Waring picketed his horse in a dim angle of the Agua Fria Canon, spread his saddle-blanket to dry in the afternoon sun, and, climbing to a narrow ledge, surveyed the canon from end to end with a pair of high-power glasses. He knew the men he sought would ride south. He was reasonably certain that they would not ride through the canon in daylight. The natural trail through the Agua Fria was along the western wall; a trail that he had avoided, working his toilsome way down the eastern side through a labyrinth of brush and rock that had concealed him from view. A few hundred yards below his hasty camp a sandy arroyo crossed the canon'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 desert beyond, where, sooner or later, he would overtake them. They had a start of twelve hours, but Waring reasoned that they would not do much riding in daylight. The trail at the northern end of the canon had shown no fresh tracks that morning. His problem was simple. The answer would be definite. He returned to the shelter of the brush, dropped the glasses into 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. The western sun trailed long shadows across the canon; shadows that drifted imperceptibly farther and farther, spreading, commingling, softening the broken outlines of ledge and brush until the walled solitude was brimmed with dusk, save where a red shaft cleft the fast-fading twilight, burning like a great spotlight on a picketed horse and a man asleep, his head pillowed on a saddle.

As the dusk drew down, the horse ceased grazing, sniffed the coming night, and nickered softly. Waring rose and led the horse to water, and, returning, emptied half the grain in the morral on a blanket. Dex munched contentedly. When the horse had finished eating the grain, Waring picketed him in a fresh spot and climbed back to the ledge, where he sat watching the western wall of the canon, occasionally glancing up as some dim star burned through the deepening dusk and bloomed to a silvery maturity.

Presently a faint pallor overspread the canon till it lay like a ghostly sea dotted with strange islands of brush and rock; islands that seemed to waver and shift in a sort of vague restlessness, as though trying to evade the ever-brightening tide of moonlight that burned away their shrouds of dusk and fixed them in still, tangible shapes upon the canon floor.

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

Just below him he could discern the outline of his horse, with head lowered, evidently dozing. Having in mind the keenness of desert-bred stock, he watched the horse. The minutes drifted by. The horse seemed more distinct. Waring thought he could discern the picket rope. He endeavored to trace it from horse to picket. Foot by foot his eyes followed its slack outline across the ground. The head of the metal picket glimmered faintly. Waring closed his eyes, nodded, and caught himself. This time he traced the rope from picket to horse. It seemed a childish thing to do, yet it kept him awake. Did he imagine it, or had the rope moved?

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

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

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

Moreover, certain Americans in Sonora who disliked Waring had said recently that no man was quick enough to get an even break with the gunman, which tentatively placed him as a "killer," whereas he had never given a thought to the hazard when going into a fight. He had always played the game to win, odds either way. The men he sought would be mounted. He would be on foot. This time the fugitives would have more than a fair chance. They would blunder down the pitch into the arroyo, perhaps glancing back, fearful of pursuit, but apprehending no ambushment.

Waring knew they would kill him if they could. He knew that not even a fighting chance would have been his were they in his place and he in theirs. He was deputized and paid to do just what he was doing. The men were bandits who had robbed the paymaster of the Ortez Mines. To Waring there 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 from above. He drew close to a cutbank, leaning his shoulder against it easily. With a slither of sand, the first horse took the pitch, legs angled awkwardly as he worked down. The second rider followed, the led horses 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, reached into his pocket and drew out tobacco and cigarette papers. The other, hardly more than a boy, urged that they hasten. Fear vibrated in his voice. The squat Mexican laughed and began to roll a cigarette.

None had overtaken them, he said. And were they not now in the Land Where No Man Lived? "Si!" said Waring softly.

The half-rolled cigarette fluttered to the ground. The Mexican's heavy lip sagged, showing broken teeth. His companion dropped the lead-rope and turned to gaze at Waring with eyes wide, wondering, curious. The led horses plunged up the back trail. Waring made no movement toward his gun, but he eyed the elder Mexican sharply, paying little attention to the youth. The horse of the squat Mexican grew restless, sidling toward the other.

Waring's lips tightened. The bandit was spurring his horse on the off side to get behind his companion. Evidently the numbness of surprise had given way to fear, and fear meant action. Waring knew that the elder Mexican would sacrifice his companion for the sake of a chance of killing 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 to Waring. Waring knew that if the other Mexican meant to fight it would be at that instant. Even as the butt of the gun touched Waring's hand it jumped. Two shattering reports blended and died echoless in the close-walled arroyo.

The Mexican's gun slipped slowly from his fingers. He rocked in the saddle, grasped the horn, and slid to the ground. Waring saw him reach for the gun where it lay on the sand. He kicked it aside. The Mexican youth leaped from the saddle and stood between Waring and the fallen man. Waring stepped back. For an instant his eyes drew fine. He was tempted to make an end of it right there. The youth dropped to his knees. A drift of wind fluttered the bandanna at his throat. Waring saw a 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 have this!" And his fingers touched the crucifix. "But you will not kill my uncle!"

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: "It
is 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 quit that glory stuff! We ride north," he growled.

