilent figure out there. Waring was done for. High Chin blinked. A longshaft of sunlight spread across the sand, and in the glow High Chin sawthat the horse was moving toward him. He stared for a few seconds. Thenhe screamed horribly. 

Waring, his hand gripping the stirrup, was dragging across the sandbeside the horse that stepped sideways and carefully as Waring urged himon. Dex worked nearer to High Chin, but so slowly that High Chin thoughtit was some horrible phantasy sent to awaken fear in his dulled brain. But that dragging figure, white-faced and terrible--that was real!Within a few paces of High Chin, Dex stopped and turned his head to lookdown at Waring. And Waring, swaying up on his hands, laughed wildly. 

"I came over--to tell you--that it was Pat's gun--" He collapsed and laystill. 

High Chin sat staring dully at the gunman's uncovered head. The horsesniffed at Waring. High Chin's jaw sagged. He slumped down, and layback across the body of his brother. 

 * * * * *

A pathway of lamplight floated out and across the main street ofCriswell. A solitary figure lounged at the saloon bar. The sharp barkingof a dog broke the desert silence. The lounger gazed at the path oflamplight which framed the bare hitching-rail. His companions of theafternoon had departed to their homes. Again the dog barked shrilly. Thesaloon-keeper moved to a chair and picked up a rumpled paper. 

The lounger, leaning on his elbow, suddenly straightened. He pointedtoward the doorway. The saloon-keeper saw the motion from the corner ofhis eye. He lowered his paper and rose. In the soft radiance a riderlesshorse stood at the hitching-rail, his big eyes glowing, his ears prickedforward. Across the horse's shoulder was a ragged tear, black againstthe tawny gold of his coat. The men glanced at each other. It was thehorse of the fourth man; the man who had staggered in that afternoon, asked for whiskey, and who had left as buoyantly as though he went tomeet a friend. 

"They got him, " said the saloon-keeper. 

"They got him, " echoed the other. 

Together they moved to the doorway and peered out. The man who had firstseen the horse stepped down and tied the reins to the rail. He ran hishand down the horse's shoulder over muscles that quivered as heexamined the wound. He glanced at the saddle, the coiled rope, theslackened cinches, and pointed to a black stain on the stirrup leather. 

[Illustration: I came over--to tell you--that it was Pat's gun]

"From the south, " he said. "Maguey rope, and that saddle was made inMexico. "

"Mebby he wants water, " suggested the saloon-keeper. 

"He's had it. Reins are wet where he drug 'em in the tank. "

"Wonder who them three fellas was?"

"Don' know. From up north, by their rig. I'm wonderin' who the fourthfella was--and where he is. "

"Why, he's out there, stiff'nin' on the sand. They's been a fight. And, believe me, if the others was like him--she was a dandy!"

"I guess it's up to us to do somethin', " suggested the lounger. 

"Not to-night, Bill. You don't ketch me ridin' into a flash in the darkbefore I got time to tell myself I'm a dam' fool. In the mornin', mebby--"

Their heads came up as they heard a horse pounding down the road. A leanpony, black with sweat, jumped to a trembling stop. 

A young Mexican swung down and walked stiffly up to Dex. 

"Where is Señor Jim?" he queried, breathing hard. 

"Don' know, hombre. This his hoss?"

"Si! It is Dex. "

'Well, the hoss came in, recent, draggin' the reins. "

"Then you have seen him?"

"Seen who? Who are you, anyway?"

"Me, I am Ramon Ortego, of Sonora. The Señor Jim is my friend. I wouldfind him. "

"Well, if your friend sports a black Stetson and a dam' bad eye andperforms with a short-barreled . 45, he rode in this afternoon just abouta hour behind three other fellas. They lit out into the dry spot. Reckonyou'll find your friend out there, if the coyotes ain't got to him. "

Ramon limped to the rail and untied Dex. Then he mounted his own horse. 

"Dex, " he said softly, riding alongside, "where is the Señor Jim?"

The big buckskin swung his head round and sniffed Ramon's hand. Then heplodded down the street toward the desert. At the tank Ramon let hishorse drink. Dex, like a great dog, sniffed the back trail on which hehad come, plodding through the night toward the spot where he knew hismaster to be. 

Ramon, burdened with dread and weariness, rode with his hands claspedround the saddle-horn. The Señor Jim, his Señor Jim, had found thosewhom he sought. He had not come back. Ramon was glad that he had filledthe canteen. If the man who had killed his Señor Jim had escaped, hewould follow him even as he had followed Waring. And he would find him. "And then I shall kill him, " said Ramon simply. "He does not know myface. As I speak to him the Señor Jim's name I shall kill him, and theSeñor Jim will know then that I have been faithful. "

The big buckskin plodded on across the sand, the empty stirrupsswinging. Ramon's gaze lifted to the stars. He smiled wanly. 

"I follow him. Wherever he has gone, I follow him, and he will not losethe way. "

His bowed head, nodding to the pace of the pony, seemed to reiterate ingrotesque assertion his spoken word. Ramon's tired body tingled as Dexstrode faster. The horse nickered, and an answering nicker came from thenight. His own tired pony struck into a trot. Dex stopped. Ramon sliddown, and, stumbling forward, he touched a black bulk that lay on thesand. 

Waring, despite his trim build, was a heavy man. Ramon was just able tolift him and lay him across the saddle. A coyote yipped from the brushof the arroyo. As Ramon started back toward town his horse shied atsomething near the arroyo's entrance. Ramon did not know that the bodiesof Tony and Bob Brewster formed that low mound half-hidden by thedarkness. 

A yellow star, close to the eastern horizon, twinkled faintly and thendisappeared. The saloon at Criswell had been closed for the night. 

Next morning the marshal of Criswell sent a messenger to the telegraphoffice at the junction. There was no railroad entering the CriswellValley. The messenger bore three telegraph messages; one to SheriffHardy, one to Bud Shoop, and one to Mrs. Adams. 

Ramon, outside Waring's room in the marshal's house, listened as thelocal doctor moved about. Presently he heard the doctor ask a question. Waring's voice answered faintly. Ramon stepped from the door and foundhis way to the stable. Dex, placidly munching alfalfa, turned his headas Ramon came in. 

"The Señor Jim is not dead, " he told the horse. 

And, leaning against Dex, he wept softly, as women weep, with ahappiness too great to bear. The big horse nuzzled his shoulder with hisvelvet-smooth nose, as though he would sympathize. Then he turned tomunching alfalfa again in huge content. He had had a weary journey. Andthough his master had not come to feed him, here was the gentle, low-voiced Ramon, whom he knew as a friend. 

CHAPTER XX

_City Folks_

Bud Shoop's new duties kept him exceedingly busy. As the days went by hefound himself more and more tied to office detail. Fortunately Torrancehad left a well-organized corps of rangers, each with his own specialwork mapped out, work that Shoop understood, with the exception ofseeding and planting experiments, which Lundy, the expert, attended toas though the reserve were his own and his life depended upon successfulresults along his special line. 

Shoop had long since given up trying to dictate letters. Instead hewrote what he wished to say on slips of paper which his clerk cast intoconventional form. The genial Bud's written directions were brief and tothe point. 

Among the many letters received was one from a writer of Westernstories, applying for a lease upon which to build a summer camp. Hisdaughter's health was none too good, and he wanted to be in themountains. Shoop studied the letter. He had a vague recollection ofhaving heard of the writer. The request was legitimate. There was noreason for not granting it. 

Shoop called in his stenographer. "Ever read any of that fella'sbooks?"

"Who? Bronson? Yes. He writes bang-up Western stories. "

"He does, eh? Well, you get hold of one of them stories. I want to readit. I've lived in the West a few minutes myself. "

A week later Shoop had made his decision. He returned a shiny, newvolume to the clerk. 

"I never took to writin' folks reg'lar, " he told the clerk. "Mebby I gotthe wrong idee of 'em. Now I reckon some of them is human, same as youand me. Why, do you know I been through lots of them things he writesabout. And, by gollies, when I read that there gun-fight down in Texas, I ketched myself feelin' along my hip, like I was packin' a gun. Andwhen I read about that cowboy's hoss, --the one with the sarko eye andthe white legs, --why, I ketched myself feelin' for my ole bandanna toblow my nose. An' I seen dead hosses a-plenty. But you needn't to saynothin' about that in the letter. Just tell him to mosey over and we'lltalk it out. If a man what knows hosses and folks like he does wa'n'traised in the West, he ought to been. Heard anything from Adams?"

"He was in last week. He's up on Baldy. Packed some stuff up to thelookout. "

"Uh-uh. Now, the land next to my shack on the Blue ain't a bad place forthis here writer. I got the plat, and we can line out the five acresthis fella wants from my corner post. But he's comin' in kind of late tobuild a camp. "

"It will be good weather till December, " said the clerk. 

"Well, you write and tell him to come over. Seen anything of Hardy andhis men lately?"

"Not since last Tuesday. "

"Uh-uh. They're millin' around like a lot of burros--and gettin'nowhere. But Jim Waring's out after that bunch that got Pat. If I wasn'tso hefty, I'd 'a' gone with him. I tell you the man that got Pat ain'tgoin' to live long to brag on it. "

"They say it was the Brewster boys, " ventured the stenographer. 

"They say lots of things, son. But Jim Waring _knows_. God help the manthat shot Pat when Jim Waring meets up with him. And I want to tell yousomethin'. Be kind of careful about repeatin' what 'they say' toanybody. You got nothin' to back you up if somebody calls your hand. 'They' ain't goin' to see you through. And you named the Brewster boys. Now, just suppose one of the Brewster boys heard of it and come overaskin' you what you meant? I bet you a new hat Jim Waring ain't saidBrewster's name to a soul--and he _knows_. I'm goin' over to Stacey. Anymail the stage didn't get?"

"Letter for Mrs. Adams. "

"Uh-uh. Lorry writes to his ma like he was her beau--reg'lar andplenty. Funny thing, you can't get a word out of him about wimmin-folk, neither. He ain't that kind of a colt. But I reckon when he sees the galhe wants he'll saddle up and ride out and take her. " And Bud chuckled. 

Bondsman rapped the floor with his tail. Bondsman never failed toexpress a sympathetic mood when his master chuckled. 

"Now, look at that, " said Shoop, grinning. "He knows I'm goin' over toStacey. He heard me say it. And he says I got to take him along, 'causehe knows I ain't goin' on a hoss. That there dog bosses me aroundsomethin' scandalous. "

The stenographer smiled as Shoop waddled from the office with Bondsmanat his heels. There was something humorous, almost pathetic, in thegaunt and grizzled Airedale's affection for his rotund master. AndShoop's broad back, with the shoulders stooped slightly and the setstride as he plodded here and there, often made the clerk smile. Yetthere was nothing humorous about Shoop's face when he flashed to angeror studied some one who tried to mask a lie, or when he reprimanded hisclerk for naming folk that it was hazardous to name. 

The typewriter clicked; a fly buzzed on the screen door; a beam ofsunlight flickered through the window. The letter ran:--

 Yours of the 4th inst. Received and contents noted. In answer would state that Supervisor Shoop would be glad to have you call at your earliest convenience in regard to leasing a camp-site on the White Mountain Reserve. 

Essentially a business letter of the correspondence-school type. 

But the stenographer was not thinking of style. He was wondering whatthe girl would be like. There was to be a girl. The writer had said thathe wished to build a camp to which he could bring his daughter, who wasnot strong. The clerk thought that a writer's daughter might be aninteresting sort of person. Possibly she was like some of the heroinesin the writer's stories. It would be interesting to meet her. He hadwritten a poem once himself. It was about spring, and had been publishedin the local paper. He wondered if the writer's daughter liked poetry. 

In the meantime, Lorry, with two pack-animals and Gray Leg, rode thehills and cañons, attending to the many duties of a ranger. 

And as he caught his stride in the work he began to feel that he was hisown man. Miles from headquarters, he was often called upon to make aquick decision that required instant and individual judgment. He mademistakes, but never failed to report such mistakes to Shoop. Lorrypreferred to give his own version of an affair that he had mishandledrather than to have to explain some other version later. He was noepitome of perfection. He was inclined to be arbitrary when he knew hewas in the right. Argument irritated him. He considered his "Yes" or"No" sufficient, without explanation. 

He made Shoop's cabin his headquarters, and spent his spare time cordingwood. He liked his occupation, and felt rather independent with thecomfortable cabin, a good supply of food, a corral and pasture for theponies, plenty of clear, cold water, and a hundred trails to ride eachday from dawn to dark as he should choose. Once unfamiliar with thetimber country, he grew to love the twinkling gold of the aspens, thetwilight vistas of the spruce and pines, and the mighty sweep of thegreat purple tides of forest that rolled down from the ranges into asheer of space that had no boundary save the sky. 

He grew a trifle thinner in the high country. The desert tan of hischeeks and throat deepened to a ruddy bronze. 

Aside from pride in his work, he took special pride in his equipment, keeping his bits and conchas polished and his leather gear oiled. Reluctantly he discarded his chaps. He found that they hindered him whenworking on foot. Only when he rode into Jason for supplies did he wearhis chaps, a bit of cowboy vanity quite pardonable in his years. 

If he ever thought of women at all, it was when he lounged and smoked bythe evening fire in the cabin, sometimes recalling "that Eastern girlwith the jim-dandy mother. " He wondered if they ever thought of him, andhe wished that they might know he was now a full-fledged ranger withman-size responsibilities. "And mebby they think I'm ridin' south yet, "he would say to himself. "I must have looked like I didn't aim to pullup this side of Texas, from the way I lit out. " But, then, women didn'tunderstand such things. 

Occasionally he confided something of the kind to the spluttering fire, laughing as he recalled the leg of lamb with which he had waved hishasty farewell. 

"And I was scared, all right. But I wasn't so scared I forgot I'd gethungry. " Which conclusion seemed to satisfy him. 

When he learned that a writer had leased five acres next to Bud's cabin, he was skeptical as to how he would get along with "strangers. " He likedelbow-room. Yet, on second thought, it would make no difference to him. He would not be at the cabin often nor long at a time. The evenings werelonely sometimes. 

But when camped at the edge of the timber on some mountain meadow, withhis ponies grazing in the starlit dusk, when the little, leaping flameof his night fire flung ruddy shadows that danced in giant mimicry inthe cavernous arches of the pines; when the faint tinkle of the belledpack-horse rang a faëry cadence in the distance; then there was no suchthing as loneliness in his big, outdoor world. Rather, he was content ina solid way. An inner glow of satisfaction because of work well done, asense of well-being, founded upon perfect physical health and ease, kept him from feeling the need of companionship other than that of hishorses. Sometimes he sat late into the night watching the pine gum oozefrom a burning log and swell to golden bubbles that puffed into tinyflames and vanished in smoky whisperings. At such times a companionwould not have been unwelcome, yet he was content to be alone. 

Later, when Lorry heard that the writer was to bring his daughter intothe high country, he expressed himself to Shoop's stenographer briefly:"Oh, hell!" Yet the expletive was not offensive, spoken gently andmerely emphasizing Lorry's attitude toward things feminine. 

While Lorry was away with the pack-horses and a week's riding ahead ofhim, the writer arrived in Jason, introduced himself and hisdaughter, --a rather slender girl of perhaps sixteen or eighteen, --andlater, accompanied by the genial Bud, rode up to the Blue Mesa andinspected the proposed camp-site. As they rode, Bud discoursed upon theclimate, ways of building a log cabin, wild turkeys, cattle, sheep, grazing, fuel, and water, and concluded his discourse with adissertation upon dogs in general and Airedales in particular. Thewriter was fond of dogs and knew something about Airedales. Thisappealed to Shoop even more than had the writer's story of the West. 

Arrived at the mesa, tentative lines were run and corners marked. Thenext day two Mormon youths from Jason started out with a load of lumberand hardware. The evening of the second day following they arrived atthe homestead, pitched a tent, and set to work. That night they unloadedthe lumber. Next morning they cleared a space for the cabin. By the endof August the camp was finished. The Mormon boys, to whom freightingover the rugged hills was more of a pastime than real work, brought in afew pieces of furniture--iron beds, a stove, cooking-utensils, and thehardware and provisions incidental to the maintenance of a home in thewilderness. 

The writer and his daughter rode up from Jason with the final load ofsupplies. Excitement and fatigue had so overtaxed the girl's slenderstore of strength that she had to stay in bed for several days. Meanwhile, her father put things in order. The two saddle-horses, purchased under the critical eye of Bud Shoop, showed an inclination tostray back to Jason, so the writer turned them into Lorry's corral eachevening, as his own lease was not entirely fenced. 

Riding in from his long journey one night, Lorry passed close to the newcabin. It loomed strangely raw and white in the moonlight. He hadforgotten that there was to be a camp near his. The surprise ratherirritated him. Heretofore he had considered the Blue Mesa was his by akind of natural right. He wondered how he would like the city folks. They had evidently made themselves at home. Their horses were in hiscorral. 

As he unsaddled Gray Leg, a light flared up in the strange camp. Thedoor opened, and a man came toward him. 

"Good-evening, " said the writer. "I hope my horses are not in your way. "

"Sure not, " said Lorry as he loosened a pack-rope. 

He took off the packs and lugged them to the veranda. The tired horsesrolled, shook themselves, and meandered toward the spring. 

"I'm Bronson. My daughter is with me. We are up here for the summer. "

"My name is Adams, " said Lorry, shaking hands. 

"The ranger up here. Yes. Well, I'm glad to meet you, Adams. My daughterand I get along wonderfully, but it will be rather nice to have aneighbor. I heard you ride by, and wanted to explain about my horses. "

"That's all right, Mr. Bronson. Just help yourself. "

"Thank you. Dorothy--my daughter--has been under the weather for a fewdays. She'll be up to-morrow, I think. She has been worrying about ourusing your corral. I told her you would not mind. "

"Sure not. She's sick, did you say?"

"Well, over-tired. She is not very strong. "

"Lungs?" queried Lorry, and immediately he could have kicked himself forsaying it. 

"I'm afraid so, Adams. I thought this high country might do her good. "

"It's right high for some. Folks got to take it easy at first;'specially wimmin-folk. I'm right sorry your girl ain't well. "

"Thank you. I shouldn't have mentioned it. She is really curious to knowhow you live, what you do, and, in fact, what a real live ranger lookslike. Mr. Shoop told her something about you while we were in Jason. They became great friends while the camp was building. She says sheknows all about you, and tries to tease me by keeping it to herself. "

"Bud--my boss--is some josher, " was all that Lorry could think of to sayat the time. 

Bronson went back to his cabin. Lorry, entering his camp, lighted thelamp and built a fire. The camp looked cozy and cheerful after a week onthe trail. 

When he had eaten he sat down to write to his mother. He would tell herall about the new cabin and the city folks. But before he had writtenmore than to express himself "that it was too darned bad a girl had tostay up in the woods without no other wimmin-folks around, " he becamedrowsy. The letter remained unfinished. He would finish it to-morrow. Hewould smoke awhile and then go to bed. 

A healthy young animal himself, he could not understand what sicknessmeant. And as for lungs--he had forgotten there were such things in aperson's make-up. And sick folks couldn't eat "regular grub. " It must bepretty tough not to be able to eat heartily. Now, there was that wildturkey he had shot near the Big Spring. He tiptoed to the door. Thelights were out in the other cabin. It was closed season for turkey, butthen a fellow needed a change from bacon and beans once in a while. 

He had hidden the turkey in a gunny-sack which hung from a kitchenrafter. Should he leave it in the sack, hang it from a rafter of theirveranda, out of reach of a chance bobcat or coyote, or--it would be muchmore of a real surprise to hang the big bird in front of their door inall his feathered glory. The sack would spoil the effect. 

He took off his boots and walked cautiously to the other cabin. Thefirst person to come out of that cabin next morning would actually bumpinto the turkey. It would be a good joke. 

"And if he's the right kind of a hombre he won't talk about it, " thoughtLorry as he returned to his camp. "And if he ain't, I am out one finebird, and I'll know to watch out for him. "

Chapter XXI

_A Slim Whip of a Girl_

When Bronson opened his door to the thin sunlight and the crisp chill ofthe morning, he chuckled. He had made too many camps in the outlands tobe surprised by an unexpected gift of game out of season. His neighborwas a ranger, and all rangers were incidentally game wardens. Bronsonbelieved heartily in the conservation of game, and in this instance hedid not intend to let that turkey spoil. 

He called to his daughter. 

Her brown eyes grew big. "Why, it's a turkey!"

Bronson laughed. "And to-day is Sunday. We'll have a housewarming andinvite the ranger to dinner. "

"Did he give it to you? Isn't it beautiful! What big wings--and thebreast feathers are like little bronze flames! Do wild turkeys reallyfly?"

"Well, rather. It's a fine sight to see them run to a rim rock and floatoff across a cañon. "

"Did you tell him about our horses? Is he nice? What did he say? But Icould never imagine a turkey like that flying. I always think of turkeysas strutting around a farmyard with their heads held back and all puffedout in front. This one is heavy! I can't see how he could even begin tofly. "

"They have to get a running start. Then they usually flop along andsail up into a tree. Once they are in a tree, they can float off intospace easily. They seem to fly slowly, but they can disappear fastenough. The ranger seems to be a nice chap. "

"Did he really give the turkey to us?"

"It was hanging right here when I came out. I can't say that he gave itto us. You see, it is closed season for turkey. "

"But we must thank him. "

"We will. Let's ask him to dinner. He seems to be a pleasant chap; quitenatural. He said we were welcome to keep our horses in his corral. Butif you want to have him for a real friendly neighbor, Dorothy, don'tmention the word 'turkey. ' We'll just roast it, make biscuits and gravy, and ask him to dinner. He will understand. "

"Then I am going to keep the wings and tail to put on the wall of myroom. How funny, not to thank a person for such a present. "

"The supervisor would reprimand him for killing game out of season, ifhe heard about it. "

"But just one turkey?"

