Jim Waring of Sonora-Town Part 8

Back in the office, he flung his hat on the table and rumpled his hair.

"Those coyotes," he said casually, "are after some one called Waring.

Pablo's whiskey is rotten."

The collector's long legs unfolded, and he sat up, yawning. "Jim Waring isn't in town," he said as though to himself.

"Pat, you give me a pain," said the a.s.sistant, grinning.

"Got one myself," said the collector unsmilingly. "Cuc.u.mbers."

"You're the sweetest liar for a thousand miles either side of the line.

There isn't even the picture of a cuc.u.mber in this sun-blasted town."

"Isn't, eh? Look here!" And the lank man pulled open a drawer in the desk. The collector fumbled among some papers and drew out a bulky seed catalogue, ill.u.s.trated in glowing tints.

"Oh, I'll buy," laughed the a.s.sistant. "I reckon if I asked for a picture of this man Waring that's wanted by those nickel-plated coyotes, you'd fish it up and never sweat a hair."

"I could," said the collector, closing the drawer.

"Here, smoke one of mine for a change. About that picture. I met Jim Waring in Las Cruces. He was a kid then, but a comer. Had kind of light, curly hair. His face was as smooth as a girl's. He wasn't what you'd call a dude, but his clothes always looked good on him. Wimmin kind of liked him, but he never paid much attention to them. He worked for me as deputy a spell, and I never hired a better man. But he wouldn't stay with one job long. When Las Cruces got quiet he pulled his freight. Next I heard of him he was married and living in Sonora. It didn't take Diaz long to find out that he could use him. Waring was a wizard with a gun--and he had the nerve back of it. But Waring quit Diaz, for Jim wasn't that kind of a killer. I guess he found plenty of work down there. He never was one to lay around living on his reputation and waiting for nothing to happen. He kept his reputation sprouting new shoots right along--and that ain't all joke, neither."

"Speakin' in general, could he beat you to it with a gun, Pat?"

"Speaking in general--I reckon he could."

"Them rurales are kind of careless--ridin' over the line and not stoppin' by to make a little explanation."

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

"What did I ever do to you?"

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

"You got me interested in that Waring hombre. I'll sure nail him like you said; but if he goes for his gun I don't want you plantin' no cuc.u.mber seed on my restin'-place. Guess I'll finish those reports."

The lank man yawned, and, rising, strode to the window. The a.s.sistant sauntered to the inner office and drew up to his desk. "Pablo's whiskey is rotten!" he called over his shoulder. The lank collector smiled.

The talk about Waring and Las Cruces had stirred slumbering memories; memories of night rides in New Mexico, of the cattle war, of blazing noons on the high mesas and black nights in huddled adobe towns; Las Cruces, Albuquerque, Caliente, Santa Fe--and weary ponies at the hitching-rails.

Once, on an afternoon like this, he had ridden into town with a prisoner beside him, a youth whose lightning-swift hand had snuffed out a score of lives to avenge the killing of a friend. The collector recalled that on that day he had ridden his favorite horse, a deep-chested buckskin, slender legged, and swift, with a strain of thoroughbred.

Beyond the little square of window through which he gazed lay the same kind of a road--dusty, sun-white, edged with low brush. And down the road, pace for pace with his thoughts, strode a buckskin horse, ridden by a man road-weary, gray with dust. Beside him rode a youth, his head bowed and his hands clasped on the saddle-horn as though manacled.

"Jack!"

The a.s.sistant shoved back his chair and came to the window.

"There's the rest of your picture," said the collector.

As the a.s.sistant gazed at the riders, the collector stepped to his desk and buckled on a gun.

"Want to meet Waring?" he queried.

"I'm on for the next dance, Pat."

The collector stepped out. Waring reined up. A stray breeze fluttered the flag above the custom-house. Waring gravely lifted his sombrero.

"You're under arrest," said the collector.

Waring gestured toward Ramon.

"You, too," nodded Pat. "Get the kid and his horse out of sight," he told the a.s.sistant.

Ramon, too weary to expostulate, followed the a.s.sistant to a corral back of the building.

The collector turned to Waring. "And now, Jim, what's the row?"

"Down the street--and coming," said Waring, as the rurales boiled from the cantina.

"We'll meet 'em halfway," said the collector.

And midway between the custom-house and the cantina the two cool-eyed, deliberate men of the North faced the hot-blooded Southern haste that demanded Waring as prisoner. The collector, addressing the leader of the rurales, suggested that they talk it over in the cantina. "And don't forget you're on the wrong side of the line," he added.

The Captain of rurales and one of his men dismounted and followed the Americans into the cantina. The leader of the rurales immediately exhibited a warrant for the arrest of Waring, signed by a high official and sealed with the great seal of Mexico. The collector returned the warrant to the captain.

"That's all right, amigo, but this man is already under arrest."

"By whose authority?"

"Mine--representing the United States."

"The warrant of the Presidente antedates your action," said the captain.

"Correct, Senor Capitan. But my action, being just about two jumps ahead of your warrant, wins the race, I reckon."

"It is a trick!"

"Si! You must have guessed it."

"I shall report to my Government. And I also demand that you surrender to me one Ramon Ortego, of Sonora, who aided this man to escape, and who is reported to have killed one of my men and stolen one of my horses."

"He ought to make a darned good rural, if that's so," said the collector. "But he is under arrest for smuggling. He rode a horse across the line without declaring valuation."

"Juan," said the captain, "seize the horse of the Americano."

"Juan," echoed Waring softly, "I have heard that Pedro Salazar seized the horse of an Americano--in Sonora."

The rural stopped short and turned as though awaiting further instructions from his chief. The collector of customs rose and sauntered to the doorway. Leaning against the lintel, he lighted a cigar and smoked, gazing at Waring's horse with an appreciative eye. The captain of rurales, seated opposite Waring, rolled a cigarette carefully; too carefully, thought Waring, for a Mexican who had been daring enough to ride across the line with armed men. Outside in the fading sunlight, the horses of the rurales stamped and fretted. The cantina was strangely silent. In the doorway stood the collector, smoking and toying with his watch-charm.

Presently the a.s.sistant collector appeared, glanced in, and grinned.