The young Mexican's face was beaded with sweat as he rose and stared down at the wounded man. Clumsily he attempted to help Waring, who washed and bandaged the shattered shoulder. Waring had shot to kill, but the gun was not his own, and he had fired almost as it had touched his hand.

"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 time being. He had wounded and captured Jose Vaca, notorious in Sonora as leader in outlawry. That there were no others of Vaca's kind with him puzzled Waring. The young Ramon, Vaca's nephew, did not count.

Ramon helped his uncle to mount. They glanced at each other, Vaca's eyes blinking. The gringo was afoot. They were mounted. Waring, observing their attitude, smiled, and, crooking his finger, whistled shrilly. The young Ramon trembled. Other gringos were hidden in the arroyo; perhaps the very man that his uncle had robbed! Even now he could hear the click of 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; men who 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 big buckskin horse, Dexter. The horse stopped as he saw the group. Waring spoke to him. The big buckskin stepped forward and nosed Waring, who swung 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 the gringo 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 they were in some hidden fastness of the Agua Fria, and there kill them and leave them to the coyotes? The youth Ramon knew that the two little canvas sacks of gold were cleverly tied in the huge tapaderas of his uncle'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 they thought they were safe! Yet he had not asked about the stolen money. The ways of this gringo were past comprehension.

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

The pack on Ramon's saddle rode too lightly to contain anything heavier than food. There was nothing tied to Vaca's saddle but a frayed and faded 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 canon. As they rode on again, Waring noticed that Vaca did not thrust his foot clear home in the stirrup, but he attributed this to the other's condition. The Mexican was a sick man. His swarthy face had gone yellow, and he leaned forward, clutching the horn. The heat was stagnant, unwavering. The pace was desperately slow.

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

Again Waring heard the Voice, as though from a distance, and yet the voice 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. Waring gestured to him to ride on.

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

Presently Vaca began to sing; softly at first, then with insane vehemence as the fever mounted to his brain. Waring smiled with dry lips. The Mexican had stood the journey well. A white man in Vaca's condition would have gone to pieces hours ago. He called to Ramon, who gave Vaca water. The Mexican drank greedily, and threw the empty canteen into the bushes.

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

Across the northern end of the canon the winnowing heat waves died to the level of the ground. Brown shadows shot from the western wall and spread across the widening outlet. The horses stepped briskly, knowing that they were near water.

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

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

Dogs crowded forward in the dusk, challenging the strange riders. A figure filled the lighted doorway of the Armigo ranch-house. The dogs drew back.

Ramon dismounted and helped his uncle down. Waring sat his horse until Juan Armigo stepped from the doorway and asked who came. Waring answered with his name.

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

Waring dismounted. "Juan, I have two of your friends here; Jose Vaca and Ramon Ortego."

Armigo seemed surprised. "Jose Vaca is wounded?" he queried hesitatingly.

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 Ramon to Sonora. See what you can do for Vaca. He's pretty sick."

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

"With those hombres? Not this journey! Jose Vaca made a mistake; that's all."

Armigo, perturbed, shuffled to the house. Waring unsaddled the horses and turned them into the corral. As he lifted the saddle from Vaca's horse, he hesitated. It was a big stock saddle and heavy; yet it seemed too heavy. On his knees he turned it over, examining it. He smiled grimly as he untied the little canvas sacks and drew them from the tapaderas.

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

He rose and threw some hay to the horses. He could hear Ramon and Armigo talking in the ranch-house. Taking his empty canteen from his own saddle, 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 thousand dollars was a great temptation to a poor rancher. And while Armigo had always professed to be Waring's friend, sympathy of blood and the appeal of money easily come by might change the placid face of things considerably.

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

"Jose and Ramon are your countrymen, Juan."

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

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

"But--senor--"

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

"Senor, it is impossible!"

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

"But, senor, I swear I did not!"

"All right. Then when Ramon rode in here two days ago and asked you for two horses, why didn't you refuse him? Why did you tell him you would sell 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 that will be worth more to you than gold. Don't try to rope any stock grazing round here to-night. I might wake up quick and make a mistake. Men look alike in the moonlight--and we'll have a moon."

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

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

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

"The senor 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 to the other, "pray then that the two horses that you borrowed may return. As for your Uncle Jose, he will not die."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the coolness of night, with its dim radiance of stars, to the accumulated heat of the interior of the adobe was an unpleasant change. The walls were whitewashed and clean enough, but the place smelled strongly of cooking. A lamp burned on the oilcloth-covered table. Ramon, wide-eyed with trepidation, stood by his uncle, who had braced himself on his elbow as Waring approached. Waring nodded pleasantly and rolled a cigarette. Jose 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 the walls; a flaming print of the Madonna, one of the Christ, a cheap photograph of Juan and his senora taken on their wedding day, an abalone shell on which was painted something resembling a horse and rider--

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

Jose 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 the gringo? But Waring was smiling. Did he, then, believe such an obvious lie?

"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, senor."

"All right. Don't sit up all night praying. That won't do any good. Get some 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. With his head on the saddle, he lay gazing up at the stars.