"That isn't the idea. If it came to Mr. Shoop that one of his men wasbreaking the game laws, Mr. Shoop would have to take notice of it. Notthat Shoop would care about one of his men killing a turkey to eat, butit would hurt the prestige of the Service. The natives would takeadvantage of it and help themselves to game. "

"Of course, you know all about those matters. But can't I even say'turkey' when I ask him to have some?"

"Oh, " laughed Bronson, "call it chicken. He'll eat just as heartily. "

"The ranger is up, " said Dorothy. "I can hear him whistling. "

"Then let's have breakfast and get this big fellow ready to roast. Itwill take some time. "

An hour later, Lorry, fresh-faced and smiling, knocked on the lintel oftheir open doorway. 

Bronson, in his shirt-sleeves and wearing a diminutive apron to whichclung a fluff of turkey feathers, came from the kitchen. 

"Good-morning. You'll excuse my daughter. She is busy. "

"I just came over to ask how she was. "

"Thank you. She is much better. We want you to have dinner with us. "

"Thanks. But I got some beans going--"

"But this is chicken, man! And it is Sunday. "

Lorry's gray eyes twinkled. "Chickens are right scarce up here. Andchicken sure tastes better on Sunday. Was you goin' to turn your stockout with mine?"

"That's so!"

They turned Bronson's horses out, and watched them charge down the mesatoward the three animals grazing lazily in the morning sunshine. 

"Your horses will stick with mine, " said Lorry. "They won't stray now. "

"Did I hear a piano this morning, or did I dream that I heard some oneplaying?"

"Oh, it was me, foolin' with Bud's piano in there. Bud's got an amazin'music-box. Ever see it?"

"No. I haven't been in your cabin. "

"Well, come right along over. This was Bud's camp when he washomesteadin'. Ever see a piano like that?"

Bronson gazed at the carved and battered piano, stepping close to it toinspect the various brands. "It is rather amazing. I didn't know Mr. Shoop was fond of music. "

"Well, he can't play reg'lar. But he sure likes to try. You ought tohear him and Bondsman workin' out that 'Annie Laurie' duet. First off, you feel like laughin'. But Bud gets so darned serious you kind offorget he ain't a professional. 'Annie Laurie' ain't no dance tune--andwhen Bud and the dog get at it, it is right mournful. "

"I have seen a few queer things, "--and Bronson laughed, --"but this beatsthem all. "

"You'd be steppin' square on Bud's soul if you was to josh him aboutthat piano, " said Lorry. 

"I wouldn't. But thank you just the same. You have a neat place here, Adams. "

"When you say 'neat' you say it all. "

"I detest a fussy camp. One gets enough of that sort of thing in town. Is that a Gallup saddle or a Frazier?"

"Frazier. "

"I used a Heiser when I was in Mexico. They're all good. "

"That's what I say. But there's a hundred cranks to every make of saddleand every rig. You said you were in Mexico?"

"Before I was married. As a young man I worked for some of the mines. Iwent there from college. "

"I reckon you've rambled some. " And a new interest lightened Lorry'seyes. Perhaps this man wasn't a "plumb tenderfoot, " after all. 

"Oh, not so much. I punched cattle down on the Hassayampa and in theMogollons. Then I drifted up to Alaska. But I always came back toArizona. New Mexico is mighty interesting, and so is Colorado. California is really the most wonderful State of all, but somehow Ican't keep away from Arizona. "

"Shake! I never been out of Arizona, except when I was a kid, but she'sthe State for me. "

A shadow flickered in the doorway. Lorry turned to gaze at a delicateslip of a girl, whose big brown eyes expressed both humor andtrepidation. 

"My daughter Dorothy, Mr. Adams. This is our neighbor, Dorothy. "

"I'm right glad to meet you, miss. "

And Lorry's strong fingers closed on her slender hand. To his robustsense of the physical she appealed as something exceedingly fragile andbeautiful, with her delicate, clear coloring and her softly glowingeyes. What a little hand! And what a slender arm! And yet Lorry thoughther arm pretty in its rounded slenderness. He smiled as he saw a turkeyfeather fluttering on her shoulder. 

"Looks like that chicken was gettin' the best of you, " he said, smiling. 

"That's just it, " she agreed, nothing abashed. "Father, you'll have tohelp. "

"You'll excuse us, won't you? We'll finish our visit at dinner. "

Lorry had reports to make out. He dragged a chair to the table. That manBronson was all right. Let's see--the thirtieth--looked stockier indaylight. Had a good grip, too, and a clear, level eye. One mattockmissing in the lookout cabin--and the girl; such a slender whip of agirl! Just like a young willow, but not a bit like an invalid. Buckleyreports that his man will have the sheep across the reservation by thefourth of the month. Her father had said she was not over-strong. Andher eyes! Lorry had seen little fawns with eyes like that--big, questioning eyes, startled rather than afraid. 

"Reckon everything she sees up here is just amazin' her at every jump. I'll bet she's happy, even if she _has_ got lungs. Now, a fella couldn'thelp but to like a girl like that. She would made a dandy sister, and afella would just about do anything in the world for such a sister. Andshe wouldn't have to ask, at that. He would just naturally want to dothings for her, because--well, because he couldn't help feeling thatway. Funny how some wimmin made a man feel like he wanted to just aboutworship them, and not because they did anything except be justthemselves. Now, there was that Mrs. Weston. She was a jim-dandywoman--but she was different. She always seemed to know just what shewas going to say and do. And Mrs. Weston's girl, Alice. Reckon I'd scrapwith her right frequent. She was still--"

Dog-gone it! Where was he drifting to? Sylvestre's sheep were five dayscrossing the reserve. Smith reported a small fire north of the lookout. The Ainslee boys put the fire out. It hadn't done any great damage. 

Lorry sat back and chewed the lead pencil. As he gazed out of the windowacross the noon mesa a faint fragrance was wafted through the doorway. He sniffed and grinned. It was the warm flavor of wild turkey, a flavorthat suggested crispness, with juicy white meat beneath. Lorry jumped upand grabbed a pail as he left the cabin. On his way back from thespring, Bronson waved to him. Lorry nodded. And presently he presentedhimself at Bronson's cabin, his face glowing, his flannel shirt neatlybrushed, and a dark-blue silk bandanna knotted gracefully at his throat. 

"This is the princess, " said Bronson, gesturing toward his daughter. "And here is the feast. "

"And it was a piano, " continued Bronson as they sat down. 

"Really? 'Way up here?"

"My daughter plays a little, " explained Bronson. 

"Well, you're sure welcome to use that piano any time. If I'm gone, thedoor is unlocked just the same. "

"Thank you, Mr. Adams, I only play to amuse myself now. "

Lorry fancied there was a note of regret in her last word. He glanced ather. She was gazing wistfully out of the window. It hurt him to see thattinge of hopelessness on her young face. 

"This here chicken is fine!" he asserted. 

The girl's eyes were turned to him. She smiled and glanced roguishly ather father. Lorry laughed outright. 

"What is the joke?" she demanded. 

"Nothin'; only my plate is empty, Miss Bronson. "

Bronson grabbed up carving-knife and fork. "Great Caesar! I must havebeen dreaming. I _was_ dreaming. I was recalling a turkey hunt down inVirginia with Colonel Stillwell and his man Plato. Plato was a goodcaller--but we didn't get a turkey. Now, this is as tender as--as itought to be. A little more gravy? And as we came home, the colonel, whowas of the real mint-julep type, proposed as a joke that Plato see whathe could do toward getting some kind of bird for dinner that night. Andwhen Plato lifted the covers, sure enough there was a fine, fat roastchicken. The colonel, who lived in town and did not keep chickens, askedPlato how much he had paid for it. Plato almost dropped the cover. 'Mars' George, ' he said with real solicitude in his voice, ' is yousick?' And speaking of turkeys--"

"Who was speaking of turkeys?" asked Dorothy. 

"Why, I think this chicken is superior to any domestic turkey I evertasted, " concluded Bronson. 

"Was you ever in politics?" queried Lorry. And they all laughedheartily. 

After dinner Lorry asked for an apron. 

Dorothy shook her finger at him. "It's nice of you--but you don't meanit. "

"Now, ma wouldn't 'a' said that, miss. She'd 'a' just tied one of heraprons on me and turned me loose on the dishes. I used to help her likethat when I was a kid. Ma runs the hotel at Stacey. "

"Why, didn't we stop there for dinner?" asked Dorothy. 

"Yes, indeed. All right, Adams, I'll wash 'em and you can dry 'em, andDorothy can rest. "

"It's a right smilin' little apron, " commented Lorry as Dorothy handedit to him. 

"And you do look funny! My, I didn't know you were so big! I'll have toget a pin. "

"I reckon it's the apron looks funny, " said Lorry. 

"I made it, " she said, teasing him. 

"Then that's why it is so pretty, " said Lorry gravely. 

Dorothy decided to change the subject. "I think you should let me washthe dishes, father. "

"You cooked the dinner, Peter Pan. "

"Then I'll go over and try the piano. May I?"

"If you'll play for us when we come over, Miss Bronson. "

Bronson and Lorry sat on the veranda and smoked. Dorothy was playing asprightly melody. She ceased to play, and presently the sweet old tune"Annie Laurie" came to them. Lorry, with cigarette poised in hisfingers, hummed the words to himself. Bronson was watching himcuriously. The melody came to an end. Lorry sighed. 

"Sounds like that ole piano was just singin' its heart out all byitself, " he said. "I wish Bud could hear that. "

Almost immediately came the sprightly notes of "Anitra's Dance. "

"And that's these here woods--and the water prancin' down the rocks, anda slim kind of a girl dancin' in the sunshine and then runnin' away tohide in the woods again. " And Lorry laughed softly at his own conceit. 

"Do you know the tune?" queried Bronson. 

"Nope. I was just makin' that up. "

"That's just Dorothy, " said Bronson. 

Lorry turned and gazed at him. And without knowing how it came about, Lorry understood that there had been another Dorothy who had played andsung and danced in the sunshine. And that this sprightly, slender girlwas a bud of that vanished flower, a bud whose unfolding Bronson watchedwith such deep solicitude. 

Chapter XXII

_A Tune for Uncle Bud_

Lorry had ridden to Jason, delivered his reports to the office, andreceived instructions to ride to the southern line of the reservation. He would be out many days. He had brought down a pack-horse, and hereturned to camp late that night with provisions and some mail for theBronsons. 

The next day he delayed starting until Dorothy had appeared. Bronsontold him frankly that he was sorry to see him go, especially for such alength of time. 

"But I'm glad, " said Dorothy. 

Lorry stared at her. Her face was grave, but there was a twinkle ofmischief in her eyes. She laughed. 

"Because it will be such fun welcoming you home again. "

"Oh, I thought it might be that piano--"

"Now I shan't touch it!" she pouted, making a deliberate face at him. 

He laughed. She did such unexpected things, did them so unaffectedly. Bronson put his arms about her shoulders. 

"We're keeping Mr. Adams, Peter Pan. He is anxious to be off. He hasbeen ready for quite a while and I think he has been waiting till youappeared so that he could say good-bye. "

"Are you anxious to be off?" she queried. 

"Yes, ma'am. It's twenty miles over the ridge to good grass and water. "

"Why, twenty miles isn't so far!"

"They's considerable up and down in them twenty miles, Miss Bronson. Now, it wouldn't be so far for a turkey. He could fly most of the way. But a horse is different, and I'm packin' a right fair jag of stuff. "

"Well, good-bye, ranger man. Good-bye, Gray Leg, --and you two poorhorses that have to carry the packs. Don't stay away all winter. "

Lorry swung up and started the pack-horses. At the edge of the timber heturned and waved his hat. Dorothy and her father answered with a heartyGood-bye that echoed through the slumbering wood lands. 

One of Bronson's horses raised his head and nickered. "Chinook is saying'Adios, ' too. Isn't the air good? And we're right on top of the world. There is Jason, and there is St. Johns, and 'way over there ought to bethe railroad, but I can't see it. "

Bronson smiled down at her. 

She reached up and pinched his cheek. "Let's stay here forever, daddy. "

"We'll see how my girl is by September. And next year, if you want tocome back--"

"Come back! Why, I don't want to go away--ever!"

"But the snow, Peter Pan. "

"I forgot that. We'd be frozen in tight, shouldn't we?"

"I'm afraid we should. Shall we look at the mail? Then I'll have to goto work. "

"Mr. Adams thinks quite a lot of his horses, doesn't he?" she queried. 

"He has to. He depends on them, and they depend on him. He has to takegood care of them. "

"I shouldn't like it a bit if I thought he took care of them justbecause he had to. "

"Oh, Adams is all right, Peter. I have noticed one or two things abouthim. "

"Well, I have noticed that he has a tremendous appetite, " laughedDorothy. 

"And you're going to have, before we leave here, Peter Pan. "

"Then you'd better hurry and get that story written. I want a new saddleand, oh, lots of things!"

Bronson patted her hand as she walked with him to the cabin. He sat downto his typewriter, and she came out with a book. 

She glanced up occasionally to watch the ponies grazing on the mesa. Shewas deeply absorbed in her story when some one called to her. She jumpedup, dropping her book. 

Bud Shoop was sitting his horse a few paces away, smiling. He had riddenup quietly to surprise her. 

"A right lovely mornin', Miss Bronson. I reckon your daddy is busy. "

"Here I am, " said Bronson, striding out and shaking hands with thesupervisor. "Won't you come in?"

"About that lease, " said Shoop, dismounting. "If you got time to talkbusiness. "

"Most certainly. Dorothy will excuse us. "

"Is Adams gone?"

"He left this morning. "

"Uh-uh. Here, Bondsman, quit botherin' the young lady. "

"He isn't bothering. I know what he wants. " And she ran to the kitchen. 

Shoop's face grew grave. "I didn't want to scare the little lady, Bronson, but Lorry's father--Jim Waring--has been shot up bad over toCriswell. He went in after that Brewster outfit that killed Pat. Ireckon he got 'em--but I ain't heard. "

"Adams's father!"

"Yes, Jim Waring. Here comes the little missy. I'll tell you later. NowBondsman is sure happy. "

And Bud forced a smile as Dorothy gave the dog a pan of something thatlooked suspiciously like bones and shreds of turkey meat. 

A little later Bud found excuse to call Bronson aside to show him a goodplace to fence-in the corral. Dorothy was playing with Bondsman. 

"Jim's been shot up bad. I was goin' to tell you that Annie Adams, overto Stacey, is his wife. She left him when they was livin' down inMexico. Lorry is their boy. Now, Jim is as straight as a ruler; I don'tknow just why she left him. But let that rest. I got a telegram from themarshal of Criswell. Reads like Jim was livin', but livin' mighty clostto the edge. Now, if I was to send word to Lorry he'd just nacherallybuckle on a gun and go after them Brewster boys, if they's any of 'emleft. He might listen to me if I could talk to him. Writin' is no good. And I ain't rigged up to follow him across the ridge. It's bad countryover there. I reckon I better leave word with you. If he gets word ofthe shootin' while he's out there, he'll just up and cut across thehills to Criswell a-smokin'. But if he gets this far back he's like tocome through Jason--and I can cool him down, mebby. "

"He ought to know; if his father is--"

"That's just it. But I'm thinkin' of the boy. Jim Waring's lived a bigchunk of his life. But they ain't no use of the kid gettin' shot up. Itfigures fifty that I ought to get word to him, and fifty that I ought tokeep him out of trouble--"

"I didn't know he was that kind of a chap: that is, that he would go outafter those men--"

"He's Jim Waring's boy, " said Bud. 

"It's too bad. I heard of that other killing. "

"Yes. And I've a darned good mind to fly over to Criswell myself. Iknowed Pat better than I did Jim. But I can't ride like I used to. But"--and the supervisor sighed heavily--"I reckon I'll go just thesame. "

"I'll give your message to Adams, Mr. Shoop. "

"All right. And tell him I want to see him. How's the little lady thesedays?"

"She seems to be much stronger, and she is in love with the hills andcañons. "

"I'm right glad of that. Kind of wish I was up here myself. Why, alreadythey're houndin' me down there to go into politics. I guess they want toget me out of this job, 'cause I can't hear crooked money jingle. Myhands feels sticky ever' time I think of politics. And even if a fella'shands ain't sticky--politics money is. Why, it's like to stick to hisfeet if he ain't right careful where he walks!"

"I wish you would stay to dinner, Mr. Shoop. "

"So I'll set and talk my fool notions--and you with a writin' machinehandy? Thanks, but I reckon I'll light a shuck for Jason. See my piano?"

"Yes, indeed. Dorothy was trying it a few nights ago. "

"Then she can play. Missy, " and he called to Dorothy, who was having anextravagant romp with Bondsman, "could you play a tune for your UncleBud?"

"Of course. " And she came to them. 

They walked to the cabin. Bondsman did not follow. He had had a hardplay, and was willing to rest. 

Dorothy drew up the piano stool and touched the keys. Bud sank into hisbig chair. Bronson stood in the doorway. By some happy chance Dorothyplayed Bud's beloved "Annie Laurie. "

When she had finished, Bud blew his nose sonorously. "I know that tune, "he said, gazing at Dorothy in a sort of huge wonderment. "But I neverknowed all that you made it say. "

He rose and shuffled to the doorway, stopping abruptly as he sawBondsman. Could it be possible that Bondsman had not recognized his owntune? Bud shook his head. There was something wrong somewhere. Bondsmanhad not offered to come in and accompany the pianist. He must have beenasleep. But Bondsman had not been asleep. He rose and padded to Shoop'shorse, where he stood, a statue of rugged patience, waiting for Shoop tostart back toward home. 

"Now, look at that!" exclaimed Bud. "He's tellin' me if I want to getback to Jason in time to catch the stage to-morrow mornin' I got tohustle. That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous. "

When Shoop had gone, Dorothy turned to her father. "Mr. Shoop didn't askme to play very much. He seemed in a hurry. "

"That's all right, Peter Pan. He liked your playing. But he has a veryimportant matter to attend to. "

"He's really just delicious, isn't he?"

"If you like that word, Peter. He is big and sincere and kind. "

"Oh, so were some of the saints for that matter, " said Dorothy, making ahumorous mouth at her father. 

Chapter XXIII

_Like One Who Sleeps_

Bondsman sat in the doorway of the supervisor's office, gazingdejectedly at the store across the street. He knew that his master hadgone to St. Johns and would go to Stacey. He had been told all aboutthat, and had followed Shoop to the automobile stage, where it stood, sand-scarred, muddy, and ragged as to tires, in front of thepost-office. Bondsman had watched the driver rope the lean mail bags tothe running-board, crank up the sturdy old road warrior of the desert, and step in beside the supervisor. There had been no other passengers. And while Shoop had told Bondsman that he would be away some littletime, Bondsman would have known it without the telling. His master hadworn a coat--a black coat--and a new black Stetson. Moreover, he haddonned a white shirt and a narrow hint of a collar with a black"shoe-string" necktie. If Bondsman had lacked any further proof of hismaster's intention to journey far, the canvas telescope suitcase wouldhave been conclusive evidence. 

The dog sat in the doorway of the office, oblivious to the clerk'sfriendly assurances that his master would return poco tiempo. Bondsmanwas not deceived by this kindly attempt to soothe his loneliness. 

Toward evening the up-stage buzzed into town. Bondsman trotted over toit, watched a rancher and his wife alight, sniffed at them incuriously, and trotted back to the office. That settled it. His master would beaway indefinitely. 

When the clerk locked up that evening, Bondsman had disappeared. 

As Bronson stepped from his cabin the following morning he was startledto see the big Airedale leap from the veranda of Shoop's cabin and boundtoward him. Then he understood. The camp had been Bondsman's home. Thesupervisor had gone to Criswell. Evidently the dog preferred the lonelyfreedom of the Blue Mesa to the monotonous confines of town. 

Bronson called to his daughter. "We have a visitor this morning, Dorothy. "

"Why, it's Bondsman! Where is Mr. Shoop?"

"Most natural question. Mr. Shoop had to leave Jason on business. Bondsman couldn't go, so he trotted up here to pay us a visit. "

"He's hungry. I know it. Come, Bondsman. "

From that moment he attached himself to Dorothy, following her aboutthat day and the next and the next. But when night came he invariablytrotted over to Shoop's cabin and slept on the veranda. Dorothy wonderedwhy he would not sleep at their camp. 

"He's very friendly, " she told her father. "He will play and chasesticks and growl, and pretend to bite when I tickle him, but he does itall with a kind of mental reservation. Yesterday, when we were havingour regular frolic after breakfast, he stopped suddenly and stoodlooking out across the mesa, and it was only my pony, just coming fromthe edge of the woods. Bondsman tries to be polite, but he is reallyjust passing the time while he is waiting for Mr. Shoop. "

"You don't feel flattered, perhaps. But don't you admire him all themore for it?"

"I believe I do. Poor Bondsman! It's just like being a social pet, isn'tit? Have to appear happy whether you are or not. "

Bondsman knew that she proffered sympathy, and he licked her handlazily, gazing up at her with bright, unreadable eyes. 

 * * * * *

Bud Shoop wasted no time in Stacey. He puffed into the hotel, indecisionbehind him and a definite object in view. 

