Jim Waring of Sonora-Town Part 3

"Did you know where it was yesterday?"

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

"Si, senor. I knew--yesterday."

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

"I--he is of my family."

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

"But--senor!"

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

Ramon sat his horse, gazing at the little puffs of dust that shot from the hoofs of the big buckskin. Surely the gringo was mad! Yet he was a man of big heart. Perplexed, stunned by the realization that he was alone and free, the young Mexican gazed about him. Waring was a tiny figure in the distance. Ramon dismounted and examined the empty tapaderas.

Heretofore he had considered subtlety, trickery, qualities to be desired, and not incompatible with honor. In a flash he realized the difference, the distinction between trickery and keenness of mind. He had been awed by his uncle's reputation and proud to name him of this family. Now he saw him for what he was. "My Uncle Jose is a bad man," he said to himself. "The other,--the gringo whom men call 'The Killer,'--he is a hard man, but a.s.suredly he is not bad."

When Ramon spoke to his horse his voice trembled. His hand drifted up to the little silver crucifix on his breast. A vague glimmer of understanding, a sense of the real significance of the emblem heartened him 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 as he rode on. He could follow such a man to the end of the world, even across the border of the Great Unknown, for surely such a leader would not lose the way.

Three men sat in the office of the Ortez Mines, smoking and saying little. Donovan, the manager; the paymaster, Quigley; and the a.s.sistant manager, a young American fresh from the East. Waring's name was mentioned. Three days ago he had ridden south after the bandits. He might 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 G.o.d into some of those greasers."

Quigley flushed. "You didn't hire me to chase greasers, Donovan. I'm no gunman."

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

"Oh, cut out that stuff!" said the a.s.sistant manager, smiling. "That won't balance the pay-roll."

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

Quigley grinned. He knew that Donovan was afraid of Waring. Waring was the one man in Donovan's employ that he could not bully. Moreover, the big 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 that goes the minute Waring shows up with the money. If he doesn't show up--why, that raise can wait."

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

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

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

Donovan returned to his desk. "Get busy, at something. We don't want to sit 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 with him."

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

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

The gunman paused halfway across the office. Quigley fidgeted. The a.s.sistant superintendent stole a glance at Donovan's broad back and smiled. All three seemed waiting for Waring to speak. Quigley rather enjoyed the situation. The a.s.sistant superintendent's scalp p.r.i.c.kled with restrained excitement.

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

"Thanks," said Waring, nodding to the a.s.sistant.

Donovan heaved himself round. "Why, h.e.l.lo, Jim! I didn't hear you come in."

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.

"h.e.l.l!" exclaimed Donovan. "Then, what's the answer?"

"Bill, you can't bluff worth a d.a.m.n!"

Quigley laughed. The a.s.sistant mopped his face with an immaculate handkerchief. The room was hot.

"Bill," and Waring's voice was softly insulting, "you can't bluff worth a d.a.m.n."

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

Quigley stirred and rose. The a.s.sistant got to his feet.

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

Donovan flung his half-smoked cigar to the floor and lighted a fresh one. Waring's att.i.tude irritated him. Officially, Donovan was Waring's superior. Man to man, the Sonora gunman was Donovan's master, and the Irishman knew and resented it.

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

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

Donovan, with the dusty canteen dangling from his arm, looked exceedingly 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.