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

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

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

The horse walked slowly away, nosing along the fence. Waring knew that he was well sentineled. The big buckskin would resent the approach of a stranger by snorting. Waring turned on his side and slept. His day's work was done.

Waring was up with the first faint streak of dawn. He threw hay to the horses and strode briskly to the adobe. Juan Armigo was bending over the kitchen stove. Waring nodded to him and stepped to the next room. The Mexicans were asleep; young Ramon lying face down beneath the crucifix on 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 to follow him.

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

"Si, senor. 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 him have it."

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

Juan Armigo nodded, gazing at Waring with crafty eyes. So the gringo was tempted by the gold. He would ride back to Sonora, find the stolen money in the house of Pedro Salazar, and keep it. It would be a very simple thing to do. Young Ramon would be afraid to speak and Jose Vaca would have disappeared. The gringo could swear that he had not found the bandits or the gold. So reasoned Juan, his erstwhile respect for the gunman wavering as the idea became fixed. He grinned at Waring. It would be a good trick; to steal the gold from the stealers. Of a certainty the gringo 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 and
his own.

"Get Jose 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 the
adobe.

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

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

The wounded man raised himself on his elbow, glaring up at Waring with feverish 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 a saddle when you are able to ride."

The bandit's eyes glistened as he watched Waring depart. If the gringo entered the house of Pedro Salazar, he would not find the gold and he would not come out alive. The gringo gunman had killed the brother of Pedro Salazar down in the desert country years ago. And Salazar had had nothing to do with the Ortez Mine robbery. Vaca thought that the gold was still safe in his tapaderas. The gringo was a fool.

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

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

"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 the ranch-house, when Waring reined up.

"Where is that money?" he asked suddenly.

"I do not know, senor."

"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 assuredly 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 assistant 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 God 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 assistant 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 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 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 assistant 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 assistant 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 assistant superintendent's scalp prickled with 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 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.

"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 immaculate handkerchief. The room was hot.

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

Waring pulled up a chair and leaned his elbows on the table. Quigley unscrewed the cap of the canteen. A stream of sand shot across a map. The assistant started to his feet. Quigley shook the canteen and poured out a softly clinking pile of gold-pieces. One by one he sorted them from 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 for me."

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

The assistant rose and left the office. Donovan pulled up a chair. "Never mind about that receipt, Quigley. You can witness that Waring returned 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 your own price for this work. The Eastern office thinks I pay too high. I got a letter yesterday telling me to cut down expenses. This last holdup will make them sore. Here's the proposition. I'll keep you on the pay-roll and charge this thousand up to profit and loss. Nobody knows you recovered this money except Williams, and he'll keep still. Quigley and 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 insult intended to provoke a quarrel that would lead to Waring's dismissal from the service of the Ortez Mines. Or if Waring were to agree to the suggestion, Donovan would have pulled Waring down to his own level.

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

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

Quigley drafted a check and handed it to Donovan to sign. As the paymaster began to gather up the money on the table, Waring pocketed the check 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 were unreadable.

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 you before, 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 in
his hand.

"You ought to know better than to pull a gun on me," said Waring. "Never throw down on a man unless you mean business, Bill."

The door clicked shut.

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

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

Donovan grabbed the telephone and called up the Sonora police.

When in Sonora, Waring frequented the Plaza Hotel. He had arranged with the management that his room should always be ready for him, day or night. The location was advantageous. Nearly all the Americans visiting Sonora and many resident Americans stopped at the Plaza. Waring frequently 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 or mining man. His manner invited no confidences. He was left much to himself. Men who knew him deemed him unaccountable in that he never drank with them and seldom spoke unless spoken to. The employees of the hotel had grown accustomed to his comings and goings, though they seldom knew where he went or definitely when he would return. His mildness of manner 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 in gaining information. Essentially a man of action, silent as to his plans and surmises, yet he could talk well when occasion  emanded.

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 and son living somewhere in the States; that for very good reasons he could not return to the States; that he was a dangerous man, well paid by the Mexican  Government to handle political matters that would not bear public inspection. These rumors came to him from time to time, and because he paid no attention to them they were accepted as facts.

About an hour after he had left Donovan's office, Waring entered the Plaza Hotel, nodded to the clerk, and passed on down the hallway. He knocked 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 edged through the crowd, and was striding on when some one touched his arm. He turned to confront the Mexican youth, Ramon. Waring gestured to Ramon to follow, and they passed on down the street until near the edge of the town. In the shadow of an adobe, Waring stopped.

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

"Well?"

"But it is not that why I come. They told me to go to my home. It was when I was in the prison that the policia talked in the telephone. He spoke your name and the name of Senor Bill Donovan of the Ortez Mine. I heard only your name and his, but I was afraid. You will not tell them that I was with my Uncle Jose?"

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

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

"Oh, here, muchacho--"

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

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

When he opened the door two Sonora policemen told him to put up his hands. Donovan stood back of them, chewing a cigar. One of the policemen took Waring's gun. The other searched the room. Evidently he did not find what he sought.