"No use talkin', " he said to Mrs. Adams. "We got to go and take care ofJim. I couldn't get word to Lorry. No tellin' where to locate him justnow. Mebby it's just as well. They's a train west along about midnight. Now, you get somebody to stay here till we get back--"

"But, Mr. Shoop! I can't leave like this. I haven't a thing ready. Anitacan't manage alone. "

"Well, if that's all, I admire to say that I'll set right down and runthis here hotel myself till you get back. But it ain't right, yourtravelin' down there alone. We used to be right good friends, Annie. Doyou reckon I'd tell you to go see Jim if it wa'n't right? If he everneeded you, it's right now. If he's goin' to get well, your bein'there'll help him a pow'ful sight. And if he ain't, you ought to bethere, anyhow. "

"I know it, Bud. I wish Lorry was here. "

"I don't. I'm mighty glad he's out there where he is. What do you thinkhe'd do if he knowed Jim was shot up?"

"He would go to his father--"

"Uh-uh?"

"And--"

"Go ahead. You wa'n't born yesterday. "

"He would listen to me, " she concluded weakly. 

"Yep. But only while you was talkin'. That boy is your boy all right, but he's got a lot of Jim Waring under his hide. And if you want to keepthat there hide from gettin' shot full of holes by a no-account outlaw, you'll just pack up and come along. "

Bud wiped his forehead, and puffed. This sort of thing was not exactlyin his line. 

"Here's the point, Annie, " he continued. "If I get there afore Lorry, and you're there, he won't get into trouble. Mebby you could hold himwith your hand on the bridle, but he's runnin' loose right where he is. Can't you get some lady in town to run the place?"

"I don't know. I'll see. "

Bud heaved a sigh. It was noticeably warmer in Stacey than at Jason. 

Bud's reasoning, while rough, had appealed to Mrs. Adams. She felt thatshe ought to go. She had only needed some such impetus to send herstraight to Waring. The town marshal's telegram had stunned her. Sheknew that her husband had followed the Brewsters, but she had notanticipated the awful result of his quest. In former times he had alwayscome back to her, taking up the routine of their home life quietly. Butthis time he had not come back. If only he had listened to her! And deepin her heart she felt that old jealousy for the lure which had so oftencalled him from her to ride the grim trails of his profession. But thistime he had not come back. She would go to him, and never leave himagain. 

Anita thought she knew of a woman who would take charge of the hotelduring Mrs. Adams's absence. Without waiting for an assurance of this, Bud purchased tickets, sent a letter to his clerk, and spent half anhour in the barber shop. 

"Somebody dead?" queried the barber as Bud settled himself in the chair. 

"Not that I heard of. Why?"

"Oh, nothing, Mr. Shoop. I seen that you was dressed in black and had ona black tie--"

Later, as Bud surveyed himself in the glass, trying ineffectually tododge the barber's persistent whisk-broom, he decided that he did look abit funereal. And when he appeared at the supper table that evening hewore an ambitious four-in-hand tie of red and yellow. There was going tobe no funeral or anything that looked like it, if he knew it. 

Aboard the midnight train he made Mrs. Adams comfortable in the chaircar. It was but a few hours' run to The Junction. He went to the smoker, took off his coat, and lit a cigar. Around him men sprawled in all sortsof awkward attitudes, sleeping or trying to sleep. He had heard nothingfurther about Waring's fight with the Brewsters. They might still be atlarge. But he doubted it. If they were--Shoop recalled the friendlyshooting contest with High-Chin Bob. If High Chin were riding thecountry, doubtless he would be headed south. But if he should happen tocross Shoop's trail by accident--Bud shook his head. He would not lookfor trouble, but if it came his way it would bump into something solid. 

Shoop had buckled on his gun before leaving Jason. His position assupervisor made him automatically a deputy sheriff. But had he beennothing more than a citizen homesteader, his aim would have been quiteas sincere. 

It was nearly daylight when they arrived at The Junction. Shoopaccompanied Mrs. Adams to a hotel. After breakfast he went out to get abuck-board and team. Criswell was not on the line of the railroad. 

They arrived in Criswell that evening, and were directed to themarshal's house, where Ramon met them. 

"How's Jim?" was Shoop's immediate query. 

"The Señor Jim is like one who sleeps, " said Ramon. 

Mrs. Adams grasped Shoop's arm. 

"He wakens only when the doctor is come. He has spoken your name, señora. "

The marshal's wife, a thin, worried-looking woman, apologized for theuntidy condition of her home, the reason for which she wished to makeobvious. She was of the type which Shoop designated to himself as"vinegar and salt. "

"Reckon I better go in first, Annie?"

"No. " And Mrs. Adams opened the door indicated by the other woman. 

Shoop caught a glimpse of a white face. The door closed softly. Shoopturned to Ramon. 

"Let's go take a smoke, eh?"

Ramon led the way down the street and on out toward the desert. At theedge of town, he paused and pointed across the spaces. 

"It was out there, señor. I found him. The others were not found untilthe morning. I did not know that they were there. "

"The others? How many?"

"Three. One will live, but he will never ride again. The others, Highof the Chin and his brother, were buried by the marshal. None came toclaim them. "

"Were you in it?"

"No, señor. It was alone that Señor Jim fought them. He followed themout there alone. I come and I ask where he is gone. I find him thatnight. I do not know that he is alive. "

"What became of his horse?"

"Dex he come back with no one on him. It is then that I tell Dex to findfor me the Señor Jim. "

"And he trailed back to where Jim went down, eh? Uh-uh! I got a dogmyself. "

"Will the Señor Jim ride again?" queried Ramon. 

"I dunno, boy, I dunno. But if you and me and the doc and theseñora--and mebby God--get busy, why, mebby he'll stand a chance. Howmany times was he hit?"

"Two times they shot him. "

"Two, eh? Well, speakin' from experience, they was three mighty fastguns ag'in' him. Say five shots in each gun, which is fifteen. And hehad to reload, most-like, for he can empty a gun quicker than you canthink. Fifteen to five for a starter, and comin' at him from three waysto once. And he got the whole three of 'em! Do you know what that means, boy? But shucks! I'm forgettin' times has changed. How they been usin'you down here?"

"I am sleep in the hay by Dex. "

"Uh-uh. Let that rest. Mebby it's a good thing, anyhow. Got any money?"

"No, señor. I have use all. "

"Where d' you eat?"

"I have buy the can and the crackers at the store. "

"Can and crackers, eh? Bet you ain't had a square meal for a week. Butwe'll fix that. Here, go 'long and buy some chuck till I get organized. "

"Gracias, señor. But I can pray better when I do not eat so much. "

"Good Lord! But, that's some idee! Well, if wishin' and hopin' and suchis prayin', I reckon Jim'll pull through. I reckon it's up to the missusnow. "

"Lorry is not come?"

"Nope. Couldn't get to him. When does the mail go out of thisbone-hill?"

"I do not know. To-morrow or perhaps the next day. "

"Uh-uh. Well, you get somethin' to eat, and then throw a saddle on Dexand I'll give you a couple of letters to take to The Junction. And, cometo think, you might as well keep right on fannin' it for Stacey andhome. They can use you over to the ranch. The missus and me'll take careof Señor Jim. "

"I take the letter, " said Ramon, "but I am come back. I am with theSeñor Jim where he goes. "

"Oh, very well, amigo. Might as well give a duck a bar of soap and askhim to take a bath as to tell you to leave Jim. Such is wastin' talk. "

Chapter XXIV

_The Genial Bud_

"And just as soon as he can be moved, his wife aims to take him over toStacey. "

So Bud told the Marshal of Criswell, who, for want of betteraccommodations, had his office in the rear of the general store. 

The marshal, a gaunt individual with a watery blue eye and a soiledgoatee, shook his head. "The law is the law, " he stated sententiously. 

"And a gun's a gun, " said Shoop. "But what evidence you got that JimWaring killed Bob Brewster and his brother Tony?"

"All I need, pardner. When I thought Andy Brewster was goin' to passover, I took his antimortim. But he's livin'. And he is bound over toappear ag'in' Waring. What you say about the killin' over by Staceyain't got nothin' to do with this here case. I got no orders to holdAndy Brewster, but I'm holdin' him for evidence. And I'm holdin' Waringfor premeditated contempt and shootin' to death of said Bob Brewster andhis brother Tony. And I got said gun what did it. "

"So you pinched Jim's gun, eh? And when he couldn't lift a finger or saya word to stop you. Do you want to know what would happen if you was totry to get a holt of said gun if Jim Waring was on his two feet? Well, Jim Waring would pull said trigger, and Criswell would bury said citymarshal. "

"The law is the law. This town's payin' me to do my duty, and I'm goin'to do it. "

"Speakin' in general, how much do you owe the town so far?"

"Look-a-here! You can't run no whizzer like that on me. I've heard tellof you, Mr. Shoop. No dinky little ole forest ranger can comecantelopin' round here tellin' me my business!"

"Mebby I'm dinky, and mebby, I'm old, but your eyesight wants fixin' ifyou callin' me little, old hoss. An' I ain't tryin' to tell you yourbusiness. I'm tellin' you mine, which is that Jim Waring goes to Staceyjust the first minute he can put his foot in a buck-board. And he'sgoin' peaceful. I got a gun on me that says so. "

"The law is the law. I can run you in for packin' concealed weapons, Mr. Shoop. "

"Run me in!" chuckled Shoop. "Nope. You'd spile the door. But let metell you. A supervisor is a deputy sheriff--and that goes anywherethey's a American flag. I don't see none here, but I reckon Criswell isin America. What's the use of your actin' like a goat just because yougot chin whiskers? I'm tellin' you Jim Waring done a good job when hebeefed them coyotes. "

The marshal's pale-blue eyes blinked at the allusion to the goat. "Now, don't you get pussonel, neighbor. The law is the law, and they ain't nouse you talkin'. "

Bud's lips tightened. The marshal's reiterated reference to the law wasbecoming irksome. He would be decidedly impersonal henceforth. 

"I seen a pair of walkin' overalls once, hitched to a two-bit shirt witha chewin'-tobacco tag on it. All that held that there fella together washis suspenders. I don't recollec' whether he just had goat whiskers orchewed tobacco, but somebody who had been liquorin' up told him helooked like the Emperor Maximilian. And you know what happened to Maxy. "

"That's all right, neighbor. But mebby when I put in my bill for boardof said prisoner and feed for his hoss and one Mexican, mebby you'llquit talkin' so much, 'less you got friends where you can borrow money. "

"Your bill will be paid. Don't you worry about that. What I want to knowis: Does Jim Waring leave town peaceful, or have I got to hang aroundhere till he gets well enough to travel, and then show you? I gotsomethin' else to do besides set on a cracker barrel and swap lies withmy friends. "

"You can stay or you can go, but the law is the law--"

"And a goat is a goat. All right, hombre, I'll stay. "

"As I was sayin', " continued the marshal, ignoring the deepening colorof Shoop's face, "you can stay. You're too durned fat to move aroundsafe, anyhow. You might bust. "

Shoop smiled. He had stirred the musty marshal to a show of feeling. Themarshal, who had keyed himself up to make the thrust, was disappointed. He made that mistake, common to his kind, of imagining that he couldcontinue that sort of thing with impunity. 

"You come prancin' into this town with a strange woman, sayin' that sheis the wife of the defendant. Can you tell me how her name is Adams andhis'n is Waring?"

"I can!" And with a motion so swift that the marshal had no time to helphimself, Bud Shoop seized the other's goatee and yanked him from thecracker barrel. "I got a job for you, " said Shoop, grinning until histeeth showed. 

And without further argument on his part, he led the marshal through thestore and up the street to his own house. The marshal back-paddled andstruggled, but he had to follow his chin. 

Mrs. Adams answered Bud's knock. Bud jerked the marshal to his knees. 

"Apologize to this lady--quick!"

"Why, Mr. Shoop!"

"Yes, it's me, Annie. Talk up, you pizen lizard!"

"But, Bud, you're hurting him!"

"Well, I didn't aim to feed him ice-cream. Talk up, you Gilamonster--and talk quick!"

"I apologize, " mumbled the marshal. 

Bud released him and wiped his hand on his trousers. 

"Sticky!" he muttered. 

The marshal shook his fist at Bud. "You're under arrest for disturbin'the peace. You're under arrest!"

"What does it mean?" queried Mrs. Adams. 

"Nothin' what he ain't swallowed, Annie. Gosh 'mighty, but I wasted alot of steam on that there walkin' clothes-rack! The blamed horn toadsays he's holdin' Jim for shootin' the Brewsters. "

"But he can't, " said Mrs. Adams. "Wait a minute; I'll be right out. Sitdown, Bud. You are tired out and nervous. "

Bud sat down heavily. "Gosh! I never come so clost to pullin' a gun inmy life. If he was a man, I reckon I'd 'a' done it. What makes me mad isthat I let him get _me_ mad. "

When Mrs. Adams came out to the porch she had a vest in her hand. Insidethe vest was pinned the little, round badge of a United States marshal. Bud seized the vest, and without waiting to listen to her he ploddeddown the street and marched into the general store, where the townmarshal was talking to a group of curious natives. 

"Can you read?" said Bud, and without waiting for an answer shoved thelittle silver badge under the marshal's nose. "The law is the law, "said Bud. "And that there vest belongs to Jim Waring. "

Bud had regained his genial smile. He was too full of the happydiscovery to remain silent. 

"Gentlemen, " he said, assuming a manner, "did your honorable peaceofficer here tell you what he said about the wife of the man who islayin' wounded and helpless in his own house? And did your honorablepeace officer tell you-all that it is her money that is payin' for theboard and doctorin' of Tony Brewster, likewise layin' wounded andhelpless in your midst? And did your honorable peace officer tell youthat Jim Waring is goin' to leave comfortable and peaceful just as soonas the A'mighty and the doc'll turn him loose? Well, I seen he wastalkin' to you, and I figured he might 'a' been tellin' you thesethings, but I wa'n't sure. Was you-all thinkin' of stoppin' me? Suchdoin's! Why, when I was a kid I used to ride into towns like thisfrequent, turn 'em bottom side up, spank 'em, and send 'em bawlin' totheir--to their city marshal, and I ain't dead yet. Now, I come peacefuland payin' my way, but if they's any one here got any objections to howI wear my vest or eat my pie, why, he can just oil up his objection, load her, and see that she pulls easy and shoots straight. I ain't nocharity organization, but I'm handin' you some first-class lifeinsurance free. "

That afternoon Buck Hardy arrived, accompanied by a deputy. AndyBrewster again made deposition that without cause Waring had attackedand killed his brothers. Hardy had a long consultation with Shoop, andlater notified Brewster that he was under arrest as an accomplice in themurder of Pat and for aiding the murderer to escape. Whilecircumstantial evidence pointed directly toward the Brewsters, who hadthreatened openly from time to time to "get" Pat, there was valuableevidence missing in Waco, who, it was almost certain, had been aneye-witness of the tragedy. Waco had been traced to the town of Grant, at which place Hardy and his men had lost the trail. The demolishedbuckboard had been found by the roadside. Hardy had tracked theautomobile to Grant. 

Shoop suggested that Waco might have taken a freight out of town. Despite Hardy's argument that Waco had nothing to fear so far as themurder was concerned, Shoop realized that the tramp had been afraid toface the law and had left that part of the country. 

Such men were born cowards, irresolute, weak, and treacherous even totheir own infrequent moments of indecision. There was no question butthat Waring had acted within the law in killing the Brewsters. BobBrewster had fired at him at sight. But the fact that one of thebrothers survived to testify against Waring opened up a question thatwould have to be answered in court. Shoop offered the opinion thatpossibly Andy Brewster, the youngest of the brothers, was not directlyimplicated in the murder, only taking sides with his brother Bob when helearned that he was a fugitive. In such a premise it was not unnaturalthat his bitterness toward Waring should take the angle that it did. Andit would be difficult to prove that Andy Brewster was guilty of morethan aiding his brother to escape. 

The sheriff and Shoop talked the matter over, with the result that Hardydispatched a telegram from The Junction to all the Southern cities tokeep a sharp watch for Waco. 

Next morning Shoop left for Jason with Hardy and his deputy. 

Several days later Waring was taken to The Junction by Mrs. Adams andRamon, where Ramon left them waiting for the east-bound. The Mexicanrode the big buckskin. He had instructions to return to the ranch. 

Late that evening, Waring was assisted from the train to the hotel atStacey. He was given Lorry's old room. It would be many weeks before hewould be strong enough to walk again. 

For the first time in his life Waring relinquished the initiative. Hiswife planned for the future, and Waring only asserted himself when shetook it for granted that the hotel would be his permanent home. 

"There's the ranch, Annie, " he told her. "I can't give that up. "

"And you can't go back there till I let you, " she asserted, smiling. 

"I'll get Lorry to talk to you about that. I'm thinking of making him anoffer of partnership. He may want to set up for himself some day. Imarried young. "

"I'd like to see the girl that's good enough for my Lorry. "

Waring smiled. "Or good enough to call you 'mother. '"

"Jim, you're trying to plague me. "

"But you will some day. There's always some girl. And Lorry is a prettylive boy. He isn't going to ride a lone trail forever. "

Mrs. Adams affected an indifference that she by no means felt. 

"You're a lot better to-day, Jim. "

"And that's all your fault, Annie. "

She left the room, closing the door slowly. In her own room at the endof the hall, she glanced at herself in the glass. A rosy face anddark-brown eyes smiled back at her. 

But there were many things to attend to downstairs. She had been awaymore than a week. And there was evidence of her absence in every room inthe place. 

Chapter XXV

_The Little Fires_

With the coming of winter the Blue Mesa reclaimed its primordialsolitude. Mount Baldy's smooth, glittering roundness topped a world thatswept down in long waves of dark blue frosted with silver; the serriedminarets of spruce and pine bulked close and sprinkled with snow. Blanketed in white, the upland mesas lay like great, tideless lakes, silent and desolate from green-edged shore to shore. The shadowy cavernsof the timberlands, touched here and there with a ray of sunlight, thrilled to the creeping fingers of the cold. Tough fibers of thestiff-ranked pines parted with a crackling groan, as though unable tobear silently the reiterant stabbing of the frost needles. The frozengum of the black spruce glowed like frosted topaz. The naked whips ofthe quaking asp were brittle traceries against the hard blue of the sky. 

Below the rounded shoulders of the peaks ran an incessant whispering asthin swirls of powdered snow spun down the wind and sifted through themoving branches below. 

The tawny lynx and the mist-gray mountain lion hunted along snow-bankedranger trails. The blue grouse sat stiff and close to the tree-trunk, while gray squirrels with quaintly tufted ears peered curiously atsinuous forms that nosed from side to side of the hidden trail below. 

The two cabins of the Blue Mesa, hooded in white, thrust their leanstovepipes skyward through two feet of snow. The corrals were shallowfortifications, banked breast-high. The silence seemed not the silenceof slumber, but that of a tense waiting, as though the whole winterworld yearned for the warmth of spring. 

No creak of saddle or plod of hoof broke the bleak stillness, save whensome wandering Apache hunted the wild turkey or the deer, knowing thatwinter had locked the trails to his ancient heritage; that the whiteman's law of boundaries was void until the snows were thin upon thehighest peaks. 

Thirty miles north of this white isolation the low country glowed in asun that made golden the far buttes and sparkled on the clay-red watersof the Little Colorado. Four thousand feet below the hills cattledrifted across the open lands. 

Across the ranges, to the south, the barren sands lay shimmering in ablur of summer heat waves; the winter desert, beautiful in its goldenlights and purple, changing shadows. And in that Southern desert, wherethe old Apache Trail melts into the made roads of ranchland and town, Bronson toiled at his writing. And Dorothy, less slender, moresprightly, growing stronger in the clean, clear air and the sun, dreamed of her "ranger man" and the blue hills of her autumn wonderland. With the warmth of summer around her, the lizards on the rocks, and thechaparral still green, she could hardly realize that the Blue Mesa couldbe desolate, white, and cold. As yet she had not lived long enough inthe desert to love it as she loved the wooded hills, where to her eachtree was a companion and each whisper of the wind a song. 

She often wondered what Lorry was doing, and whether Bondsman would cometo visit her when they returned to their cabin on the mesa. She oftenrecalled, with a kind of happy wonderment, Bondsman's singular visit andhow he had left suddenly one morning, heedless of her coaxing. The bigAiredale had appeared in Jason the day after Bud Shoop had returned fromCriswell. That Bondsman should know, miles from the town, that hismaster had returned was a mystery to her. She had read of suchhappenings; her father had written of them. But to know them for thevery truth! That was, indeed, the magic, and her mountains were toweringcitadels of the true Romance. 

Long before Bronson ventured to return to his mountain camp, Lorry wasriding the hill trails again as spring loosened the upland snows andfilled the cañons and arroyos with a red turbulence of waters bearingdriftwood and dead leaves. With a companion ranger he mended trail androde along the telephone lines, searching for sagging wires; made notesof fresh down timber and the effect of the snow-fed torrents on themajor trails. 

Each day the air grew warmer. Tiny green shoots appeared in the rustytangle of last season's mesa grasses. Imperceptibly the dull-hued mesasbecame fresh carpeted with green across which the wind bore a subtlysoft fragrance of sun-warmed spruce and pine. 

To Lorry the coming of the Bronsons was like the return of old friends. Although he had known them but a short summer season, isolation hadbrought them all close together. Their reunion was celebrated with anold-fashioned dinner of roast beef and potatoes, hot biscuit and honey, an apple pie that would have made a New England farmer dream of hisancestors, and the inevitable coffee of the high country. 

And Dorothy had so much to tell him of the wonderful winter desert; theold Mexican who looked after their horses, and his wife who cooked forthem. Of sunshine and sandstorms, the ruins of ancient pueblos in whichthey discovered fragments of pottery, arrowheads, beads, and trinkets, of the lean, bronzed cowboys of the South, of the cattle and sheep, until in her enthusiasm she forgot that Lorry had always known of thesethings. And Lorry, gravely attentive, listened without interrupting heruntil she asked why he was so silent. 

