Jim Waring of Sonora-Town Part 15

"And I'm goin' to herd this hoss-thief to camp," he continued, spurring toward Waco, who had started to walk away.

"Not this journey," said Waring, pus.h.i.+ng his horse between them. "The boy don't pack a gun. I do."

"You talk big--knowin' I got no gun," said High Chin.

Lorry rode over to the foreman. "Here's your gun, High. I ain't no killer."

The foreman holstered the gun and reined round toward Waring. "Now do your talkin'," he challenged.

Waring made no movement, but sat quietly watching the other's gun hand.

"You have your gun?" he said, as though asking a question. "If you mean business, go ahead. I'll let you get your gun out--and then I'll get you--and you know it!" And with insulting ease he flicked his burned-out cigarette in the foreman's face.

Without a word High Chin whirled his horse and rode toward the hills.

Waring sat watching him until Lorry spoke.

"They say he's put more than one man across the divide," he told his father.

"But not on an even break," said Waring. "Get that hombre on his horse.

He's in bad shape."

Lorry helped Waco to mount. They rode toward Stacey.

Waring rode with them until the trail forked. "I was on my way to the Starr Ranch," he told Lorry. "I think I can make it all right with Starr, if you say the word."

"Not me," said Lorry. "I stand by what I do."

Waring tried to conceal the smile that crept to his lips. "All right, Lorry. But you'll have to explain to your mother. Better turn your man over to Buck Hardy as soon as you get in town. Where did you pick him up?"

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

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

Chapter X

_East and West_

Mrs. Adams, ironing in the kitchen, was startled by a peremptory ringing of the bell on the office desk. The Overland had arrived and departed more than an hour ago. She patted her hair, smoothed her ap.r.o.n, and stepped through the dining-room to the office. A rather tired-looking, stylishly gowned woman immediately asked if there were comfortable accommodations for herself and her daughter. Mrs. Adams a.s.sured her that there were.

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

"You are driving overland?"

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

"Goodness! Where did it happen?"

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

"I can give you a front double room," said Mrs. Adams. "But the single rooms 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 attend to 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's eyes 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 may have the exclusive use of the bath?"

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

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

While Mrs. Adams was arranging things, Alice Weston gazed out of the window. Below in the street a cowboy pa.s.sed jauntily. A stray burro crossed the street and nosed among some weeds. Then a stolid Indian stalked 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 he was 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 when the girl had finished.

Alone in her room, Alice Weston bared her round young arms and enjoyed a real, old-fas.h.i.+oned wash in a real, old-fas.h.i.+oned washbowl. Who could be unhappy in this glorious country? But mother seemed so unimpressed! "And I hope that steering-knuckle doesn't come for a month," the girl told a framed lithograph of "Custer's Last Fight," which, contrary to all precedent, was free from fly specks.

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

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

It occurred to her that she had never been refused a request in her life until that afternoon. And the fact piqued her. The fate of the tramp was a secondary consideration now. She and her mother were safe. The car would have to be repaired; but that was unimportant. The fact that they were stranded in a real desert town, with Indians and cowboys in the streets, and vistas such as she had dreamed of s.h.i.+mmering in the afternoon sun, awakened an erstwhile slumbering desire for a draught of the real Romance of the West, heretofore only enjoyed in unsatisfying sips as she read of the West and its wonder trails.

A noise in the street attracted her attention. She stepped to the window. Just across the street a tall, heavy man was unlocking a door in a little adobe building. Near him stood the young cowboy whom she had not expected to see again. And there was the tramp, handcuffed and strangely white of face. The door swung open, and the tall man stepped back. The tramp shuffled through the low doorway, and the door was closed and locked. The cowboy and the tall man talked for a while. She stepped back as the men separated.

Presently she heard the cowboy's voice downstairs. She flushed, and gazed at herself in the gla.s.s.