"When you get through," said Waring, eyeing Donovan grimly, "you might tell 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. His room 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 the Ortez 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 police to 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 expressed innocent surprise. "When did you enroll as a policeman?"

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

"Which means Bill here has had you sworn in to-day. Knew you would like to 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," he concluded. "Pedro Salazar would like the chance, and as a policeman he could 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 the bed, gazing at the curtained window. Life had gone stale. He was sick of hunting men and of being hunted. Pedro Salazar was now a member of the Sonora police through Donovan's efforts. Eventually Salazar would find an excuse to shoot Waring. And the gunman had made up his mind to do no more killing. For that reason he had spared Vaca and had befriended Ramon. He decided to leave Sonora.

Presently he rose and dressed in his desert clothes. As he went through his 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 him that Dex had been taken by the police. That the Senor Bill Donovan and Pedro Salazar had come and shown him a paper,--he could not read,--but he knew the big seal. It was Pedro Salazar who had ridden the horse.

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

Waring paused. Pedro Salazar's house was the only unlighted house in the district. The circumstance hinted of an ambushment. Waring crossed to the deeper shadows and whistled. The call was peculiarly low and cajoling. He was answered by a muffled nickering. His horse Dex was evidently 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 he turned and ran to the corner, dodged round it, and crept along the breast-high adobe wall. He whistled again. A rope snapped, and there came the sound of quick trampling. A rush and the great, tawny shape of Dexter reared in the moonlight and swept over the wall. With head up, the horse snorted a challenge. Waring called softly. The horse wheeled toward him. Waring caught the broken neck-rope and swung up. A flash cut the darkness behind him. Instinctively he turned and threw two shots. A figure crumpled to a dim blur in the corral.

Waring raced down the alley and out into the street. At the livery-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 at Stanley'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 a moment, 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," said Waring. "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 known him. Figure it out yourself."

Back in Pedro Salazar's corral a man lay huddled in a dim corner, his sightless eyes open to the soft radiance of the Sonora moon. A group of Mexicans stood about, jabbering. Among them was Ramon Ortego. Ramon listened and said nothing. Pedro Salazar was dead. No one knew who had killed him. And only that day he had become one of the police! It would go 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 their shoulders and crossed  themselves.

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

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

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

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

Far in the south a moving dot wavered in the sun. Waring swept the southern arc with his glasses. The moving dot was a Mexican, a horseman riding alone. He rode fast. Waring could see the rise and fall of a quirt. "Some one killing a horse to get somewhere," he muttered, and he saddled 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 of a half-mile by the railroad. The glasses discovered the lone horseman to be Ramon, of Sonora. The boy swayed in the saddle as the horse lunged on. Waring knew that something of grave import had sent the boy out into the noon desert. He was at first inclined to let him pass and then ride east toward the Sierra Madre. If the rurales were following, they would trail Dex to the water-hole. And if Ramon rode on north, some of them would trail the Mexican. This would split up the band--decrease the odds by perhaps one half.

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

"Senor, the rurales!" he gasped.

"How far behind?"

"The railroad! They are ahead! They have shipped their horses to Magdalena, 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 good boy, Ramon, but I don't know what in hell to do with you. Your cayuse is played out. You made a good ride."

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

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

"I will ride with the senor."

Waring shook his head.

Ramon's eyes grew desperate. "Senor," he pleaded, "take me with you! I cannot go back. I will be your man--follow you, even into the Great Beyond. 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, senor. 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 his back, his arms outspread and his mouth open. Waring touched him with his boot. Ramon muttered. Waring stooped and pulled him up. \

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

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

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

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

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

"I shall pray," whispered Ramon. "For a fresh horse, then."

"No, senor. 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 senor was a strange man. Even now he hummed a song in the starlight. Was he, then, so unafraid of death that he could sing in the very shadow of its wings?

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

"It is so, senor."

"How do you know?"

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

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

"And still the senor does not hasten!"

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

Ramon bowed his head. The horses plodded on, working up the first gentle slope of the foothills. The brush loomed heavier. A hill star faded on the edge of the higher range. Ramon's lips moved and he crossed himself.

Waring hummed a song. He was not unhappy. The tang of life was his again. Again he followed a trail down which the light feet of Romance ran swiftly. The past, with its red flare of life, its keen memories and dulled 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 rest his horse. Turning, he could distinguish Ramon, who fingered the crucifix at his throat. Waring's face grew grim. He felt suddenly accountable for the boy's life.

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

In a shallow valley, Waring reined up, unsaddled Dex, and turned him loose. 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 Waring as he climbed back to a rocky depression on the crest. Without a word Waring stretched behind a rock and was soon asleep. Ramon wondered at the other's indifference to danger, but fatigue finally overcame him and he 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 into this pocket before daylight. Stay right here till I come back."

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

The young Mexican showed no surprise. He seemed resigned to the situation. "I knew when the senor said to turn my horse loose that he would seek the horses of his kind. He has gone back to the horses of those who follow us."