"Because I'm right happy, miss, to see you lookin' so spry and pretty. I'm thinkin' Arizona has been kind of a heaven for you. "

"And you?" she queried, laughing. 

"Well, it wasn't the heat that would make me call it what it was up herelast winter. I rode up once while you was gone. Gray Leg could just makeit to the cabin. It wasn't so bad in the timber. But comin' across themesa the cinchas sure scraped snow. "

"Right here on our mesa?"

"Right here, miss. From the edge of the timber over there to this sideit was four feet deep on the level. "

"And now, " she said, gesturing toward the wavering grasses. "But why didyou risk it?"

Lorry laughed. He had not considered it a risk. "You remember that bookyou lent me. Well, I left it in my cabin. There was one piece that kep'botherin' me. I couldn't recollect the last part about those 'LittleFires. ' I was plumb worried tryin' to remember them verses. When I gotit, I sure learned that piece from the jump to the finish. "

"The 'Little Fires'? I'm glad you like it. I do. 

 "'From East to West they're burning in tower and forge and home, And on beyond the outlands, across the ocean foam; On mountain crest and mesa, on land and sea and height, The little fires along the trail that twinkle down the night. '

"And about the sheep-herder; do you remember how--

 "'The Andalusian herder rolls a smoke and points the way, As he murmurs, "Caliente, " "San Clemente, " "Santa Fé, " Till the very names are music, waking memoried desires, And we turn and foot it down the trail to find the little fires. Adventuring! Adventuring! And, oh, the sights to see! And little fires along the trail that wink at you and me. '"

"That's it! But I couldn't say it like that. But I know some of themlittle fires. "

"We must make one some day. Won't it be fun!"

"It sure is when a fella ain't hustlin' to get grub. That poem soundsbetter after grub, at night, when the stars are shinin' and the horsesgrazin' and mebby the pack-horse bell jinglin' 'way off somewhere. Thenone of them little fires is sure friendly. "

"Have you been reading this winter?"

"Oh, some. Mostly forestry and about the war. Bud was tellin' me to readup on forestry. He's goin' to put me over west--and a bigger job thissummer. "

"You mean--to stay?"

"About as much as I stay anywhere. "

Dorothy pouted. She had thought that the Blue Mesa and the timberlandswere more beautiful than ever that spring, but to think that theneighboring cabin would be vacant all summer! No cheery whistling and nowood smoke curling from the chimney and no blithe voice talking to theponies. No jolly "Good-mornin', miss, and the day is sure startin' outproud to see you. " Well, Dorothy had considered Mr. Shoop a friend. Shewould have a very serious talk with Mr. Shoop when she saw him. 

She had read of Waring's fight in the desert and of his slow recovery, and that Waring was Lorry's father; matters that she could not speak ofto Lorry, but the knowledge of them lent a kind of romance to her rangerman. At times she studied Lorry, endeavoring to find in him some traceof his father's qualities. She had not met Waring, but she imagined muchfrom what she had heard and read. And could Lorry, who had such kindgray eyes and such a pleasant face, deliberately go out and kill men ashis father had done? Why should men kill each other? The world was sobeautiful, and there was so much to live for. 

Although the trail across the great forest terraces below was open clearup to the Blue Mesa, the trails on the northern side of the range werestill impassable. The lookout man would not occupy his lonely cabin onMount Baldy for several weeks to come, and Lorry's work kept him withina moderate radius of the home camp. 

Several times Dorothy and her father rode with Lorry, spending the daysearching for new vistas while he mended trail or repaired the telephoneline that ran from Mount Baldy to the main office. Frequently they wouldhave their evening meal in Bronson's camp, after which Lorry alwaysasked them to his cabin, where Dorothy would play for them while theysmoked contentedly in front of the log fire. To Dorothy it seemed thatthey had always lived in a cabin on the Blue Mesa and that Lorry hadalways been their neighbor, whom it was a joy to tease because he nevershowed impatience, and whose attitude toward her was that of a brother. 

And without realizing it, Lorry grew to love the sprightly, slenderDorothy with a wholesome, boyish affection. When she was well, he washappy. When she became over-tired, and was obliged to stay in her room, he was miserable, blaming himself for suggesting some expedition thathad been too much for her strength, so often buoyed above its naturallevel by enthusiasm. At such times he would blame himself roundly. Andif there seemed no cause for her depression, he warred silently with thepower that stooped to harm so frail a creature. His own physical freedomknew no such check. He could not quite understand sickness, save when itcame through some obvious physical injury. 

Bronson was glad that there was a Lorry; both as a companion to himselfand as a tower of strength to Dorothy. Her depression vanished in theyoung ranger's presence. It was a case of the thoroughbred endeavoringto live up to the thoroughbred standard. And Bronson considered anythingthoroughbred that was true to type. Yet the writer had known menphysically inconsequent who possessed a fine strain of courage, loyalty, honor. The shell might be misshapen, malformed, and yet the spirit burnhigh and clear. And Bronson reasoned that there was a divinity of blood, despite the patents of democracy. 

Bronson found that he had to go to Jason for supplies. Dorothy asked togo with him. Bronson hesitated. It was a long ride, although Dorothy hadmade it upon occasion. She teased prettily. Lorry was away. She wasn'tafraid to stay alone, but she would be lonesome. If she kissed him threetimes, one right on top of the other, would he let her come? Bronsongave in to this argument. They would ride slowly, and stay a day longerin Jason to rest. 

When they arrived at Jason, Dorothy immediately went to bed. She wantedto be at her best on the following day. She was going to talk with Mr. Shoop. It was a very serious matter. 

And next morning she excused herself while her father bought supplies. She called at the supervisor's office. Bud Shoop beamed. She was soalert, so vivacious, and so charming in her quick slenderness. Thegenial Bud placed a chair for her with grandiloquent courtesy. 

"I'm going to ask a terrible favor, " she began, crossing her legs andclasping her knee. 

"I'm pow'ful scared, " said Bud. 

"I don't want favors that way. I want you to like me, and then I willtell you. "

"My goodness, missy! Like you! Who said I didn't?"

"No one. But you have ordered Lorry Adams to close up his camp and goover to work right near the Apache Reservation. "

"I sure did. "

"Well, Mr. Shoop, I don't like Apaches. "

"You got comp'ny, missy. But what's that got to do with Lorry?"

"Oh, I suppose he doesn't care. But what do you think his _mother_ wouldsay to you if he--well, if he got _scalped_?"

A slow grin spread across Bud's broad face. Dorothy looked solemndisapproval. "I can't help it, " he said as he shook all over. Two tearswelled in the corner of his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. "I can'thelp it, missy. I ain't laughin' at you. But Lorry gettin' scalped! Why, here you been livin' up here, not five miles from the Apache line, and Iain't heard you tell of bein' scared of Injuns. And you ain't no biggerthan a minute at that. "

"That's just it! Suppose the Apaches did come over the line? What couldwe do if Lorry were gone?"

"Well, you might repo't their trespassin' to me. And I reckon your daddymight have somethin' to say to 'em. He's been around some. "

"Oh, I suppose so. But there is a lot of work to do in Lorry's district, I noticed, coming down. The trails are in very bad condition. "

"I know it. But he's worth more to the Service doin' bigger work. I gota young college man wished onto me that can mend trails. "

"Will he live at Lorry's cabin?"

"No. He'll head in from here. I ain't givin' the use of my cabin and mypiano to everybody. "

Dorothy's eyes twinkled. "If Lorry were away some one might steal yourpiano. "

"Now, see here, missy; you're joshin' your Uncle Bud. Do you know thatyou're tryin' to bribe a Gov'ment officer? That means a pow'ful bigpenalty if I was to repo't to Washington. "

Dorothy wrinkled her nose. "I don't care if you do! You'd get what-for, too. "

"Well, I'll tell you, missy. Let's ask Bondsman about this here hocus. Are you willin' to stand by what he says?"

"Oh, that's not fair! He's _your_ dog. "

"But he's plumb square in his jedgments, missy. Now, I'll tell you. We'll call him in and say nothin'. Then you ask him if he thinks I oughtto put Lorry Adams over west or leave him to my camp this summer. Now, if Bondsman wiggles that stub tail of his, it means, 'yes. ' If he don'twiggle his tail, he says, 'no, '--huh?"

"Of course he'll wiggle his tail. He always does when I talk to him. "

"Then suppose I do the talkin'?"

"Oh, you can make him do just as you wish. But all right, Mr. Shoop. And you will really let Bondsman decide?"

"'Tain't accordin' to rules, but seein' it's you--"

Bud called to the big Airedale. Bondsman trotted in, nosed Dorothy'shand, and looked up at his master. 

"Come 'ere!" commanded Shoop brusquely. "Stand right there! Now, quittryin' to guess what's goin' on and listen to the boss. Accordin' toyour jedgment, which is plumb solid, do I put Lorry to work over on theline this summer?"

Bondsman cocked his ears, blinked, and a slight quiver began at hisshoulders, which would undoubtedly accentuate to the affirmative when itreached his tail. 

"Rats!" cried Dorothy. 

The Airedale grew rigid, and his spike of a tail cocked up straight andstiff. 

Bud Shoop waved his hands helplessly. "I might 'a' knowed it! A lady canalways get a man steppin' on his own foot when he tries to walk around aargument with her. You done bribed me and corrupted Bondsman. But I'mstayin' right by what I said. "

Dorothy jumped up and took Bud's big hand in her slender ones. "You'rejust lovely to us!" And her brown eyes glowed softly. 

Bud coughed. His shirt-collar seemed tight. He tugged at it, and coughedagain. 

"Missy, " he said, leaning forward and patting her hand, --"missy, Iwould send Lorry plumb to--to--Phoenix and tell the Service to go findhim, just to see them brown eyes of yours lookin' at me like that. Butdon't you say nothin' about this here committee meetin' to nobody. Ireckon you played a trick on me for teasin' you. So you think Lorry is aright smart hombre, eh?"

"Oh, " indifferently, "he's rather nice at times. He's company forfather. "

"Then I reckon you set a whole lot of store by your daddy. Now, I wonderif I was a young, bow-legged cow-puncher with kind of curly hair andlookin' fierce and noble, and they was a gal whose daddy was plumblonesome for company, and I was to get notice from the boss that I wasto vamose the diggin's and go to work, --now, I wonder who'd ride twentymiles of trail to talk up for me?"

"Why, I would!"

"You got everything off of me but my watch, " laughed Bud. "I reckonyou'll let me keep that?"

"Is it a good watch?" she asked, and her eyes sparkled with a greatidea. 

"Tol'able. Cost a dollar. I lost my old watch in Criswell. I reckon thecity marshal got it when I wa'n't lookin'. "

"Well, you may keep it--for a while yet. When are you coming up to visitus?"

"Just as soon as I can, missy. Here's your daddy. I want to talk to hima minute. "

Three weeks later, when the wheels of the local stage were beginning tothrow a fine dust, instead of mud, as they whirred from St. Johns toJason, Bud Shoop received a tiny flat package addressed in an unfamiliarhand. He laid it aside until he had read the mail. Then he opened it. Ina nest of cotton batting gleamed a plain gold watch. A thin watch, reflecting something aristocratic in its well-proportioned simplicity. As he examined it his genial face expressed a sort of childishwonderment. There was no card to show from where it had come. He openedthe back of the case, and read a brief inscription. 

"And the little lady would be sendin' this to me! And it's that slim andsmooth; nothin' fancy, but a reg'lar thoroughbred, just like her. "

He laid the watch carefully on his desk, and sat for a while gazing outof the window. It was the first time in his life that a woman had madehim a present. Turning to replace the watch in the box, he saw somethingglitter in the cotton. He pulled out a layer of batting, and discovereda plain gold chain of strong, serviceable pattern. 

That afternoon, as Bud came from luncheon at the hotel, a townsmanaccosted him in the street. During their chat the townsman commentedupon the watch-chain. Bud drew the watch from his pocket and exhibitedit proudly. 

"Just a little present from a lady friend. And her name is inside thecover, along with mine. "

"A lady friend, eh? Now, I thought it was politics mebby?"

"Nope. Strictly pussonel. "

"Well, Bud, you want to watch out. "

"If you're meanin' that for a joke, " retorted Bud, "it's that kind of ajoke what's foundered in its front laigs and can't do nothin' but walkaround itself. I got the same almanac over to my office. "

Chapter XXVI

_Idle Noon_

The occasional raw winds of spring softened to the warm calm of summer. The horses had shed their winter coats, and grew sleek and fat on thelush grasses of the mesa. The mesa stream cleared from a ropy red to asparkling thread of silver banked with vivid green. If infrequentthunderstorms left a haze in the cañons, it soon vanished in the lightair. 

Bronson found it difficult to keep Dorothy from over-exerting herself. They arose at daybreak and went to bed at dusk, save when Lorry came foran after-dinner chat or when he prevailed upon Dorothy to play for themin his cabin. On such occasions she would entertain them with oldmelodies played softly as they smoked and listened, the lamp unlightedand the door wide open to the stars. 

One evening, when Dorothy had ceased to play for them, Lorry mentionedthat he was to leave on the following day for an indefinite time. Therehad been some trouble about a new outfit that was grazing cattle far tothe south. Shoop had already sent word to the foreman, who had ignoredthe message. Lorry had been deputized to see the man and have anunderstanding with him. The complaint had been brought to Shoop by oneof the Apache police that some cowboys had been grazing stock andkilling game on the Indian reservation. 

Dorothy realized that Lorry might be away for some time. She would misshim. And that night she asked her father if she might not invite a girlfriend up for the summer. They were established. And Dorothy was muchstronger and able to attend to the housekeeping. Bronson was quitewilling. He realized that he was busy most of the time, writing. He wasnot much of a companion except at the table. So Dorothy wrote to herfriend, who was in Los Angeles and had already planned to drive Eastwhen the roads became passable. 

Lorry was roping the packs next morning when Dorothy appeared in her newsilver-gray corduroy riding-habit--a surprise that she had kept for anoccasion. She was proud of the well-tailored coat and breeches, thesnug-fitting black boots, and the small, new Stetson. Her gray silkwaist was brightened by a narrow four-in-hand of rich blue, and her tinygauntlets of soft gray buckskin were stitched with blue silk. 

She looked like some slender, young exquisite who had stepped from thestage of an old play as she stood smoothing the fingers of her glovesand smiling across at Lorry. He said nothing, but stared at her. She wasdisappointed. She wanted him to tell her that he liked her new things, she had spent so much time and thought on them. But there he stood, thepack-rope slack in his hand, staring stupidly. 

She nodded, and waved her hand. 

"It's me, " she called. "Good-morning!"

Lorry managed to stammer a greeting. He felt as though she were somestrange person that looked like Dorothy, but like a new Dorothy of suchexquisite attitude and grace and so altogether charming that he could donothing but wonder how the transformation had come about. He had alwaysthought her pretty. But now she was more than that. She was alluring;she was the girl he loved from the brim of her gray Stetson to the toeof her tiny boot. 

"Would you catch my pony for me?"

Lorry flushed. Of course she wanted Chinook. He swung up on Gray Leg andspurred across the mesa. His heart was pounding hard. He rode with adash and a swing as he rounded up the ponies. As he caught up her horsehe happened to think of his own faded shirt and overalls. He was wearingthe essentially proper clothing for his work. For the first time herealized the potency of carefully chosen attire. As he rode back withthe pastured pony trailing behind him, he felt peculiarly ashamed ofhimself for feeling ashamed of his clothing. Silently he saddledChinook, accepted her thanks silently, and strode to his cabin. When hereappeared he was wearing a new shirt, his blue silk bandanna, and hissilver-studded chaps. He would cache those chaps at his first camp out, and get them when he returned. 

Bronson came to the doorway. 

Dorothy put her finger to her lips. "Lorry is stunned, I think. Do Ilook as spiff as all that?"

"Like a slim young cavalier; very dashing and wonderful, Peter Pan. "

"Not a bit like Dorothy?"

"Well, the least bit; but more like Peter Pan. "

"I was getting tired of being just Dorothy. That was all very well whenI wasn't able to ride and camp and do all sorts of adventures. 

"And that isn't all, " she continued. "I weigh twelve pounds more than Idid last summer. Mr. Shoop weighed me on the store scales. I wanted toweigh him. He made an awful pun, but he wouldn't budge. "

Bronson nodded. "I wouldn't ride farther than the Big Spring, Peter. It's getting hot now. "

"All right, daddy. I wish that horrid old story was finished. You neverride with me. "

"You'll have some one to ride with you when Alice comes. "

"Yes; but Alice is only a girl. "

Bronson laughed, and she scolded him with her eyes. Just then Lorryappeared. 

Bronson stooped and kissed her. "And don't ride too far, " he cautioned. 

Lorry drove the pack-animals toward Bronson's cabin. He dismounted totighten the cinch on Chinook's saddle. 

The little cavalcade moved out across the mesa. Dorothy rode behind thepack-animals, who knew their work too well to need a lead-rope. It was_her_ adventure. At the Big Spring, she would graciously allow Lorry totake charge of the expedition. 

Lorry, riding behind her, turned as they entered the forest, and wavedfarewell to Bronson. 

To ride the high trails of the Arizona hills is in itself anunadulterated joy. To ride these wooded uplands, eight thousand feetabove the world, with a sprightly Peter Pan clad in silver-graycorduroys and chatting happily, is an enchantment. In suchcompanionship, when the morning sunlight dapples the dun forest carpetwith pools of gold, when vista after vista unfolds beneath the higharches of the rusty-brown giants of the woodlands; when somewhere abovethere is the open sky and the marching sun, the twilight underworld ofthe green-roofed caverns is a magic land. 

The ponies plodded slowly upward, to turn and plod up the next angle ofthe trail, without loitering and without haste. When Dorothy checked herpony to gaze at some new vista, the pack-animals rested, waiting for theword to go on again. Lorry, awakened to a new charm in Dorothy, rode ina silence that needed no interpreter. 

At a bend in the trail, Dorothy reined up. "Oh, I just noticed! You arewearing your chaps this morning. "

Lorry flushed, and turned to tie a saddle-string that was already quitesecure. 

Dorothy nodded to herself and spoke to the horses. They strained on up asteeper pitch, pausing occasionally to rest. 

Lorry seemed to have regained his old manner. Her mention of the chapshad wakened him to everyday affairs. After all, she was only a girl; notyet eighteen, her father had said. "Just a kid, " Lorry had thought; "butmighty pretty in those city clothes. " He imagined that some women he hadseen would look like heck in such a riding-coat and breeches. ButDorothy looked like a kind of stylish boy-girl, slim and yet not quiteas slender as she had appeared in her ordinary clothes. Lorry could nothelp associating her appearance with a thoroughbred he had once seen; adark-bay colt, satin smooth and as graceful as a flame. He had all butworshiped that horse. Even as he knew horses, through that colt he hadseen perfection; his ideal of something beautiful beyond words. 

From his pondering, Lorry arrived at a conclusion having nothing to dowith ideals. He would buy a new suit of clothes the first time he wentto Phoenix. It would be a trim suit of corduroy and a dark-green flannelshirt, like the suit and shirt worn by Lundy, the forestry expert. 

At the base of a great gray shoulder of granite, the Big Spring spreadin its natural rocky bowl which grew shallower toward the edges. Belowthe spring in the black mud softened by the overflow were the tracks ofwild turkey and the occasional print of a lynx pad. The bush had beencleared from around the spring, and the ashes of an old camp-fire markedthe spot where Lorry had often "bushed over-night" on his way to thecabin. 

Lorry dismounted and tied the pack-horses. He explained that they werestill a little too close to home to be trusted untied. 

Dorothy decided that she was hungry, although they had been but twohours on the trail. Could they have a real camp-fire and make coffee?

"Yes, ma'am; right quick. "

"Lorry, don't say 'yes, ma'am. ' I--it's nice of you, but just say'Dorothy. '"

"Yes, ma'am. "

Dorothy's brown eyes twinkled. 

Lorry gazed at her, wondering why she smiled. 

"Yes, ma'am, " she said stiffly, as though to a superior whom she feared. 

Lorry grinned. She was always doing something sprightly, either makinghim laugh or laughing at him, talking to the horses, planning somelittle surprise for their occasional dinners in the Bronson cabin, quoting some fragment of poetry from an outland song, --she called thesesongs "outlandish, " and had explained her delight in teasing her fatherwith "outlandish" adjectives; whistling in answer to the birds, andamusing herself and her "men-folks" in a thousand ways as spontaneous asthey were delightful. 

With an armful of firewood, Lorry returned to the spring. The poniesnodded in the heat of noon. Dorothy, spreading their modest luncheon ona bright new Navajo blanket, seemed daintier than ever against thebackground of the forest. They made coffee and ate the sandwiches shehad prepared. After luncheon Lorry smoked, leaning back against thegranite rock, his hat off, and his legs crossed in lazy content. 

"If it could only be like this forever, " sighed Dorothy. 

Lorry promptly shook his head. "We'd get hungry after a spell. "

"Men are always hungry. And you've just eaten. "

"But I could listen to a poem, " he said, and he winked at a tree-trunk. 

"It's really too warm even to speak of 'The Little Fires, ' isn't it? Oh, I know! Do you remember the camp we made?"

"Where?"

"Oh, silly!"