"You said it" said Waring. "And that's going to bother them. It tells me that the rurales are not far behind. They'll figure that I put you out of business to get rid of you. They'll look for a dead Mexican, and a live gringo riding north, alone. But they're too wise to ride up here. They'll trail up afoot and out of  night. That's your one chance."

"My chance, senor?"

"Yes. Here's some grub. You've got your gun. Drift down the slope, get back of the next ridge, and strike south. Locate their horses and wait till they leave them to come up here. Get a horse. Pick a good one. I'll keep them busy till you get back."

Ramon rose and climbed to the edge of the pocket. "I go," he said sadly. "And I shall never see the senor again."

"Don't bet all you've got on that," said Waring.

When Ramon had disappeared, Waring led Dex back from the pocket, and, saddling him, left him concealed in the brush. Then the gunman crept back to the rim and lay waiting, a handful of rifle shells loose on a flat rock in front of him. He munched some dried meat and drank from the canteen.

The red dawn faded quickly to a keen white light. Heat waves ran over the rocks and danced down the hillside. Waring lighted a match and blackened the front sight of his carbine. The sun rolled up and struck at him, burning into the pocket of rock where he lay motionless gazing down the slope. Sweat beaded his forehead and trickled down his nose. Scattered boulders seemed to move gently. He closed his eyes for an instant. When he opened them he thought he saw a movement in the brush below. The heat burned into his back, and he shrugged his shoulders. A tiny bird flitted past and perched on the dry, dead stalk of a yucca. Again Waring thought he saw a movement in the brush.

Then, as if by magic, the figure of a rural stood clear and straight against the distant background of brownish-green. Waring smiled. He knew that if he were to fire, the rurales would rush him. They suspected some kind of a trap. Waring's one chance was to wait until they had given up every ruse to draw his fire. They were not certain of his whereabouts, but were suspicious of that natural fortress of rock. There was not a rural in Old Mexico who did not know him either personally or by reputation. The fact that one of them had offered himself as a possible target proved that they knew they had to deal with a man as crafty as themselves.

The standing figure, shimmering in the glare, drew back and disappeared.

Waring eased his tense muscles. "Now they'll go back for their horses," he said to himself. "They'll ride up to the next ridge, where they can look down on this pocket, but I won't be here."

Waring planned every move with that care and instinct which marks a good chess-player. And because he had to count upon possibilities far ahead he  threw Ramon's saddle to him and cut the stirrup-leathers, cinchas, and latigos. If Ramon got one of their horses, his own jaded animal would be left. Eventually the rurales would find the saddle and Ramon's horse. And every rural out of the riding would be a factor in their escape.

The sun blazed down until the pocket of rock was a pit of stagnant heat. The silence seemed like an ocean rolling in soundless waves across the hills; a silence that became disturbed by a faint sound as of one approaching cautiously. Waring thought Ramon had shown cleverness in working up to him so quietly. He raised on his elbow and turned his head. On the eastern edge of the pocket stood a rural, and the rural smiled.

Waring, who had known the man in Sonora, called him by name. The other's smile faded, and his eyes narrowed. Waring thrust up his hands and jokingly offered to toss up a coin to decide the issue. He knew his man; knew that at the first false move the rural would kill him. He rose and turned sideways that the other might take his gun. "You win the throw," he said. The Mexican jerked Waring's gun from the holster and cocked it. Then he whistled.

From below came the faint clatter of hoofs. The rural seemed puzzled that his call should have been answered so promptly. He knew that his companions had gone for their horses, picketed some distance from the pocket. He had volunteered to surprise the gunman single-handed.

Waring, gazing beyond the rural, saw the head of a horse top the rise. In the saddle sat Ramon, hatless, his black hair flung back from his forehead, a gun in his hand. Waring drew a deep breath. Would Ramon bungle it by calling out, or would he have nerve enough to make an end of it on the instant?

Although Waring was unarmed, the rural dared not turn. The gringo had been known to slip out of as tight a place despite the threat of a gun almost against his chest. With a despondent shrug, Waring lowered his arms.

"You win the throw," he said hopelessly.

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

A few yards behind the rural, Ramon reined up. Slowly he lowered the muzzle of his gun. The rural called the name of one of his fellows. The answer came in a blunt crash, which rippled its harsh echoes across the sounding hills. The rural flung up his arms and pitched forward, rolling to Waring's feet. The gunman leaped up, and, snatching his carbine from the rock, swung round and took his six-gun from the rural's limp fingers. Plunging to the brush beyond the pocket, he swung to the saddle and shot down the slope. Behind him he could hear Ramon's horse scattering the loose rock of the hillside. A bullet struck ahead of him and whined across the silence. A shrill call told him that the pursuers had discovered the body of their fellow.

Dex, with ears laid back, took the ragged grade in great, uneven leaps that shortened to a regular stride as they gained the level of the valley. Glancing back, Waring saw Ramon but a few yards behind. He signaled to him to ride closer. Together they swung down the valley, dodging the low brush--and leaping rocks at top speed.

Finally Waring reined in. "We'll make for that ridge,"--and he indicated the range west. Under cover of the brush they angled across the valley and began the ascent of the range which hid the western desert.