"Well, I ain't had time to remember this one yet--and this is the firstfor us. "

"Lorry, you're awfully practical. "

"I got to be. "

"And I don't believe you know a poem when you see one. "

"I reckon you're right. But I can tell one when I hear it. "

"Very well, then. Shut your eyes tight and listen:--

"'Do you remember the camp we made as we nooned on the mesa floor, Where the grass rolled down like a running sea in the wind-- and the world our own?You laughed as you sat in the cedar shade and said 't was the ocean shore Of an island lost in a wizardry of dreams, for ourselves alone. 

"'Our ponies grazed in the idle noon, unsaddled, at ease, and slow; The ranges dim were a faëryland; blue hills in a haze of gray. Hands clasped on knee, you hummed a tune, a melody light and low; And do you remember the venture planned in jest--for your heart was gay?'"

Dorothy paused. "You may open your eyes. That's all. "

"Well, it's noon, " said Lorry, "and there are the ponies, and the hillsare over there. Won't you say the rest of it?"

"Oh, the rest of it is about a venture planned that never came true. Itcouldn't, even in a poem. But I'll tell you about it some day. "

"I could listen right now. "

Dorothy shook her head. "I am afraid it would spoil our real adventure. But if I were a boy--wouldn't it be fun! We would ride and camp in thehills at night and find all the little fires along the trail--"

"We'd make our own, " said Lorry. 

"Of course, Mr. Practical Man. "

"Well, I can't help bein' like I am. But sometimes I get lazy and sitand look at the hills and the cañons and mesas down below, and wonderwhat's the good of hustlin'. But somehow I got to quit loafin' after aspell--and go right to hustlin' again. It's a sure good way to getrested up; just to sit down and forget everything but the big worldrollin' down to the edge of nothin'. It makes a fella's kickin' andcomplainin' look kind of small and ornery. "

"I never heard you complain, Lorry. "

"Huh! You ain't been along with me when I been right up against it andmebby had to sweat my way out of some darned box cañon or make a ridethrough some down timber at night. I've said some lovely things themtimes. "

"Oh, I get cross. But, then, I'm a girl. Men shouldn't get cross. "

"I reckon you're right. The sun's comin' through that pine there. Gettin' too hot?"

"No, I love it. But I must go. I'll just ride down to the cabin andunsaddle Chinook and say 'Hello' to father--and that's the end of ouradventure. "

"Won't those city folks be comin' in soon?"

"Yes. And Alice Weston is lovely. I know you'll like her. "

"Alice who, did you say?"

"Weston. Alice and her mother are touring overland from Los Angeles. Iknow you will admire Alice. "

"Mebby. If she's as pretty as you. "

"Oh, fudge! You like my new suit. And Alice isn't like me at all. She isnearly as tall as you, and big and strong and really pretty. Bud Shooptold me I wasn't bigger than a minute. "

"A minute is a whole lot sometimes, " said Lorry. 

"You're not so practical as you were, are you?"

"More. I meant that. "

Dorothy rose and began to roll the Navajo blanket. 

Lorry stepped up and took it from her. "Roll it long and let it hangdown. Then it won't bother you gettin' on or off your horse. That's theway the Indians roll 'em. "

He jerked the tie-strings tight. "Well, I reckon I'll be goin', " hesaid, holding out his hand. 

"Good-bye, ranger man. "

"Good-bye, Dorothy. "

Her slender hand was warm in his. She looked up at him, smiling. He hadnever looked at her that way before. She hoped so much that he would saynothing to spoil the happiness of their idle noon. 

"Lorry, we're great friends, aren't we?"

"You bet. And I'd do most anything to make you happy. "

"But you don't have to do anything to make me happy. I _am_ happy. Aren't you?"

"I aim to be. But what makes you ask?"

"Oh, you looked so solemn a minute ago. We'll be just friends always, won't we?"

"Just friends, " he echoed, "always. "

Her brown eyes grew big as he stooped and kissed her. She had notexpected that he would do that. 

"Oh, I thought you liked me!" she said, clasping her hands. 

Lorry bit his lips, and the hot flush died from his face. 

"But I didn't know that you cared--like that! I really don't mindbecause you kissed me good-bye--if it was just good-bye and nothingelse. " And she smiled a little timidly. 

"I--I reckon I was wrong, " he said, "for I was tryin' not to kiss you. If you say the word, I'll ride back with you and tell your father. Iain't ashamed of it--only if you say it was wrong. "

Dorothy had recovered herself. A twinkle of fun danced in her eyes. "Ican't scold you now. You're going away. But when you get back--" And sheshook her finger at him and tried to look very grave, which made himsmile. 

"Then I'll keep right on ridin' south, " he said. 

"But you'd get lonesome and come back to your hills. I know! And it'sawfully hot in the desert. "

"Would you be wantin' me to come back?"

"Of course. Father would miss you. "

[Illustration: They made coffee and ate the sandwiches she hadprepared] "And that would make you unhappy--him bein' lonesome, so Ireckon I'll come back. "

"I shall be very busy entertaining my guests, " she told him with acharming tilt of her chin. And she straightway swung to the saddle. 

Lorry started the pack-horses up the hill and mounted Gray Leg. She satwatching him as he rode sideways gazing back at her. 

As he turned to follow the pack-horses up the next ascent she called tohim:--

"Perhaps I won't scold you when you come back. "

He laughed, and flung up his arm in farewell. Dorothy reined Chinookround, and rode slowly down through the silent woodlands. 

Her father came out and took her horse. She told him of their mostwonderful camp at the Big Spring. Bronson smiled. 

"And Lorry kissed me good-bye, " she concluded. "Wasn't it silly of him?"

Bronson glanced at her quickly. "Do you really care for Lorry, PeterPan?"

"Heaps! He's the nicest boy I ever met. Why shouldn't I?"

"There's no reason in the world why you shouldn't. But I thought you twowere just friends. "

"Why, that's what I said to Lorry. Don't look so mournful, daddy. Youdidn't think for a minute that I'd _marry_ him, did you?"

"Of course not. What would I do without you?"

Chapter XXVII

_Waco_

The tramp Waco, drifting south through Prescott, fell in with a quartetof his kind camped along the railroad track. He stumbled down theembankment and "sat in" beside their night fire. He was hungry. He hadno money, and he had tramped all that day. They were eating bread andcanned peaches, and had coffee simmering in a pail. They asked noquestions until he had eaten. Then the usual talk began. 

The hobos cursed the country, its people, the railroad, work and thelack of it, the administration, and themselves. Waco did not agree witheverything they said, but he wished to tramp with them until somethingbetter offered. So he fell in with their humor, but made the mistake ofcursing the trainmen's union. A brakeman had kicked him off a freightcar just outside of Prescott. 

One of the hobos checked Waco sharply. 

"We ain't here to listen to your cussin' any union, " he said. "And seem'you're so mouthy, just show your card. "

"Left it over to the White House, " said Waco. 

"That don't go. You got your three letters?"

"Sure! W. B. Y. Catch onto that?"

"No. And this ain't no josh. "

"Why, W. B. Y. Is for 'What's bitin' you?' Know the answer?"

"If you can't show your I. W. W. , you can beat it, " said the tramp. 

"Tryin' to kid me?"

"Not so as your mother would notice. Got your card?"

Waco finally realized that they meant business. "No, I ain't got noI. W. W. Card. I'm a bo, same as you fellas. What's bitin' you, anyway?"

"Let's give him the third, fellas. "

Waco jumped to his feet and backed away. The leader of the grouphesitated wisely, because Waco had a gun in his hand. 

"So that's your game, eh? Collectin' internal revenue. Well, we're unionmen. You better sift along. " And the leader sat down. 

"I've a dam' good mind to sift you, " said Waco, backing toward theembankment. "Got to have a card to travel with a lousy bunch like you, eh?"

He climbed to the top of the embankment, and, turning, ran down thetrack. Things were in a fine state when a guy couldn't roll in with abunch of willies without showing a card. Workmen often tramped thecountry looking for work. But hobos forming a union and callingthemselves workmen! Even Waco could not digest that. 

But he had learned a lesson, and the next group that he overtooktreading the cinders were more genial. One of them gave him some breadand cold meat. They tramped until nightfall. That evening Wacoindustriously "lifted" a chicken from a convenient hencoop. The hen wasold and tough and most probably a grandmother of many years' setting, but she was a welcome contribution to their evening meal. While they ateWaco asked them if they belonged to the I. W. W. They did to a man. He hadlost his card. Where could he get a renewal? From headquarters, ofcourse. But he had been given his card up in Portland; he had cooked ina lumber camp. In that case he would have to see the "boss" at Phoenix. 

There were three men in the party besides Waco. One of them claimed tobe a carpenter, another an ex-railroad man, and the third an ironmoulder. Waco, to keep up appearances, said that he was a cook; that hehad lost his job in the Northern camps on account of trouble between theindependent lumbermen and the I. W. W. It happened that there had beensome trouble of that kind recently, so his word was taken at its facevalue. 

In Phoenix, he was directed to the "headquarters, " a disreputablelounging-room in an abandoned store on the outskirts of the town. Therewere papers and magazines scattered about; socialistic journals and manynewspapers printed in German, Russian, and Italian. The place smelled ofstale tobacco smoke and unwashed clothing. But the organizationevidently had money. No one seemed to want for food, tobacco, orwhiskey. 

The "boss, " a sharp-featured young man, aggressive and apparentlyeducated, asked Waco some questions which the tramp answered lamely. Theboss, eager for recruits of Waco's stamp, nevertheless demurred untilWaco reiterated the statement that he could cook, was a good cook andhad earned good money. 

"I'll give you a renewal of your card. What was the number?" queried theboss. 

"Thirteen, " said Waco, grinning. 

"Well, we may be able to use you. We want cooks at Sterling. "

"All right. Nothin' doin' here, anyway. "

The boss smiled to himself. He knew that Waco had never belonged to theI. W. W. , but if the impending strike at the Sterling smelter became areality a good cook would do much to hold the I. W. W. Camp together. Anytool that could be used was not overlooked by the boss. He was paid tohire men for a purpose. 

In groups of from ten to thirty the scattered aggregation made its wayto Sterling and mingled with the workmen after hours. A sinisterrestlessness grew and spread insidiously among the smelter hands. Menlaid off before pay-day and were seen drunk in the streets. Othersappeared at the smelter in a like condition. They seemed to have moneywith which to pay for drinks and cigars. The heads of the differentdepartments of the smelter became worried. Local papers began to makemention of an impending strike when no such word had as yet come to thesmelter operators. Outside papers took it up. Surmises were many andvarious. Few of the papers dared charge the origin of the disturbancesto the I. W. W. The law had not been infringed upon, yet lawlessness waseverywhere, conniving in dark corners, boasting openly on the street, setting men's brains afire with whiskey, playing upon the ignorance ofthe foreign element, and defying the intelligence of Americans whostrove to forfend the threatened calamity. 

The straight union workmen were divided in sentiment. Some of them votedto work; others voted loudly to throw in with the I. W. W. , and amongthese were many foreigners--Swedes, Hungarians, Germans, Poles, Italians; the usual and undesirable agglomeration to be found in asmelter town. 

Left to themselves, they would have continued to work. They were inreality the cheaper tools of the trouble-makers. There were fewer andkeener tools to be used, and these were selected and turned againsttheir employers by that irresistible potency, gold; gold that came fromno one knew where, and came in abundance. Finally open threats of astrike were made. Circulars were distributed throughout townover-night, cleverly misstating conditions. A grain of truth wasdissolved in the slaver of anarchy into a hundred lies. 

Waco, installed in the main I. W. W. Camp just outside the town, cookedearly and late, and received a good wage for his services. More menappeared, coming casually from nowhere and taking up their abode withthe disturbers. 

A week before the strike began, a committee from the union met with acommittee of townsmen and representatives of the smelter interests. Theargument was long and inconclusive. Aside from this, a special committeeof townsmen, headed by the mayor, interviewed the I. W. W. Leaders. 

Arriving at no definite understanding, the citizens finally threatenedto deport the trouble-makers in a body. The I. W. W. Members laughed atthem. Socialism, in which many of the better class of workmen believedsincerely, began to take on the red tinge of anarchy. A notable advocateof arbitration, a foreman in the smelter, was found one morning beateninto unconsciousness. And no union man had done this thing, for theforeman was popular with the union, to a man. The mayor received ananonymous letter threatening his life. A similar letter was received bythe chief of police. And some few politicians who had won to prominencethrough questionable methods were threatened with exposure if they didnot side with the strikers. 

Conditions became deplorable. The papers dared not print everythingthey knew for fear of political enmity. And they were not able to printmany things transpiring in that festering underworld for lack ofdefinite knowledge, even had they dared. 

Noon of an August day the strikers walked out. Mob rule threatenedSterling. Women dared no longer send their children to school or to thegrocery stores for food. They hardly dared go themselves. A striker wasshot by a companion in a saloon brawl. The killing was immediatelycharged to a corporation detective, and our noble press made much of theincident before it found out the truth. 

Shortly after this a number of citizens representing the businessbackbone of the town met quietly and drafted a letter to a score ofcitizens whom they thought might be trusted. That was Saturday evening. On Sunday night there were nearly a hundred men in town who had beenreached by the citizens' committee. They elected a sub-committee oftwelve, with the sheriff as chairman. Driven to desperation byintolerable conditions, they decided to administer swift and conclusivejustice themselves. To send for troops would be an admission that thetown of Sterling could not handle her own community. 

It became whispered among the I. W. W. That "The Hundred" had organized. Leaders of the strikers laughed at these rumors, telling the men thatthe day of the vigilante was past. 

On the following Wednesday a rabid leader of the disturbers, not aunion man, but a man who had never done a day's work in his life, mounted a table on a street corner and addressed the crowd which quicklyswelled to a mob. Members of "The Hundred, " sprinkled thinly throughoutthe mob, listened until the speaker had finished. Among other things, hehad made a statement about the National Government which should haveturned the mob to a tribunal of prompt justice and hanged him. But manyof the men were drunk, and all were inflamed with the poison of thehour. When the man on the table continued to slander the Government, andfinally named a name, there was silence. A few of the better class ofworkmen edged out of the crowd. The scattered members of "The Hundred"stayed on to the last word. 

Next morning this speaker was found dead, hanging from a bridge a littleway out of town. Not a few of the strikers were startled to a sense ofbroad justice in his death, and yet such a hanging was an outrage to anycommunity. One sin did not blot out another. And the loyal "Hundred"realized too late that they had put a potent weapon in the hands oftheir enemies. 

A secret meeting was called by "The Hundred. " Wires were commandeeredand messages sent to several towns in the northern part of the State tomen known personally by members of "The Hundred" as fearless and loyalto American institutions. Already the mob had begun rioting, but, meeting with no resistance, it contented itself with insulting thosewhom they knew were not sympathizers. Stores were closed, and werestraightway broken into and looted. Drunkenness and street fights wereso common as to evoke no comment. 

Two days later a small band of cowboys rode into town. They werefollowed throughout the day by other riders, singly and in small groups. It became noised about the I. W. W. Camp that professional gunmen werebeing hired by the authorities; were coming in on horseback and on thetrains. That night the roadbed of the railroad was dynamited on bothsides of town. "The Hundred" immediately dispatched automobiles witharmed guards to meet the trains. 

Later, strangers were seen in town; quiet men who carried themselvescoolly, said nothing, and paid no attention to catcalls and insults. Itwas rumored that troops had been sent for. Meanwhile, the town seethedwith anarchy and drunkenness. But, as must ever be the case, anarchy wasslowly weaving a rope with which to hang itself. 

Up in the second story of the court-house a broad-shouldered, heavy-jawed man sat at a flat-topped desk with a clerk beside him. Theclerk wrote names in a book. In front of the clerk was a cigar-boxfilled with numbered brass checks. The rows of chairs from the desk tothe front windows were pretty well filled with men, lean, hard-muscledmen of the ranges in the majority. The room was quiet save for anoccasional word from the big man at the desk. The clerk drew a checkfrom the cigar-box. A man stepped up to the desk, gave his name, age, occupation, and address, received the numbered check, and went to hisseat. The clerk drew another check. 

A fat, broad-shouldered man waddled up, smiling. 

"Why, hello, Bud!" said the heavy-jawed man, rising and shaking hands. "I didn't expect to see you. Wired you thinking you might send one ortwo men from your county. "

"I got 'em with me, " said Bud. 

"Number thirty-seven, " said the clerk. 

Bud stuffed the check in his vest pocket. He would receive ten dollars aday while in the employ of "The Hundred. " He would be known andaddressed while on duty as number thirty-seven. "The Hundred" were notadvertising the names of their supporters for future use by the I. W. W. 

Bud's name and address were entered in a notebook. He waddled back tohis seat. 

"Cow-punch, " said someone behind him. 

Bud turned and grinned. "You seen my laigs, " he retorted. 

"Number thirty-eight. "

Lorry came forward and received his check. 

"You're pretty young, " said the man at the desk. Lorry flushed, but madeno answer. 

"Number thirty-nine. "

The giant sheepman of the high country strode up, nodded, and took hischeck. 

"Stacey County is well represented, " said the man at the desk. 

When the clerk had finished entering the names, there were forty-eightnumbers in his book. The man at the desk rose. 

"Men, " he said grimly, "you know what you are here for. If you haven'tgot guns, you will be outfitted downstairs. Some folks think that thistrouble is only local. It isn't. It is national. Providence seems tohave passed the buck to us to stop it. We are here to prove that we can. Last night our flag--our country's flag--was torn from the halyardsabove this building and trampled in the dust of the street. Sit stilland don't make a noise. We're not doing business that way. If there areany married men here, they had better take their horses and ride home. This community does not assume responsibility for any man's life. Youare volunteers. There are four ex-Rangers among you. They will tell youwhat to do. But I'm going to tell you one thing first; don't shoot highor low when you have to shoot. Draw plumb center, and don't quit as longas you can feel to pull a trigger. For any man that isn't outfittedthere's a rifle and fifty rounds of soft-nosed ammunition downstairs. "

The heavy-shouldered man sat down and pulled the notebook toward him. The men rose and filed quietly downstairs. 

As they gathered in the street and gazed up at the naked halyards, ashot dropped one of them in his tracks. An eagle-faced cowman whippedout his gun. With the report came the tinkle of breaking glass from awindow diagonally opposite. Feet clattered down the stairs of thebuilding, and a woman ran into the street, screaming and calling outthat a man had been murdered. 

"Reckon I got him, " said the cowman. "Boys, I guess she's started. "

The men ran for their horses. As they mounted and assembled, theheavy-shouldered man appeared astride a big bay horse. 

"We're going to clean house, " he stated. "And we start right here. "

Chapter XXVIII

_A Squared Account_

The housecleaning began at the building diagonally opposite theassembled posse. In a squalid room upstairs they found the man who hadfired upon them. He was dead. Papers found upon him disclosed hisidentity as an I. W. W. Leader. He had evidently rented the room acrossfrom the court-house that he might watch the movements of "The Hundred. "A cheap, inaccurate revolver was found beside him. Possibly he hadfired, thinking to momentarily disorganize the posse; that they wouldnot know from where the shot had come until he had had time to make hisescape and warn his fellows. 

The posse moved from building to building. Each tenement, privaterooming-house, and shack was entered and searched. Union men who chancedto be at home were warned that any man seen on the street that day wasin danger of being killed. Several members of the I. W. W. Were routed outin different parts of the town and taken to the jail. 

Saloons were ordered to close. Saloon-keepers who argued their right tokeep open were promptly arrested. An I. W. W. Agitator, defying the posse, was handcuffed, loaded into a machine, and taken out of town. Groups ofstrikers gathered at the street corners and jeered the armed posse. Onegroup, cornered in a side street, showed fight. 

"We'll burn your dam' town!" cried a voice. 

The sheriff swung from his horse and shouldered through the crowd. As hedid so, a light-haired, weasel-faced youth, with a cigarette danglingfrom the corner of his loose mouth, backed away. The sheriff followedand pressed him against a building. 

"I know you!" said the sheriff. "You never made or spent an honestdollar in this town. Boys, " he continued, turning to the strikers, "areyou proud of this skunk who wants to burn your town?"

A workman laughed. 

"You said it!" asserted the sheriff. "When somebody tells you what heis, you laugh. Why don't you laugh at him when he's telling you of thebuildings he has dynamited and how many deaths he is responsible for?Did he ever sweat alongside of any of you doing a day's work? Do youknow him? Does he know anything about your work or conditions? Not adamned thing! Just think it over. And, boys, remember he is paid easymoney to get you into trouble. Who pays him? Is there any decentAmerican paying him to do that sort of thing? Stop and think about it. "

The weasel-faced youth raised his arm and pointed at the sheriff. "Whopays you to shoot down women and kids?" he snarled. 

"I'm taking orders from the Governor of this State. "

"To hell with the Governor! And there's where he'll wake up one of thesefine days. "

"Because he's enforcing the law and trying to keep the flag from beinginsulted by whelps like you, eh?"

"We'll show you what's law! And we'll show you the right kind of aflag--"

"Boys, are you going to stand for this kind of talk?" And the sheriff'sheavy face quivered with anger. "I'd admire to kill you!" he said, turning on the youth. "But that wouldn't do any good. "

The agitator was taken to the jail. Later it was rumored that a machinehad left the jail that night with three men in it. Two of them werearmed guards. The third was a weasel-faced youth. He was never heard ofagain. 

As the cavalcade moved on down the street, workmen gathered on streetcorners and in upper rooms and discussed the situation. The strike hadgot beyond their control. Many of them were for sending a delegation tothe I. W. W. Camp demanding that they disband and leave. Others weresilent, and still others voted loudly to "fight to a finish. "

Out beyond the edge of town lay the I. W. W. Camp, a conglomeration ofboard shacks hastily erected, brush-covered hovels, and tents. Notcounting the scattered members in town, there were at least two hundredof the malcontents loafing in camp. When the sheriff's posse appeared itwas met by a deputation. But there was no parley. 

"We'll give you till sundown to clear out, " said the sheriff and, turning, he and his men rode back to the court-house. 

That evening sentinels were posted at the street corners within hail ofeach other. In a vacant lot back of the court-house the horses of theposse were corralled under guard. The town was quiet. Occasionally afigure crossed the street; some shawl-hooded striker's wife or someworkman heedless of the sheriff's warning. 

Lorry happened to be posted on a corner of the court-house square. Across the street another sentinel paced back and forth, occasionallypausing to talk with Lorry. 

This sentinel was halfway up the block when a figure appeared from theshadow between two buildings. The sentinel challenged. 

"A friend, " said the figure. "I was lookin' for young Adams. "

"What do you want with him?"

"It's private. Know where I can find him?"

"He's across the street there. Who are you, anyway?"

"That's my business. He knows me. "

"This guy wants to talk to you, " called the sentinel. 

Lorry stepped across the street. He stopped suddenly as he discoveredthe man to be Waco, the tramp. 

"Is it all right?" asked the sentinel, addressing Lorry. 

"I guess so. What do you want?"

"It's about Jim Waring, " said Waco. "I seen you when the sheriff rode upto our camp. I seen by the papers that Jim Waring was your father. Iwanted to tell you that it was High-Chin Bob what killed Pat. I was inthe buckboard with Pat when he done it. The horses went crazy at theshootin' and ditched me. When I come to I was in Grant. "

"Why didn't you stay and tell what you knew? Nobody would 'a' hurt you. "

"I was takin' no chance of the third, and twenty years. "

"What you doin' in this town?"

"Cookin' for the camp. But I can't hold that job long. My whole leftside is goin' flooey. The boss give me hallelujah to-day for bein' slow. I'm sick of the job. "

"Well, you ought to be. Suppose you come over to the sheriff and tellhim what you know about the killin' of Pat. "

"Nope; I was scared you would say that. I'm tellin' _you_ because youdone me a good turn onct. I guess that lets me out. "

"Not if I make you sit in. "

"You can make me sit in all right. But you can't make me talk. Show mea cop and I freeze. I ain't takin' no chances. "

"You're takin' bigger chances right now. "

"Bigger'n you know, kid. Listen! You and Jim Waring and Pat used mewhite. I'm sore at that I. W. W. Bunch, but I dassent make a break. They'dget me. But listen! If the boys knowed I was tellin' you this they'd cutme in two. Two trucks just came into camp from up north. Them trucks wasloaded to the guards. Every man in camp's got a automatic and fiftyrounds. And they was settin' up a machine gun when I slipped through andbeat it, lookin' for you. You better fan it out of this while you gotthe chanct. "

"Did they send you over to push that bluff--or are you talkin'straight?"

"S' help me! It's the bleedin' truth!"

"Well, I'm thankin' you. But get goin' afore I change my mind. "

"Would you shake with a bum?" queried Waco. 

"Why--all right. You're tryin' to play square, I reckon. Wait a minute!Are you willin' to put in writin' that you seen High-Chin Bob kill Pat?I got a pencil and a envelope on me. Will you put it down right here, and me to call my friend and witness your name?"

"You tryin' to pinch me?"

"That ain't my style. "

"All right. I'll put it down. "

And in the flickering rays of the arc light Waco scribbled on the backof the envelope and signed his name. Lorry's companion read the scrawland handed it back to Lorry. Waco humped his shoulders and shuffledaway. 

"Why didn't you nail him?" queried the other. 

"I don't know. Mebby because he was trustin' me. "

Shortly afterward Lorry and his companion were relieved from duty. Lorryimmediately reported to the sheriff, who heard him without interrupting, dismissed him, and turned to the committee, who held night sessiondiscussing the situation. 

"They've called our bluff, " he said, twisting his cigar round in hislips. 

A ballot was taken. The vote was eleven to one for immediate action. Theballot was secret, but the member who had voted against action rose andtendered his resignation. 

"It would be plain murder if we were to shoot up their camp. It wouldplace us on their level. "

Just before daybreak a guard stationed two blocks west of thecourt-house noticed a flare of light in the windows of a buildingopposite. He glanced toward the east. The dim, ruddy glow in the windowswas not that of dawn. He ran to the building and tried to open the doorto the stairway. As he wrenched at the door a subdued soft roar swelledand grew louder. Turning, he ran to the next corner, calling to theguard. The alarm of fire was relayed to the court-house. 

Meanwhile the two cowboys ran back to the building and hammered on thedoor. Some one in an upstairs room screamed. Suddenly the door gaveinward. A woman carrying a cheap gilt clock pushed past them and sank ina heap on the sidewalk. The guards heard some one running down thestreet. One of them tied a handkerchief over his face and groped his wayup the narrow stairs. The hall above was thick with smoke. A door sprangopen, and a man carrying a baby and dragging a woman by the hand bumpedinto the guard, cursed, and stumbled toward the stairway. 

The cowboy ran from door to door down the long, narrow hall, calling tothe inmates. In one room he found a lamp burning on a dresser and twochildren asleep. He dragged them from bed and carried them to thestairway. From below came the surge and snap of flames. He held hisbreath and descended the stairs. A crowd of half-clothed workmen hadgathered. Among them he saw several of the guards. 

"Who belongs to these kids?" he cried. 

A woman ran up. "She's here, " she said, pointing to the woman with thegilt clock, who still lay on the sidewalk. A man was trying to reviveher. The cowboy noticed that the unconscious woman still gripped thegilt clock. 

He called to a guard. Together they dashed up the stairs and ran fromroom to room. Toward the back of the building they found a womaninsanely gathering together a few cheap trinkets and stuffing them intoa pillow-case. She was trying to work a gilt-framed lithograph into thepillow-case when they seized her and led her toward the stairway. Shefought and cursed and begged them to let her go back and get her things. A burst of flame swept up the stairway. The cowboys turned and ran backalong the hall. One of them kicked a window out. The other tied a sheetunder the woman's arms and together they lowered her to the ground. 

Suddenly the floor midway down the hall sank softly in a fountain offlame and sparks. 

"Reckon we jump, " said one of the cowboys. 

Lowering himself from the rear window, he dropped. His companionfollowed. They limped to the front of the building. A crowd massed inthe street, heedless of the danger that threatened as a section of roofcurled like a piece of paper, writhed, and dropped to the sidewalk. 

A group of guards appeared with a hose-reel. They coupled to a hydrant. A thin stream gurgled from the hose and subsided. The sheriff ran to thesteps of a building and called to the crowd. 

"Your friends, " he cried, "have cut the water-main. There is no water. "

The mass groaned and swayed back and forth. 

From up the street came a cry--the call of a range rider. A score ofcowboys tried to force the crowd back from the burning building. 

"Look out for the front!" cried the guards. "She's coming!"

The crowd surged back. The front of that flaming shell quivered, curved, and crashed to the street. 

The sheriff called to his men. An old Texas Ranger touched his arm. "There's somethin' doin' up yonder, Cap. "

"Keep the boys together, " ordered the sheriff; "This fire was started todraw us out. Tell the boys to get their horses. "

Dawn was breaking when the cowboys gathered in the vacant lot andmounted their horses. In the clear light they could see a mob in thedistance; a mob that moved from the east toward the court-house. Thesheriff dispatched a man to wire for troops, divided his force inhalves, and, leading one contingent, he rode toward the oncoming mob. The other half of the posse, led by an old Ranger, swung round to a backstreet and halted. 

The shadows of the buildings grew shorter. A cowboy on a restive ponyasked what they were waiting for. Some one laughed. 

The old Ranger turned in his saddle. "It's a right lovely mornin', " heremarked impersonally, tugging at his silver-gray mustache. 

Suddenly the waiting riders stiffened in their saddles. A ripple ofshots sounded, followed by the shrill cowboy yell. Still the old Rangersat his horse, coolly surveying his men. 

"Don't we get a look-in?" queried a cowboy. 

"Poco tiempo, " said the Ranger softly. 

The sheriff bunched his men as he approached the invaders. Within fiftyyards of their front he halted and held up his hand. Massed in a solidwall from curb to curb, the I. W. W. Jeered and shouted as he tried tospeak. A parley was impossible. The vagrants were most of them drunk. 

The sheriff turned to the man nearest him. 

"Tell the boys that we'll go through, turn, and ride back. Tell them notto fire a shot until we turn. "

As he gathered his horse under him, the sheriff's arm dropped. Theshrill "Yip! Yip!" of the range rose above the thunder of hoofs astwenty ponies jumped to a run. The living thunder-bolt tore through themass. The staccato crack of guns sounded sharply above the deeper roarof the mob. The ragged pathway closed again as the riders swung round, bunched, and launched at the mass from the rear. Those who had turned toface the second charge were crowded back as the cowboys, with gunsgoing, ate into the yelling crowd. The mob turned, and like a great, black wave swept down the street and into the court-house square. 

The cowboys raced past, and reined in a block below the court-house. Asthey paused to reload, a riderless horse, badly wounded, plunged amongthem. A cowboy caught the horse and shot it. Another rider, gripping hisshirt above his abdomen, writhed and groaned, begging piteously for someone to kill him. Before they could get him off his horse he spurred out, and, pulling his carbine from the scabbard, charged into the mob, in thesquare. With the lever going like lightning, he bored into the mob, fired his last shot in the face of a man that had caught his horse'sbridle, and sank to the ground. Shattered and torn he lay, a red pulpthat the mob trampled into the dust. 

The upper windows of the court-house filled with figures. An irregularfire drove the cowboys to the shelter of a side street. In the widedoorway of the court-house several men crouched behind a blue-steeltripod. Those still in the square crowded past and into the building. Behind the stone pillars of the entrance, guarded by a machine gun, thecrazy mob cheered drunkenly and defied the guards to dislodge them. 

From a building opposite came a single shot, and the group round themachine gun lifted one of their fellows and carried him back into thebuilding. Again came the peremptory snarl of a carbine, and anotherfigure sank in the doorway. The machine gun was dragged back. Its muzzlestill commanded the square, but its operators were now shielded by anangle of the entrance. 

Back on the side street, the old ex-Ranger had difficulty inrestraining his men. They knew by the number of shots fired that some oftheir companions had gone down. 

The sheriff was about to call for volunteers to capture the machine gunwhen a white handkerchief fluttered from an upper window of thecourt-house. Almost immediately a man appeared on the court-house steps, alone and indicating by his gestures that he wished to parley with theguard. The sheriff dismounted and stepped forward. 

One of his men checked him. "That's a trap, John. They want to get you, special. Don't you try it. "

"It's up to me, " said the sheriff, and shaking off the other's hand hestrode across the square. 

At the foot of the steps he met the man. The guard saw them converse fora brief minute; saw the sheriff shake his fist in the other's face andturn to walk back. As he turned, a shot from an upper window dropped himin his stride. 

The cowboys yelled and charged across the square. The machine gunstuttered and sprayed a fury of slugs that cut down horses and riders. Acowboy, his horse shot from under him, sprang up the steps and draggedthe machine gun into the open. A rain of slugs from the upper windowsstruck him down. His companions carried him back to cover. The machinegun stood in the square, no longer a menace, yet no one dared approachit from either side. 

When the old Ranger, who had orders to hold his men in reserve, heardthat the sheriff had been shot down under a flag of truce, he shook hishead. 

"Three men could 'a' stopped that gun as easy as twenty, and saved morehosses. Who wants to take a little pasear after that gun?"

Several of his men volunteered. 

"I only need two, " he said, smiling. "I call by guess. Numbertwenty-six, number thirty-eight, and number three. "

The last was his own number. 

In the wide hallway and massed on the court-house stairs the mob wascalling out to recover the gun. Beyond control of their leaders, crazedwith drink and killing, they surged forward, quarreling, and shoved frombehind by those above. 

"We're ridin', " said the old Ranger. 

With a man on each side of him he charged across the square. 

Waco, peering from behind a stone column in the entrance, saw that Lorrywas one of the riders. Lorry's lips were drawn tight. His face was pale, but his gun arm swung up and down with the regularity of a machine as hethrew shot after shot into the black tide that welled from thecourt-house doorway. A man near Waco pulled an automatic and leveled it. Waco swung his arm and brained the man with an empty whiskey bottle. Hethrew the bottle at another of his fellows, and, stumbling down thesteps, called to Lorry. The three riders paused for an instant as Wacoran forward. The riders had won almost to the gun when Waco stooped andjerked it round and poured a withering volley into the close-packeddoorway. 

Back in the side street the leader of the cowboys addressed his men. 

"We'll leave the horses here, " he said. "Tex went after that gun, and Ireckon he's got it. We'll clean up afoot. "

But the I. W. W. Had had enough. Their leaders had told them that with themachine gun they could clean up the town, capture the court-house, andmake their own terms. They had captured the court-house, but they werethemselves trapped. One of their own number had planned that treachery. And they knew that those lean, bronzed men out there would shoot themdown from room to room as mercilessly as they would kill coyotes. 

They surrendered, shuffling out and down the slippery stone steps. Eachman dropped his gun in the little pile that grew and grew until the oldRanger shook his head, pondering. That men of this kind should haveaccess to arms and ammunition of the latest military type--and a machinegun. What was behind it all? He tried to reason it out in hisold-fashioned way even as the trembling horde filed past, cordoned bygrim, silent cowboys. 

The vagrants were escorted out of town in a body. Fearful of the hateof the guard, of treachery among themselves and of the townsfolk inother places, they tramped across the hills, followed closely by thestern-visaged riders. Several miles north of Sterling they disbanded. 

When a company of infantrymen arrived in Sterling they found severalcowboys sluicing down the court-house steps with water hauledlaboriously from the river. 

The captain stated that he would take charge of things, and suggestedthat the cowboys take a rest. 

"That's all right, Cap, " said a puncher, pointing toward the nakedflagstaff. "But we-all would admire to see the Stars and Stripesfloatin' up there afore we drift. "

"I'll have the flag run up, " said the captain. 

"That's all right, Cap. But you don't sabe the idee. These here stepsgot to be _clean_ afore that flag goes up. "

 * * * * *

"And they's some good in bein' fat, " said Bud Shoop as he met Lorry nextmorning. "The army doc just put a plaster on my arm where one of themautomatic pills nicked me. Now, if I'd been lean like you--"

"Did you see Waco?" queried Lorry. 

"Waco? What's ailin' you, son?"

"Nothin'. It was Waco went down, workin' that machine gun against hisown crowd. I didn't sabe that at first. "

"Him? Didn't know he was in town. "

"I didn't, either, till last night. He sneaked in to tell me about thekillin' of Pat. Next I seen him was when he brained a fella that wasshootin' at me. Then somehow he got to the gun--and you know the rest. "

"Looks like he was crazy, " suggested Shoop. 

"I don' know about that. I got to him before he cashed in. He pawedaround like he couldn't see. I asked what I could do. He kind of bracedup then. 'That you, kid?' he says. 'They didn't get you?' I told him no. 'Then I reckon we're square, ' he says. I thought he was gone, but hereached out his hand. Seems he couldn't see. 'Would you mind shakin'hands with a bum?' he says. I did. And then he let go my hand. He wasdone. "

"H'm! And him! But you can't always tell. Sometimes it takes a bulletplaced just right, and sometimes religion, and sometimes a woman to makea man show what's in him. I reckon Waco done you a good turn thatjourney. But ain't it hard luck when a fella waits till he's got tocross over afore he shows white?"

"He must 'a' had a hunch he was goin' to get his, " said Lorry. "Or hewouldn't chanced sneakin' into town last night. When do we go north?"

"To-morrow. The doc says the sheriff will pull through. He sure ought toget the benefit of the big doubt. There's a man that God A'mighty tooksome trouble in makin'. "

"Well, I'm mighty glad it's over. I don't want any more like this. Icome through all right, but this ain't fightin'; it's plumb killin' andmurder. "

"And both sides thinks so, " said Bud. "And lemme tell you; you can readyour eyes out about peace and equality and fraternity, but they's goin'to be killin' in this here world just as long as they's fools willin' tolisten to other fools talk. And they's always goin' to be some fools. "

"You ain't strong on socialism, eh, Bud?"

"Socialism? You mean when all men is born fools and equal? Not thismawnin', son. I got all I can do figurin' out my own trail. "

Chapter XXIX

_Bud's Conscience_

Those riders who had come from the northern part of the State toSterling were given transportation for themselves and their horses toThe Junction. From there they rode to their respective homes. Among themwere Bud Shoop, the giant sheepman, and Lorry, who seemed more anxiousthan 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 rodetoward 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 hadno more idee than a cat that we'd bump into what we did. They was a timewhen 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 andca'tridges wholesale, they's goin' to be a whole lot of extrabook-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 toohard on my chest, that mess down to Sterling made me plumb sick to mystummick. I'm wonderin' what would 'a' happened if Sterling hadn't madethat fight and the I. W. W. Had run loose. It ain't what we did. That hadto be did. But it's the idee that decent folks, livin' under theAmerican flag, has got to shoot their way back to the law, like wedone. "

"Mebby the law ain't right, " suggested Lorry. 

"Don't you get that idee, son. The law is all right. Mebby it ain'thandled right sometimes. "

"But what can anybody do about it?"

"Trouble is that folks who want to do the right thing ain't always gotthe say. Or mebby if they have got the say they leave it to the otherfella. 

"What did the folks in Arizona do long back in eighty, when the sheepdisease got bad. First off they doctored up the sick sheep, tryin' tosave 'em. That didn't work, so they took to killin' 'em to save the goodsheep. 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 stockwas 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 andspoke for the shuttin' out of all stock until the disease was stompedout. You see, that disease didn't start in this here country. But whodowned that fella? Why, the sheepmen themselves. It would hurt theirbusiness. And the funny part of it is them sheepmen was willin' enoughto ship sick sheep anywhere they could sell 'em. But some States waswise. California, she put a inspection tax of twenty-five dollars onevery carload of stock enterin' her State--or on one animal; didn't makeno difference. That inspection tax had to be paid by the shipper of thestock, as I said, whether he shipped one head or a hundred. And thestock 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 themgates I would shut 'em for ten years and kind of let what we got settledown and get acquainted. But the man hirin' cheap labor wouldn't. He'lltake 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 menwhat paid didn't owe anything to the smelter or to them others. Theyjust made a present of their lives to this here country. And the countryain'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' meright now is I'm wonderin' what your maw'll say to me when she findsout. "

"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 hellshootin' 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 andtheir hotel bills paid. But over there is the hills, and we can thankGod A'mighty for the high trails and the open country. I ain't got thesmell of that town out of my nose yet. "

 * * * * *

When they arrived at Stacey, Lorry learned that his father had recentlygone to the ranch. After supper that evening, Mrs. Adams mentioned thestrike. The papers printed columns of the awful details; outrages andkillings beyond the thought of possibility. And Mrs. Adams spoke of thecurious circumstance that the men who put down the lawlessness wereunnamed; that all that could be learned of them was that there wereranchers and cowmen who were known by number alone. 

"And I'm glad that you didn't go riding off down there, " she said toLorry. "The paper says men from all over the State volunteered. "

"So am I, " said Shoop promptly. "I was readin' about that strike whenwe was over to The Junction. Lorry and me been over that way onbusiness. I seen that that young fella, number thirty-eight, was one ofthe 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 sayJim 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 toFrance? 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 intown 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 hecan't get along alone?"

"I don't know, " laughed Bud. "I reckon I need somebody to look afterthem campers up to my old place. "

"Oh, I forgot to tell you; the folks that were here last summer stoppedby on their way to Jason. Mrs. Weston and her girl. They said they weregoing to visit Mr. Bronson. "

"H'm! Then I reckon I got to keep Lorry. Don't know what three femaleswould 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 likelivin' in a cave. "

"But Dorothy hasn't, " said Lorry. 

"That's right! My, but that little gal has built up wonderful sinceshe's been up there! Did you see my watch?"

"Why, no!"

"Some style to that!" And Shoop displayed the new watch with pride. "Andhere's the name of the lady what give it to me. "

Lorry's mother examined the watch, and handed it to Lorry, to whom thenews 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'sarm was stiff and sore. 

"And your mother would think it was a mighty queer business, if sheknowed this, " said Bud, "or who that number thirty-eight was downthere. "

"You sure made a good bluff, Bud. "

"Mebby. But I was scared to death. When I was talkin' about Sterling sofree and easy, and your maw mighty near ketched me that time, my arm wasitchin' like hell-fire, and I dassen scratch it. I never knowed afella'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 footunder the table. Say, but you sure showed red in your face when your mawsaid 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 aheadand pull. You can't do nothin' but shake the buildin'. Say, what doesBronson call his gal 'Peter Pan' for?"

"Why, it's a kind of foreign name, " flashed Lorry. "And it sounds allright when you say it right. You said it like the 'pan' was settin' amile 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 hisexpectations. Dorothy had greeted him quite casually and naturallyenough, in that she knew nothing of his recent venture. He was againintroduced to Mrs. Weston and her daughter. For the first time Dorothyheard of the automobile accident and Lorry's share in the subsequentproceedings. She asked Lorry why he had not told her that he knew theWestons. He had no reply save "Oh, I don't know, " which rather piquedDorothy. He was usually definite and frank. 

The Westons occupied Bronson's cabin with Dorothy. Bronson pitched atent, moved his belongings into it, and declared himself, jokingly, freefrom Dorothy's immediate tyranny. 