Halfway up, Waring dismounted. "Lead my horse on up," he told Ramon. "I'll argue it out with 'em here."

"Senor, I have killed a man!" gasped Ramon.

Waring flung the reins to his companion. "All right! This isn't a fiesta, hombre; this is business."

Ramon turned and put his horse up the slope, Dex following. Waring curled behind a rock and swept the valley with his glass. The heads of several rurales were visible in the brush. They had halted and were looking for tracks. Finally one of them raised his arm and pointed toward the hill. They had caught sight of Ramon on the slope above. Presently three riders appeared at the foot of the grade. It was a long shot from where Waring lay. He  centered on the leading rural, allowed for a chance of overshooting, and pressed the trigger. The carbine snarled. An echo ripped the shimmering heat. A horse reared and plunged up the valley, the saddle empty.

Waring rose, and plodded up the slope.

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

In the American custom-house at Nogales sat a lean, lank man gazing out of a window facing the south. His chair was tilted back, and his large feet were crossed on the desk in front of him. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he puffed indolently at a cigar and blew smoke-rings toward the ceiling. Incidentally his name was known throughout the country and beyond its southern borders. But if this distinction affected him in any way it was not evident. He seemed submerged in a lassitude which he neither invited nor struggled against.

A group of riders appeared down the road. The lean man brushed a cloud of smoke away and gazed at them with indifference. They drew nearer. He
saw that they were Mexicans--rurales. Without turning his head, he called to an invisible somebody in the next room.

"Jack, drift over to the cantina and get a drink."

A chair clumped to the floor, and a stocky, dark-faced man appeared, rubbing his eyes. "On who?" he queried, grinning.

"On old man Diaz," replied the lean man.

"All right, Pat. But mebby his credit ain't good on our side of the line."

The lean man said nothing. He continued to gaze out of the window. The white road ran south and south into the very haze of the beyond. His assistant picked up a hat and strolled out. A few doors down the street stood several excellent saddle animals tied to the hitching-rail in front of the cantina. He didn't need to be told that they were the picked horses of the rurales, and that for some strange reason his superior had sent him to find out just why these same rurales were in town.

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

And the assistant collector, listening for a chance word that would explain the presence of armed Mexico on American soil, knew that the proprietor was also listening for that same word that might explain their unprecedented visit. Presently the assistant collector of customs began a tirade against Nogales, its climate, institutions, and citizens collectively and singly. The proprietor awoke to argument. Their talk grew loud. The assistant collector thumped the bar with his fist, and ceased talking suddenly. A subdued buzz came from the corner where the rurales sat, and he caught the name "Waring."

"And the whole town ain't worth the matches to burn it up," he continued. "If it wasn't for Pat, I'd quit right now." And he emptied his glass and strode from the room.

Back in the office, he flung his hat on the table and rumpled his hair. "Those coyotes," he said casually, "are after some one called Waring. Pablo's whiskey is rotten."

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

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

"Got one myself," said the collector unsmilingly. "Cucumbers."

"You're the sweetest liar for a thousand miles either side of the line. There isn't even the picture of a cucumber in this sun-blasted town."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did I ever do to you?"

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

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

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

The talk about Waring and Las Cruces had stirred slumbering memories; memories of night rides in New Mexico, of the cattle war, of blazing noons on the high mesas and black nights in huddled adobe towns; Las Cruces, Albuquerque, Caliente, Santa 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 assistant shoved back his chair and came to the window.

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

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

"Want to meet Waring?" he queried.

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

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

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

Waring gestured toward Ramon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"By whose authority?"

"Mine--representing the United States."

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

"Correct, 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 assistant collector appeared, glanced in, and grinned. "The kid is asleep--in the office," he whispered to the collector.

Waring knew that the flicker of an eyelid, an intonation, a gesture, might precipitate trouble. He also knew that diplomacy was out of the question. He glanced round the room, pushed back his chair, and, rising, stepped to the bar. With his back against it, he faced the captain.

"Miguel," he said quietly, "you're too far over the line. Go home!"

The captain rose. "Your Government shall hear of this!"

"Yes. Wire 'em to-night. And where do you get off? You'll get turned back to the ranks."

"I?"

"Si, Senor Capitan, and because--_you didn't get your man_."

The collector of customs stood with his cigar carefully poised in his left hand. The assistant pushed back his hat and rumpled his black hair.

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

The captain glanced at the two quiet figures in the doorway. Beyond them were his own men, but between him and his command were two of the fastest guns in the Southwest. He was on alien ground. This gringo had insulted him.

Waring waited for the word that burned in the other's eyes.

The collector of customs drew a big silver watch from his waistband. "It's about time--to go feed the horses," he said.

With the sound of his voice the tension relaxed. Waring eyed the captain as though waiting for him to depart. "You'll find that horse in the corral--back of the customs office," he said.

The Mexican swung round and strode out, followed by his man.

The rurales mounted and rode down the street. The three Americans followed a few paces behind. Opposite the office, they paused.

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

The assistant hesitated.

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

When the assistant had gone, the collector turned to Waring. "That's Jack every time. Stubborn as a tight boot, but good leather every time. Know why he wanted to shake hands? Well, that's his way of tellin' you he thinks you're some smooth for not pullin' a fight when it looked like nothing else was on the bill."

Waring smiled. "I've met you before, haven't I?"

Pat pretended to ignore the question. "Say, stranger," he began with slow emphasis, "you're makin' mighty free and familiar for a prisoner arrested for smuggling. Mebby you're all right personal, but officially I got a case against you. What do you know about raising cucumbers? I got a catalogue in the office, and me and Jack has been aiming to raise cucumbers from it for three months. I like 'em. Jack says you can't do it down here without water every day. Now--"

"Where have you planted them, Pat?"

"Oh, hell! They ain't _planted_ yet. We're just figuring. Now, up Las Cruces way--"

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

"Was the kid mixed up in your getaway?"

"Yes. And he's a good boy."

"Well, he's in dam' bad company. Now, Jack says you got to plant 'em in hills and irrigate. I aim to just drill 'em in and let the A'mighty do the rest. What do you think?"

"I think you're getting worse as you grow older, Pat. Say, did you ever get track of that roan mare you lost up at Las Cruces?"

"Yes, I got her back."

"Speaking of horses, I saw a pinto down in Sonora--"

Just then the assistant joined them, and they sauntered to the cantina. Dex, tied at the rail, turned and gazed at them. Waring took the morral of grain from the saddle, and, slipping Dex's bridle, adjusted it.

The rugged, lean face of the collector beamed. "I wondered if you thought as much of 'em as you used to. I aimed to see if I could make you forget to feed that cayuse."

"How about those goats in your own corral?" laughed Waring.

"Kind of a complimentary cuss, ain't he?" queried Pat, turning to his assistant. "And he don't know a dam' thing about cucumbers."

"You old-timers give me a pain," said the assistant, grinning.

"That's right! Because you can't set down to a meal without both your hands and feet agoing and one ear laid back, you call us old because we chew slow. But you're right. Jim and I are getting kind of gray around the ears."

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

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

Waring and the collector entered the cantina. For a long time they sat in silence, gazing at the peculiar half-lights as the sun drew down. Finally the collector turned to Waring.

"Has the game gone stale, Jim?"

Waring nodded. "I'm through. I am going to settle down. I've had my share of trouble."

"Here, too," said the collector. "I've put by enough to get a little place up north--cattle--and take it easy. That's why I stuck it out down here. Had any word from your folks recent?"

"Not for ten years."

"And that boy trailing with you?"

"Oh, he's just a kid I picked up in Sonora. No, my own boy is straight American, if he's living now."

"You might stop by at Stacey, on the Santa Fe," said the collector casually. "There's some folks running a hotel up there that you used to know."

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

"We'll get Jack to rustle some grub. You and the boy can bunk in the office. I'll take care of your horse."

"Thanks, Pat. But you spoke of going north. I wouldn't if I were you. They'll get you."

"I had thought of that. But I'm going to take that same chance. I'm plumb sick of the border."

"If they do--" And Waring rose.

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

And that night, because each was a gunman unsurpassed in his grim profession, they laughed and talked about things trivial, leaving the deeper currents undisturbed. And the assistant collector, eating with them in the adobe back of the office, wondered that two such men found nothing more serious to talk about than the breeding of horses and the growing of garden truck.

Late that night the assistant awoke to find that the collector was not in bed. He rose and stalked to the window. Across from the adobe he saw the grim face of the collector framed in the office window. He was smoking a cigar and gazing toward the south, his long arm resting on the sill and his chin in his hand.

"Ole fool!" muttered the assistant affectionately. "That there Jim Waring must sure be some hombre to make Pat lose any sleep."

The interior of the little desert hotel at Stacey, Arizona, atoned for its bleached and weather-worn exterior by a refreshing neatness that was almost startling in contrast to the warped board front with its painted sign scaled by the sun.

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

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

She rearranged the flowers, and was stepping back to view the effect when something caused her to turn and glance toward the office. There had been no sound, yet in the doorway stood a man--evidently a rider. He was looking at the calendar on the office wall. Mrs. Adams stepped toward him. The man turned and smiled. She gazed with awakening astonishment at the dusty, khaki-clad figure, the cool gray eyes beneath the high-crowned sombrero, and last at the extended hand. Without meeting the man's eyes, she shook hands.

"Jim! How did you know?" she queried, her voice trembling.

"I heard of you at Nogales. I wasn't looking for you--then. You have a right pleasant place here. Yours?"

She nodded.

"I came to see the boy," he said. "I'm not here for long."

"Oh, Jim! Lorry is so big and strong--and--and he's working for the Starr outfit over west of here."

"Cattle, eh? Is he a good boy?"

"A nice question for you to ask! Lorry rides a straighter trail than his father did."

The man laughed and patted her shoulder affectionately. "You needn't have said that, Annie. You knew what I was when I married you. And no man ever said I wasn't straight. Just what made you leave Sonora without saying a word? Didn't I always treat you well?"