Dorothy, busy in the kitchen, asked her father to invite Lorry to dinnerthat evening. Through a sort of youthful perverseness not unmixed withbucolic pride, Lorry declined the invitation. He would be busy makingready for another trip in the hills. He had already planned his ownevening meal. He appreciated the invitation, but they could get alongwithout him. These excuses satisfied Bronson. Lorry's real reason fordeclining 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 invitehim personally, except that she had almost invariably done soheretofore? And back of this was the subtle jealousy of caste. TheWestons 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 noone else available. He was very much in love with Dorothy and did notrealize it. 

And Dorothy was disappointed in him. She had wanted the Westons to knowwhat a really fine fellow he was. 

Alice Weston at once recalled Lorry's attitude toward her on a formeroccasion when he had been tacitly invited to go with them to theHorseshoe Hills and he had stayed at the hotel. She told Dorothy thatMr. Adams was not to be taken too seriously. After all, he was nothingmore than a boy, and perhaps he would feel better, having declined torisk 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 agood-looking young savage who seemed quite satisfied with himself. Shethought 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 apack-saddle when she came to his cabin. He dropped his work and stoodup. 

"I have been thinking about that tramp you arrested, " she began. "And Ithink 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 shesmiled--"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'tlook so big when your sleeves are down. "

Lorry promptly rolled down his sleeves. He felt that he had to dosomething. 

"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 aloneover there?"

"Yes, ma'am. That's Gray Leg. "

"I remember him. I couldn't ever forget that morning--but I don't wantto hinder your work. I see you are mending something. "

"Just fittin' a new pad to this pack-saddle. I was figurin' to lightout to-morrow. "

"So soon? That's too bad. But, then, we can visit at dinner thisevening. 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 gavehis fingers a little, lingering squeeze that set his pulses racing. Shewas 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 knewthat he was coming to supper. And so did he. 

Alice Weston held Lorry's attention from the beginning, as she hadintended. She was gowned in some pale-green material touched here andthere with a film of lace. Lorry was fascinated by her full, roundedarms, her beautifully strong wrists, and by the way in which she hadarranged her heavy, dark hair. In the daylight that afternoon he hadnoticed that her eyes were blue. He had thought them brown. But theywere the color of wood violets untouched by the sun. While she lackedthe positive outdoor coloring of Dorothy, her complexion was radiantwith youth and health. Lorry felt subdued, disinclined to talk despiteDorothy's obvious attempts to be entertaining. He realized that Dorothywas being exceedingly nice to him, although he knew that she was alittle high-strung and nervous that evening. 

After dinner Bronson and Lorry smoked out on the veranda. When theothers came out, Bronson suggested that they have some music. Lorrypromptly invited them to his cabin. 

"Alice plays wonderfully, " said Dorothy. 

Bronson, talking with Mrs. Weston, enjoyed himself. He had been isolatedso long that news from the "outside" interested him. 

Lorry, gravely attentive to the playing, happened to glance up. Dorothywas gazing at him with a most peculiar expression. He flushed. He hadnot 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 dancesthe 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 thatdoubled and slid to the keys. Lorry jumped up, spread it out, and stoodholding a corner of it while she played. Close to her, he was sensibleof a desire to caress her hair, to kiss her vivid lips as she glanced upat him and smiled. He had no idea then that she was deliberatelyenthralling him with every grace she possessed. 

The fact that she rather liked him made her subtleties all the morepotent. 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 morealluring. He was to leave soon--to-morrow. Meanwhile, she determinedthat he should remember her. 

Late that evening Bronson and the others said good-night. Alice, notDorothy, 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 enteredBronson's cabin. Alice Weston was the last to enter. For an instant shestood in the lamplight that floated through the doorway, looking backtoward him. Impulsively he waved good-night. Her attitude had seemed tocall for it. He saw her fingers flash to her lips. She tilted her chinand threw him a kiss. 

"Dog-gone the luck!" he growled as he entered his cabin. And with thebrief expletive he condemned his disloyalty to the sprightly, slenderDorothy; the Peter Pan of the Blue Mesa; the dream girl of that idlenoon at the Big Spring. The other girl--well, she was just playing withhim. 

 * * * * *

In view of Lorry's training and natural carefulness it was especiallysignificant that he decided next day that he had forgotten to lay inenough supplies for his journey south. He would ride to Jason and packin what he needed. He had a fair excuse. Bronson had recently borrowedsome of his canned provisions. He was well on his way to Jason thatmorning before the others had arisen. 

He was back at the camp shortly after nine that night. As he passedBronson's cabin he saw a light in the window. Mrs. Weston was talkingwith Dorothy. Lorry had hoped to catch a glimpse of Alice Weston. He hadbeen 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 thestars. 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, buthis laughter was tense and unnatural. 

It was dark. The stars shone faintly. The air was soft with a subtlefragrance; the fragrance of sun-warmed pine that the night had stolenfrom the slumbering woodlands. She slipped her foot in the wide stirrup. Half laughing, she allowed him to draw her up. She felt the hardstrength of his arm, and was thrilled. She had not meant to do anythinglike this. 

"You been playin' with me, " he told her, whispering, "and I take mypay. "

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 theground 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!" shebegged. 

Lorry sat for a moment looking down at her. There had been nomake-believe on her part when he held her in his arms. He knew that. Andnow? She had said that she hated him. Perhaps she did for having madeher do that which she had never dreamed of doing. But he told himselfthat he could stand a whole lot of that kind of hate. And did he reallycare for her? Could a girl give what she had given and forget on themorrow? 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 heardLorry whistling cheerily as he unsaddled his pony. A falling star flamedand faded across the night. 

CHAPTER XXXI

_In the Pines_

Alice Weston pleaded headache next morning. She did not get up untilnoon. Meanwhile Dorothy came, bringing hot coffee and toast. 

"Does it really hurt?" queried Dorothy. "Or is it one of those headachesthat 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 hadgiven 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 outsidewhen he rode past. "

"Why, I thought he had gone!"

"He said he had to go to Jason for something or other. He left earlythis 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 inthe world do such firms get one's address when one lives 'way up herein 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 tocome 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 wasgrumpy. "

"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 burstinto 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 doesmake some persons nervous. Just rest, Allie, and I'll come in again. "

Without telling her father anything further than that she was going fora ride, Dorothy saddled Chinook. 

Dorothy was exceedingly trustful, but she was not at all stupid. Shethought she understood Alice's headache. And while Dorothy did not dreamthat her friend cared anything for Lorry, she was not so sure thatLorry 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 viewother than to be alone. She was hurt by Lorry's incomprehensible mannerof leaving. What had she done to cause him to act so strangely? And whyhad he refused her invitation and accepted it again through Alice? "ButI'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 imaginedshe could see a horse standing back of the trees round the spring. Someranger returning to Jason or some cattle outfit from the south wascamped at the spring. But when Chinook nickered again and the other ponyanswered, she knew at once that Lorry was there. Why had he stopped atthe 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. Asshe rode up he turned and took off his hat. His face was flushed. Hiseyes 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. Shewalked straight to him. "Lorry, what is the matter? You're not like myranger man at all! Are you in trouble?"

Her question, so frank and sincere, and the deep solicitude in hertroubled eyes hurt him, and yet he was glad to feel that hot pain in histhroat. He knew now that he cared for her more than for any livingbeing; beyond all thought of passion or of selfishness. She looked andseemed like a beautiful boy, with all the frankness of true comradeshipin her attitude and manner. And she was troubled because of him--and notfor herself. Lorry thought of the other girl. He had taken his pay. Hislips burned dry as he recalled that moment when he had held her in hisarms. 

Dorothy saw the dull pain in his eyes, a sort of dumb pleading forforgiveness for something he had done; she could not imagine what. Hedropped to his knee, and taking her slender hand in his kissed herfingers. 

"Don't be silly, " she said, yet her free hand caressed his hair. "Whatis it, ranger man?"

"I been a regular dam' fool, Dorothy. "

"But, Lorry! You know--if there is anything, anything in the world thatI can do--Please, _please_ don't cry. If you were to do that I think Ishould die. I couldn't stand it. You make me afraid. What is it? Surelyit is not--Alice?"

He crushed her fingers. Suddenly he stood up and stepped back. Thesunlight shone on his bared head. He looked very boyish as he shruggedhis shoulders as though to free himself from an invisible hand thatoppressed and irritated him. His sense of fair play in so far as AliceWeston was concerned would not allow him to actually regret that affair. To him that had been a sort of conquest. But shame and repentance forhaving been disloyal to Dorothy were stamped so clearly upon hisfeatures that she understood. She knew what he was about to say, andchecked him. 

"Don't tell me, " she said gently. "You have told me. I know Alice isattractive; 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 thatAlice Weston--But then that did not matter now. Lorry was so abjectlysorry about something or other. He felt her hand on his sleeve. She wassmiling. "You're just a great big, silly boy, ranger man. I'm reallyyears older than you. Please don't tell me anything. I don't want toknow. 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 overme. "

"Oh, but that wouldn't do any good. Tell me why you stopped here at thespring. 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'snothing 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 theEast. I just boxed his ears and laughed at him. It is only when you actgrumpy or feel badly that I worry about you. I just want to be yourlittle mother then--and try to help you. "

"You make me feel like I wasn't fit to ever touch your hand again, " hetold her. 

"But you mustn't feel that way, " she said cheerily. "I want you to bebrave 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 Iknow 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 awayas 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 ashe mounted Gray Leg and rode over to her. 

She reached up and patted Gray Leg's nose. "Good-bye, everybody!" shechirruped. And she kissed Gray Leg's nose. 

Back in the ranges, far from the Big Spring, Lorry made his camp thatnight. As he hobbled the horses he talked to them affectionately afterhis manner when alone with them. 

"And you, you old trail-hitter, " he said to Gray Leg, "I reckon youthink you're some ladies' man, don't you? Well, you got a right to beproud. Step along there, and 'tend to your grazin' and don't go torubbin' 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. Asfor Dorothy, she confessed to herself that she was not sorry. WhileAlice had been unusually nice to every one, Dorothy felt that Alice wasforcing herself to appear natural and happy. Mrs. Weston knew this, andwondered what the cause could be. Mrs. Weston had found Dorothydelightful and Bronson interesting, but she had been so long in the Westthat its novelty had worn thin. She did not regret it when they shippedtheir 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. Itwas evident that he wanted to talk with Bronson, so Dorothy coaxedBondsman to her favorite tree, and sat stroking his shaggy head as sheread from a new book that Shoop had brought with the mail. 

The genial Bud was in a fix. Perhaps Bronson, who had been a newspaperman and knew something about politics, could help him out. Bronsondisclaimed any special keenness of political intelligence, but said hewould be glad to do anything he could for Shoop. 

"It's like this, " Bud began, seating himself on the edge of theveranda; "John Torrance, who was supervisor before you came in, got methis job and put it up to me to stick. Now, I like John, and I figureJohn ain't scared of me. But here's where I lose the trail. A olefriend, the biggest shipper of sheep in this State, goes and gets itinto his head that they's a State Senator over there drawin' down paythat ought to come to me. Recollec', I said he was a sheepman--and Ibeen for the longhorns all my days. And he's got the nerve to tell methat all the sheepmen in this here county are strong for me if I run forthe job. If I didn't know him like I know this here right hand, I wouldsay he was gettin' hardenin' of the brain in his ole aige. But he's along ways from havin' his head examined yet. 

"Then along comes a representative of the Cattlemen's Association andsays they want me to run for State Senator. Then along comes a committeeof hay-tossers from up around St. Johns and says, polite, that they arewaitin' my pleasure in the matter of framin' up their ticket forsenatorial candidate from this mesa country. They say that the presentencumbrance in the senatorial chair is such a dog-gone thief that hesteals 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' onanybody--why, I'm like to set down. But if I can't, I figure to setwhere I be. 

"Now, this here war talk is gettin' folks excited. And ridin'excitement down the trail of politics is like tryin' to ride whitelightnin' bareback. It's like to leave you so your friends can't tellwhat you looked like. And somebody that ain't got brains enough to plugthe hole in a watch-key has been talkin' around that Bud Shoop is afighter, with a record for gettin' what he goes after. And that thissame Bud Shoop is as honest as the day is long. Now, I've seen somemighty 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 andsets the papers to printin' as how it was me, with the help of a fewparties 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 agirl's school for boys, neither. But that's done. What I'm gettin' atis: If I resign here, after givin' my word to Torrance to stick, itlooks like I been playin' with one hand under the table. The papers willlie 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 ata 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 awakenights. And I sleep pretty good. Now, I writ to Torrance, tellin' himjust 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 servicesmore than the Service did. That's somethin' like a train with a engineon 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 nofancy office man, and even if you are doin' good work here, you can'tput it in writin' for them big bugs at Washington. ' Mebby John is sodog-gone busy--like the fella with both bands full and his suspendersbroke--- that he'd be glad to get behind 'most anything to get shut ofme. "

"I think you're mistaken. You know you can't keep a born politician outof politics. "

"Meanin' me?"

"You're the type. "

"By gravy, Bronson! I never seen you hidin' your watch when I come up tovisit you before. "

"See here, Shoop. Why don't you write to Torrance and ask himpoint-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 isdoing. "

Shoop grinned. "You win the pot!" he exclaimed. "That's just what I beenthinkin' right along. I kind of wanted somebody who wasn't interested inthis deal to say it. Well, I reckon I bothered you long enough. You gotyour alfalfa to--I--you got your writin' to do. But they's one thing. IfI 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 offthe 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; outsidethe reserve. I aimed to know what I was doin' when I homesteaded thatpiece 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 ofState Senator for quite a spell. Now, I reckon you got sense enough notto get mad when I tell you that I just been tryin' out a little speech Iframed 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 thevoters of this here district, puttin' it up to them that I was ropedinto this hocus and been settin' back on the rope right along. Andthat's a fact. But you got to rub some folks' noses in a fact afore theycan even smell it. "

"And you have the nerve to tell me that you framed up all that stuff toget my sympathy? Shoop, you are wasting time in Arizona. Go East. Andforgive me for falling for your most natural appeal. "

The genial Bud chuckled and wiped his eyes. "But it's true from thestart to the wire. "

"I must congratulate you. " And, "Dorothy!" called Bronson. "Come andshake hands with our next Senator from the mesa country. "

"Really?" exclaimed Dorothy. "But we will lose our supervisor. Still, Ithink Mr. Shoop will make a lovely Senator. You are just the rightsize--and--everything. "

"I reckon you're right, missy. Half of the game is lookin' the partafore election. The other half is not sayin' too much after election. Ifany man gets a promise out of me afore election, it'll have to be didwith a stump-puller. "

"But we won't see you any more, " said Dorothy. "You will be so busy andso important. Senator Shoop will speak here. And Senator Shoop willspeak there. And--let me see! Oh, yes! The Senate adjourned after astormy session in which the Senator from Mesa County, supported by anintelligent majority, passed his bill for the appropriation of twentythousand 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'llbuild a road plumb through to the old Apache Trail and ketch themtourists goin' into Phoenix. "

"You see, " said Dorothy, turning to her father, "I know something aboutpolitics. I read the local papers. Mr. Shoop's name is in every one ofthem. I read that article about the Sterling strike. I have beenwondering--"

Shoop immediately called attention to Bondsman, who was gently tuggingat the supervisor's pants leg. 

"Now, look at that! Do you know what he's tellin' me? He's tellin' me Igot a piano in that there cabin and we ain't had a duet for quite aspell. 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 hishead. Either the tune had lost its charm for the Airedale or elseDorothy's interpretation differed from Bud's own. 

"Thanks, missy, " said Shoop when she had finished playing. "Guess I'llbe 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 rideback this evening. But I reckon we'll stay. Bondsman and me ain't sospry as we was. "

After supper Dorothy played for them again, with no light except thedancing red shadows from the pine logs that flamed in the fireplace. 

Shoop thanked her. "I'll be livin' in town, "--and he sighedheavily, --"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 gotall her innards yet and her heart's right. If you would be takin' it asa 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 awaythis winter--"

"Listen to your Uncle Bud, missy. A little lady give me a watch onct. 'Twa'n't a big watch, but it was a big thing. 'Cause why? 'Cause thatlittle lady was the first lady to give me a present in my life. I wasraised 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'tused to 'em. And I don't care how old and ornery a man is; the firsttime he gets a present from a gal, it kind of hits him where hebreathes. And if it don't make him feel warm inside and mighty proud ofbein' 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 namein that watch alongside of mine. And her name bein' there is what makesthat 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 whathad tore his Sunday pants, 'cause at twelve o'clock I was goin' over tothe saloon to fire that young ranger, Lusk, for gettin' drunk. I pulledout this here watch, and I says to myself: 'Bud, it was clost aroundtwelve o'clock by a young fella's watch onct when he was filled up onliquor and rampin' round town when he ought to been to work. And it wasthe 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 allright. I know--for I owned the watch. And so I give Lusk anotherchanct. "

Dorothy stepped to Shoop's chair, and, stooping quickly, kissed hischeek. Bondsman, not to be outdone, leaped jealously into Bud's lap andlicked the supervisor's face. Shoop spluttered, and thrust Bondsmandown. 

"Things is comin' too fast!" he cried, wiping his face. "I was justgoin' to say something when that dog just up and took the words rightout 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 itsimport. The Adams House at Stacey was for sale. "Then Jim and Annie'spatched it up, " he soliloquized. And the genial Bud did not refer to theAdams House. 

Because his master seemed pleased, Bondsman waited to hear the rest ofit 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'svoice that could key the big Airedale up to his earlier alertness. Theoffice was quiet. The clerk had gone out for his noon meal. The fallsunshine slanted lazily through the front-office windows. The room waswarm, but there was a tang of autumn in the air. Shoop glanced at thepaper again. He became absorbed in an article proposing conscription. Heshook his head and muttered to himself. He turned the page, and glancedat the livestock reports, the copper market, railroad stocks, and passedon to an article having to do with local politics. 

Bondsman, who constituted himself the guard of Shoop's leisure, rappedthe floor with his tail. Shoop glanced over the top of his paper aslight footsteps sounded in the outer office. Dorothy tapped on thelintel and stepped in. Shoop crumpled the paper and rose. Bondsman wasat her side as she shook hands with the supervisor. 

"My new saddle came, " she said, patting Bondsman. "And father's latestbook. 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 withMr. Handley. "

"Then you just set down and tell your Uncle Bud the news while you'rewaitin'. "

"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'tyou '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 leftword that Lorry's father wanted to see him. "

"I aim to know about that, " chuckled Shoop. And he smoothed out thepaper 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 runthe 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 thesedays. 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 toldBondsman. 

"And your little missy is right beautiful this mawnin', " said Shoop. "Now, if I was a bow-legged young cow-puncher with curly hair, andlooked fierce and noble and could make a gal's eyes shine like stars inthe evenin', I reckon I wouldn't be sittin' here signin' letters. "

"He _isn't_ bow-legged!" flashed Dorothy. She was very definite aboutthat. "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 amstandin' 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 shelaughed. "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 Isee 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 beentalking about enlisting. He didn't say that he was going to enlist, buthe 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 ageI'd go. Most any fella that can read would. I been readin' the papersfor two years, and b'ilin' inside. I reckon Lorry's just woke up towhat'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 ontheir 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 Iadmire to say that when them kind of folks gets started onct they'snothin' ever built that'll stop 'em. If I get elected I aim to tell somefolks over to the State House about this here war. And I'm goin' tostart by talkin' about what we got to set straight right here to homefirst. They can _feel_ what's goin' on to home. It ain't all print. Andthey 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 ourshare, 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 sistersand sweethearts was like that, they wouldn't be no conscription. Butthey ain't. I'm no hand at understandin' wimmin-folks, but I know themother of a strappin' young fella in this town that says she wouldsooner see her boy dead in her front yard than for him to go off andfight for foreigners. She don't know what this country's got to fightfor pretty quick or she wouldn't talk like that. And she ain't the onlyone. Now, when wimmin talks that way, what do you expect of men? Ireckon the big trouble is that most folks got to see somethin' to fightafore 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 wascoiled down where I couldn't see him. But this ain't no kind of talk foryou 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 youget disap'inted if he don't go right away. It's mighty easy to set backand say 'Go!' to the other fella; and listen to the band and cheer theflag. It makes a fella feel so durned patriotic he is like to forget heain't doin' nothin' hisself. 

"Now, missy, suppose you was a sprightin' kind of a boy 'bout nineteenor twenty, and mebby some gal thought you was good-lookin' enough totalk to after church on a Sunday; and suppose you had rustled like alittle nigger when you was a kid, helpin' your ma wash dishes in a hoteland chop wood and sweep out and pack heavy valises for tourists and fillthe lamps and run to the store for groceries and milk a cow every nightand 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 theRanger Service, ridin' the high trails and livin' free and independent;and suppose a mighty pretty gal was to come along and kind of let youtake a shine to her, and you was doin' your plumb durndest to put by alittle money, aimin' to trot in double harness some day; and thensuppose your daddy was to offer you a half-interest in a growin' cattlebusiness, where you could be your own boss and put by a couple ofthousand a year. And you only nineteen or twenty. 

"Suppose you had been doin' all that when along comes word from 'way offsomewhere 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 yourfightin' clothes?"

"But this war means more than that. "

"It sure does. But some of us ain't got the idee yet. 'Course all yougot to do to some folks is to say 'Fight' and they come a-runnin'. Andsome of that kind make mighty good soldier boys. But the fella I'mleavin' alone is the one what cinches up slow afore he climbs into thesaddle. When he goes into a fight it's like his day's work, and he don'twaste 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 asmuch 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 percent 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-platedknittin'-needles to make two-bit socks for the boys. What I mean is thata good woman does her best work to home; mebby just by sayin' the rightword, or mebby by keepin' still or by smilin' cheerful when her heart isbreakin' account of her man goin' to war. 

"You can say all you like about patriotism, but patriotism ain't justmarchin' off to fight for your country. It's usin' your neighbors andyour country right every day in the week, includin' Sunday. Some folksthink patriotism is buildin' a big bonfire once a year and lettin' herblaze 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 fireto 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 backto that there home and find the little fire a-burning bright. What dosome of our boys do fightin' alongside of them Frenchmen and under theFrench flag, when they get wounded and get a furlough? Set around andwait to go back to fightin'? I reckon not. Some of 'em pack up and comefour, five thousand miles just to see their folks for mebby two, threedays. 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 thejob is done. "

Dorothy, her chin in her hand, gazed at Bud. She had never known him tobe so intense, so earnest. 

"Oh, I know it is so!" she cried. "But what can I do? I have only alittle money in the bank, and father makes just enough to keep uscomfortable. You see, we spent such lots of money for those horrid olddoctors 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 tosay anything to you about goin'. And you know how better'n I can tellyou 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 galand 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 beensendin' me, that some young fellas is marryin' just afore they go tojine 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 forlife? Some of them gals is goin' to pay a mighty high price for just afew 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 atthat new saddle. "

"Isn't it strange, " said Dorothy, "that I couldn't talk with father likethis? 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 conscriptsany 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 lazilybehind. Because Shoop had not picked up his hat the big dog knew thathis master's errand, whatever it was, would be brief. Yet Bondsmanfollowed, stopping to yawn and stretch the stiffness of age from hisshaggy legs. There was really no sense in trotting across the streetwith his master just to trot back again in a few minutes. But Bondsman'sunwavering loyalty to his master's every mood and every movement hadbecome such a matter of course that the fine example was lost in themonotony of repetition. 

A dog's loyalty is so often taken for granted that it ceases to benoticeable until in an unlooked-for hazard it shines forth in some actof quick heroism or tireless faithfulness worthy of a greater tributethan has yet been written. 

Bondsman was a good soldier. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

_Young Life_

Ramon was busy that afternoon transferring mattresses and blankets fromthe 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-riderthat Waring had hired when his men had left to enlist, and one forhimself. 

The partitions of the ranch-house had been taken down, the interiorrearranged, and the large living-room furnished in a plain, comfortableway. 

As Ramon worked he sang softly. He was happy. The señora was coming tolive with them, and perhaps Señor Jim's son. Señor Jim had been moreactive of late. His lameness was not so bad as it had been. It was truethe Señor Jim did not often smile, but his eyes were kindly. 

Ramon worked rapidly. There was much to do in the other house. The baleof Navajo blankets was still unopened. Perhaps the Señor Jim would helpto arrange them in the big room with the stone fireplace. The señorawould not arrive until to-morrow, but then the home must be made ready, that she would find it beautiful. And Ramon, accustomed to the meagerlyfurnished adobes of old Mexico, thought that the ranch-house wasbeautiful indeed. 

Waring ate with the men in the new bunk-house that evening. After supperhe 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 ofalmost forgotten trails he grew young again. Again in Old Mexico, theland 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 thesetting sun. Between him and the village lay the outlands, evermysterious, ever calling to him. Across the desert ran a thin trail tothe village. And down the trail the light feet of Romance ran swiftly ashe followed. He could even recall the positions of the different adobes;the strings of chiles dark red in the twilight; the old black-shawledseñora 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 hadtold each other that a white man was a fool to go alone into thatcountry. 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 theSweetgrass Hills! And on that occasion he had found the fugitive hesought, yet he had ridden back to Sonora alone. He had never forgottenthe face of the young Mexican woman who had pleaded with him to let herlover go. Her eyes were big and velvet black. Her mouth was the mouthof a Madonna. 

Waring had told her that it was useless to plead. He remembered how hereyes had grown dull and sullen at his word. He told her that he wassimply doing his duty. She had turned on him like a panther, her littleknife glittering in the dusk as she drove it at his breast. The Mexicanlover had jerked free and was running toward the foothills. Waringrecalled his first surprise at the wiry strength of her wrist as he hadtwisted the knife from her. If the Mexican lover had not turned and shotat him--The black figure of the Mexican had dropped just where the roadentered the foothills. The light had almost gone. The vague bulk of theSierras wavered. Outlines vanished, leaving a sense of somethinggigantic, invisible, that slumbered in the night. The stars were big andsoftly brilliant as he had ridden north. 

The old wound in his shoulder ached. The Mexican had made a goodshot--for a Mexican. 

Out on the Arizona mesa, against the half disk of gold, was the blacksilhouette of a horseman. Waring stepped to the doorway. Ramon wasseated just outside the door, smoking a cigarette. The southern starswere almost visible. Each star seemed to have found its place, and yetno 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 inhis time. _In his time!_ But his day was past. The goddess he hadfollowed had left him older than his years, crippled, unable to ridemore than a few hours at a time; had left him fettered to the monotonyof the far mesa levels and the changeless hills. Was this hispunishment, or simply a black trick of fate, that the tang of life hadevaporated, leaving a stagnant pool wherein he gazed to meet the blurredreflection of a face weary with waiting for--what end?

Unused to physical inactivity, Waring had grown somber of mind theselatter days. Despite the promise of more comfortable years, he had neverfelt 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 hisown blood, his own life reincarnate in the cheery rider that swung downand grasped his hand. Nothing had changed. Life was going on as italways had. 

"Hello, dad! How's the leg?"

Waring smiled in the dusk. "Pretty fair, Lorry. You didn't waste anytime 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. LetRamon take your horse--"

"Thanks. I'll fix him in two shakes. "

And in two shakes bridle and saddle were off, and Gray Leg was rollingin the corral. 

While Lorry ate, Ramon laid a fire in the big stone fireplace. Altersupper Lorry and his father sat gazing at the flames. Lorry knew why hehad been sent for, but waited for his father to speak. 

Presently Waring turned to him. "I sent for you because I need some oneto help. And your mother wants you here. I won't urge you, but I canoffer you Pat's share in the ranch. I bought his share last week. You'llhave 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'ssomething else. You put your proposition straight, and I'm going to putmine 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 Imade 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 theprettiest 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 begood-looking and mighty nice and think a lot of a man, and yet not bethe 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 tellyou--because you made me that offer. I was askin' your advice becauseyou been through a lot. "

"I wish I could advise you. But you're a man grown, so far as takingcare of yourself is concerned. And when a man thinks of getting marriedhe isn't looking for advice against it. Why don't you wait a year ortwo?"

"Well, mebbe I got to. Because--well, I didn't ask Dorothy yet. Thenthere's somethin' else. A lot of the fellas up in the high country haveenlisted in the regulars, and some have gone over to Canada to join theForeign Legion. Now, I don't want to be the last hombre on this mesa togo. "

"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 waittill 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', Iwant to know it so I can say to her that I _am_ goin' and not that I aimto go. "

"Well, you will have to decide that. "

"Well, I'm goin' to--before ma comes. Dog-gone it! You know how it istryin' to explain things to a woman. Wimmin don't understand them kindof things. "

"I don't know about that, Lorry. "

Lorry nodded. "I tell you, dad--you kind of set a pace for me. And Ifigure I don't want folks to say: 'There goes Jim Waring's boy. ' Ifthey're goin' to say anything, I want it to be: 'There goes LorryWaring. '"

Waring knew that kind of pride if he knew anything. He was proud of hisson. And Waring's most difficult task was to keep from influencing himin any way. He wanted the boy to feel free to do as he thought best. 

"You were in that fight at Sterling, " said Waring, gesturing toward thesouth. 

"But that was different, " said Lorry. "Them coyotes was pluggin' at us, and we just nacherally had to let 'em have it. And besides we wasworkin' for the law. "

"I understand there wasn't any law in Sterling About that time. "

"Well, we made some, " asserted Lorry. 

"And that's just what this war means. It's being fought to make law. "

"Then I'm for the law every time, big or little. I seen enough of thatother thing. "

"Think it over, Lorry. Remember, you're free to do as you want to. Ihave made my offer. Then there is your mother--and the girl. It looks asthough you had your hands full. "

"You bet! Business and war and--and Dorothy is a right big order. I'mgettin' a headache thinkin' of it!"

Waring rose. "I'm going to turn in. I have to live pretty close to theclock these days. "

"See you in the mornin', " said Lorry, giving his hand. "Good-night, dad. "

"Good-night, boy. "

CHAPTER XXXV

_The High Trail_

Black-edged against the silvery light of early dawn the rim of the worldlay dotted with far buttes and faint ranges fading into the spaces ofthe north and south. The light deepened and spread to a great crimsonpool, tideless round the bases of magic citadels and mighty towers. Golden minarets thrust their slender, fiery shafts athwart the widepathway of the ascending sun. The ruddy glow palpitated like a liveember naked to the wind. The nearer buttes grew boldly beautiful. Slowlytheir molten outlines hardened to rigid bronze. Like ancient castles ofsome forgotten land, isolated in the vast mesa, empty of life, theyseemed to await the coming of a host that would reshape their fallenarches and their wind-worn towers to old-time splendor, and perfecttheir imageries. 

But the marching sun knew no such sentiment. Pitilessly he pierced theirenchanted walls, discovering their pretense, burning away their shadowyglory, baring them for what they were--masses of jumbled rock andsplintered spires; rain-gutted wraiths of clay, volcanic rock, thetumbled malpais and the tufa of the land. 

Black shadows shifted. That which had been the high-arched entrance toa mighty fortress was now a shallow hollow in a hill. Here and there onthe western slope of the mounds cattle grazed in the chill morning air. Enchantments of the dawn reshaped themselves to local landmarks. 

From his window Lorry could discern the distant peak of Mount Baldyglimmering above the purple sea of forest. Not far below the peak laythe viewless level of the Blue Mesa. The trail ran just below that patchof quaking asp. 

The hills had never seemed so beautiful, nor had the still mesas, carpeted with the brown stubble of the close-cropped bunch-grass. 

Arizona was his country--his home. And yet he had heard folk say thatArizona was a desert, But then such folk had been interested chiefly inguide-posts of the highways or the Overland dining-car menu. 

And he had been offered a fair holding in this land--twenty thousandacres under fence on a long-term lease; a half-interest in the cattleand their increase. He would be his own man, with a voice in themanagement and sale of the stock. A year or two and he could afford tomarry--if Dorothy would have him. He thought she would. And to keep ingood health she must always live in the West. What better land thanArizona, on the high mesa where the air was clean and clear; where thekeen August rains refreshed the sunburned grasses; where the lightsnows of winter fell but to vanish in the retrieving sun? If Dorothyloved this land, why should she leave it? Surely health meant more toher than the streets and homes of the East?

And Lorry had asked nothing of fortune save a chance to make good. Andfortune had been more than kind to him. He realized that it was throughno deliberate effort of his own that he had acquired the opportunitywhich offered. Why not take advantage of it? It would give him prestigewith Bronson. A good living, a good home for her. Such luck didn't cometo a man's door every day. 

He had slept soundly that night, despite his intent to reason withhimself. It was morning, and he had made no decision--or so he thought. There was the question of enlisting. Many of his friends had alreadygone. Older men were now riding the ranges. Even the clerk in thegeneral store at Stacey's had volunteered. And Lorry had considered himanything but physically competent to "make a fight. " But it wasn't allin making a fight. It was setting an example of loyalty andunselfishness to those fellows who needed such an impulse to stir themto action. Lorry thought clearly. And because he thought clearly and forhimself, he realized that he, as an individual soldier in the Great War, would amount to little; but he knew that his going would affect others;that the mere news of his having gone would react as a sort of endlesschain reaching to no one knew what sequestered home. 

And this, he argued, was his real value: the spirit ever more potentthan the flesh. Why, he had heard men joke about this war! It was a longway from home. What difference did it make to them if those people overthere were being starved, outraged, murdered? That was their ownlookout. Friends of his had said that they were willing to fight to afinish if America were threatened with invasion, but that could neverhappen. America was the biggest and richest country in the world. Sheattended to her own business and asked nothing but that the othernations do likewise. 

And those countries over there were attending to their own business. Ifour ships were blown up, it was our own fault. We had been warned. Anyway, the men who owned those ships were out to make money and willingto take a chance. It wasn't our business to mix in. We had troublesenough at home. As Lorry pondered the shallow truths a great light cameto him. "_Troubles enough at home_, " that was it! America had alreadybeen invaded, yet men slumbered in fancied security. He had been atSterling--

Lorry could hear Ramon stirring about in the kitchen. The rhythmicallymuffled sound suggested the mixing of flapjacks. Lorry could smell thethin, appetizing fragrance of coffee. 

With characteristic abruptness, he made his decision, but with nospoken word, no gesture, no emotion. He saw a long day's work beforehim. He would tackle it like a workman. 

And immediately he felt buoyantly himself again. The matter was settled. 

He washed vigorously. The cold water brought a ruddy glow to his face. He whistled as he strode to the kitchen. He slapped the gentle-eyedRamon on the shoulder. Pancake batter hissed as it slopped over on thestove. 

"Cheer up, amigo!" he cried! "Had a good look at the sun this mornin'?"

"No, señor. I have made the breakfast, si. "

"Well, she's out there, shinin' right down on Arizona. "

"The señora?" queried Ramon, puzzled. 

"No; the sun. Don't a mornin' like this make you feel like jumpin' cleanout of your boots and over the fence?"

"Not until I have made the flapcake, Señor Lorry. "

"Well, go the limit. Guess I'll roust out dad. "

 * * * * *

Bud Shoop scowled, perspired, and swore. Bondsman, close to Shoop'schair, blinked and lay very still. His master was evidently beyond anyproffer of sympathy or advice. Yet he had had no argument with any onelately. And he had eaten a good breakfast. Bondsman knew that. Whateverthe trouble might be, his master had not consulted him about it. It wasevidently a matter that dogs could not understand, and hence, verygrave. Bondsman licked his chops nervously. He wanted to go out and liein the sunshine, but he could not do that while his master suffered suchtribulation of soul. His place was close to his master now, if ever. 

Around Shoop were scattered pieces of paper; bits of letters written andtorn up. 

"It's a dam' sight worse resignin' than makin' out my application--andthat was bad enough, " growled Shoop. "But I got to do this personal. This here pen is like a rabbit gone loco. Now, here I set like a bag ofbeans, tryin' to tell John Torrance why I'm quittin' this here jobwithout makin' him think I'm glad to quit--which I am, and I ain't. It'slike tryin' to split a flea's ear with a axe; it can't be did withoutmashin' the flea. Now, if John was here I could tell him in three jumps. The man that invented writin' must 'a' been tongue-tied or had sorethroat some time when he wanted to talk awful bad. My langwidge ain'tbroke to pull no city rig--or no hearse. She's got to have the road andplenty room to sidestep. 

"Now, how would I say it if John were here? Would I start off with 'DearJohn' or 'Dear Old Friend'? I reckon not. I'd just say: 'John, I'm goin'to quit. I tried to do by you what I said I would. I got a chanct tobust into the State House, and I got a good reason for bustin' in. Ibeen nominated for Senator, and I got to live up to the name. I'ma-goin' to run for Senator--and mebby I'll keep on when I get started, and end up somewhere in Mexico. I can't jine the reg'lars account of myphysical expansibility and my aige, so I got to do my fightin' to home. I'm willin' to stick by this job if you say the word. Mebby some folkswould be dissap'inted, but I can stand that if they can. What do youreckon I better do?'

"Now, that's what I'd say if John was here. Why in tarnation can't I sayit on paper? Lemme see. "

Bud filled a sheet with his large, outdoor script. When he had finished, he tucked the letter in an envelope hurriedly. He might reconsider hisattempt if he re-read the letter. 

He was carefully directing the envelope when Lorry strode in. 

'"Bout time you showed up, " said Shoop. 

Lorry dropped his hat on the floor and pulled up a chair. He was a bitnervous. Preamble would make him more so. He spoke up quickly. 

"Bud, I want to resign. "

"Uh-uh. You tired of this job?"

"Nope; I like it. "

"Want more pay?"

"No; I get all I'm worth. "

"Ain't you feelin' well?"

"Bully! I'm going to enlist. "

"Might 'a' knowed it, " said Bud, leaning back and gazing at the newlyaddressed envelope on his desk. "Got your reports all in?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Well, seem' you're quittin' for the best reason I know, I'm right glad. You done your work like I expected. Your mother knows you're goin' tojine the army?"

"I told her yesterday. I've been at the ranch. "

"Uh-uh. How's your dad?"

"He ain't so spry. But he is better. "

"Uh-uh. That young Mexican stayin' at the ranch with him?"

"You couldn't chase Ramon away with a gun. "

"Uh-uh. Well, Lorry, I just been sweatin' out a letter tellin' JohnTorrance that I've quit. I'm goin' to run for State Senator. "

"I knew they would land you. Everybody knew it. "

"So we're both leavin' the Service. And we're leavin' a mighty good job;mebby not such big pay, but a man's job, that has been the makin' ofsome no-account boys. For no fella can work for the Service withoutsettin' up and ridin' straight. Now, when I was a young buster chasin'cow-tails over the country I kind of thought the Forestry Service was ajoke. It ain't. It's a mighty big thing. You're leaving it with a cleanrecord. Mebby some day you'll want to get back in it. Were you goin' onup?"

"I figured to straighten up things at the cabin. "

"All right. When you come down you can get your check. Give my regardsto Bronson and the little missy. "

"You bet I will!"

Bud rose and proffered his hand. Lorry, rather embarrassed, shook handsand turned to go. "See you later, " he said. 

"I was going over to Stacey, " said Shoop. "Mebby I'll be out when youget back. But your check'll be here all right. You sure look like youwas walkin' on sunshine this mawnin'. Gosh, what a whoopin' fine placethis here world is when you are young--and--kind of slim! Now, Bondsmanand me--we was young onct. When it comes to bein' young or StateSenator--you can have the politics and give me back my ridin' legs. You're ridin' the High Trail these days. 

"If I could just set a hoss onct, with twenty years under my hide, andlook down on this here country, and the sage a-smellin' like it used toand the sunshine a-creepin' across my back easy and warm, with a sniffof the timber comin' down the mawnin' breeze; and 'way off the cattlea-lookin' no bigger'n flies on a office map--why, I wouldn't trade thatthere seat in the saddle for a million in gold. But I reckon I would 'a'done it, them days. Sometimes I set back and say 'Arizona' just tomyself. I'm a-lovin' that name. Accordin' to law, I'm livin' single, andif I ain't married to Arizona, she's my best gal, speakin' general. 'Course, a little lady give me a watch onct. And say, boy, if she sets alot of store by you--why, you--why, git out of this here office afore Imake a dam' fool of myself!"

And the genial Bud waved his arm, blustering and swearing heartily. 

Bondsman leaped up. A ridge of hair rose along his neck. For someunknown reason his master had ordered Lorry to leave the office--and atonce. But Lorry was gone, and Bud was patting the big Airedale. It wasall right. Nothing was going to happen. And wasn't it about time for thestage to arrive?

Bondsman trotted to the doorway, gazed up and down the street, and cameback to Shoop. The stage had arrived, and Bondsman was telling Shoop soby the manner in which he waited for his master to follow him into thesunlight. Bud grinned. 

"You're tellin' me the stage is in--and I got a letter to send. "

Bud picked up his hat. Bondsman had already preceded him to the doorway, and stood waiting. His attitude expressed the extreme patience of age, but that the matter should be attended to without unreasonable delay. Shoop sighed heavily. 

"That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous. "

Halfway across the Blue Mesa, Dorothy met her ranger man. She had beenwatching the trail. Lorry dismounted and walked with her to the cabin. Bronson was glad to see him. They chatted for a while. Lorry would havespoken of his father's offer--of his plans, of many things he wishedBronson to know, yet he could not speak of these things until he hadtalked with Dorothy. He would see Bronson again. Meanwhile--

A little later Lorry went to his cabin to take stock of the implementsand make his final report. He swept the cabin, picked up the loose oddsand ends, closed the battered piano gently, and sat down to think. 

He had made his decision, and yet--he had seen Dorothy again; touchedher hand, talked with her, and watched her brown eyes while he talked. The Great War seemed very far away. And here he was at home. This washis country. But he had set his face toward the High Trail. He could notturn back. 

Dorothy stood in the doorway, her finger at her lips. Bronson was busywriting. Lorry rose and stepped out. He stooped and lifted her to GrayLeg. She sat sideways in the saddle as he led the pony across the mesato the veritable rim of the world. 

Far below lay the open country, veiled by the soft haze of distance. Hegave her his hand, and she slipped to the ground and stood beside him. For the first time the tremendous sweep of space appalled her. She drewclose to him and touched his arm. 

"What is it, Lorry?"

"You said--once--that you would wait for me. "

"Yes. And now you are here, I'll never be lonesome again. "

"Were you lonesome?"

"A little. I had never really waited--like that--before. "

He frowned and gazed into the distances. It had been easy todecide--when alone. Then he faced her, his gray eyes clear anduntroubled. 

"I'm going to enlist, " he said simply. 

She had hoped that he would. She wanted to think that of him. And yet, now that he had spoken, now that he was actually going--Her eyes grewbig. She wanted to say that she was glad. Her lips trembled. 

He held out his arms. She felt their warm strength round her. On theinstant she thought of begging him not to go. But his eyes were shiningwith a high purpose, that shamed her momentary indecision. She pressedher cheek to his. 

"I will wait for you, " she whispered, and her face was wet with tears ofhappiness. 

She was no longer the little mother and he her boy, for in that momenthe became to her the man strength of the race, his arms her refuge andhis eyes her courage for the coming years. 

THE END