"I must say that you did, Jim. You never spoke a rough word to me in your life. I wish you had. You'd be away for weeks, and then come back and tell me it was all right, which meant that you'd 'got your man,' as they say down there. At first I was too happy to care. And when the baby came and I tried to get you to give up hiring out to men who wanted killing done,--for that's what it was,--you kept telling me that some day you would quit. Maybe they did pay big, but you could have been anything else you wanted to. You came of good folks and had education. But you couldn't live happy without that excitement. And you thought I was happy because you were. Why, even up here in Arizona they sing 'Waring of Sonora-Town.' Our boy sings it, and I have to listen, knowing that it is you he sings about. I was afraid of you, Jim, and afraid our boy would grow up to be like you."

Waring nodded. "I'm not blaming you, Annie. I asked why you left me--without a word or an address. Do you think that was square?"

Mrs. Adams, flushed, and the tears came to her eyes. "I didn't dare think about that part of it. I was afraid of you. I got so I couldn't sleep, worrying about what might happen to you when you were away. And you always came back, but you never said where you'd been or what you'd done. I couldn't stand it. If you had only told me--even about the men--that you were paid to kill, I might have stood it. But you never said a word. The wives of the American folks down there wouldn't speak to me. And the Mexican women hated me. I was the wife of Jim Waring, 'the killer.' I think I went crazy."

"Well, I never did believe in talking shop, Annie."

"That's just it. You were always polite--and calling what you did, 'shop'! I don't believe you ever cared for a single person on this earth!"

"You ought to know, Annie. But we won't argue that. Don't act as though you had to defend yourself. I am not blaming you--now. You have explained. I did miss the boy, though. Are you doing well here?"

"It was hard work at first. But I never did write to father to help me."

"You might have written to me. When did the boy go to work? He's eighteen, isn't he?"

Mrs. Adams smiled despite herself. "Yes, this fall. He started in with the Starr people at the spring round-up."

"Couldn't he help you here?"

"He did. But he's not the kind to hang round a hotel. He's all man--if I do say it." And Mrs. Adams glanced at her husband. In his lithe, well-set-up figure she saw what her son would be at forty. "Yes, Jim, he's man size--and I've raised him to go straight."

Waring laughed. "Of course you have! What name will I sign, Annie?"

"Folks here call me Mrs. Adams."

"So you're Annie Adams again! Well, here's your husband's name, if you don't mind." And he signed the register, "James Waring, Sonora, Mexico."

"Isn't that risky?" she queried.

"No one knows me up here. And I don't intend to stay long. I'd like to see the boy."

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

"You know me better than that. You quit me down there, and I won't say that I liked it. I wondered how you'd get along. You left no word. When I realized that you must have wanted to leave me, that settled it.

Following you would have done no good, even if I had known where you had gone. I was free. And a gunman has no business with a family."

"You might have thought about that before you came courting me."

"I did. Didn't you?"

"You're hard, Jim. I was just a girl. Any woman would have been glad to marry you then. But when I got sense enough to see how you earned your money--I just had to leave. I was afraid to tell you--"

"There, now, Annie; we'll let that go. I won't say that I don't care, but I've been mighty busy since you left. I didn't know where you were until I hit Nogales. I wanted to see you and the boy. And I'm as hungry as a grizzly."

"Anita is getting supper. Some of the folks in town board here. They'll be coming in soon."

"All right. I'm a stranger. I rode over. I'd like to wash up."

"You rode over?"

"Yes. Why not? I know the country."

Mrs. Adams turned and gestured toward the stairway. She followed him and showed him to a room. So he hadn't come in on the Overland, but had ridden up from Sonora. Why had he undertaken such a long, weary ride? Surely he could have taken the train! She had never known him to be without money. But he had always been unaccountable, coming and going when he pleased, saying little, always serene. And now he had not said why he had ridden up from Sonora. "Why not?" was all that he had said in explanation.

He swung out of his coat and washed vigorously, thrusting his fingers through his short, curly hair and shaking his head in boyish enjoyment that was refreshing to watch. She noticed that he had not aged much. He seemed too cool, too self-possessed always, to show even the ordinary trace of years. She could not understand him; yet she was surprised by a glow of affection for him now that he had returned. As he dried his head she saw that his hair was tinged with gray, although his face was lined but little and his gray eyes were as keen and quick as ever. If he had only shared even that part of his life with her--down there!

"Jim!" she whispered.

He turned as he took up his coat. "Yes, Annie?"

"If you would only promise--"

He shook his head. "I won't do that. I didn't come to ask anything of you except to see the boy But if you need money--"

"No. Not that kind of money."

"All right, girl." And his voice was cheery. "I didn't come here to make you feel bad. And I won't be here long. Can't we be friends while I'm here? Of course the boy will know. But no one else need know. And--you better see to the folks downstairs. Some one just came in."

She turned and walked down the hall, wondering if he had ever cared for her, and wondering if her boy, Lorry, would ever come to possess that almost unhuman quality of intense alertness, that incomprehensible coolness that never allowed him to forget what he was for an instant.

When Waring came down she did not introduce him to the boarders, a fact that sheriff Buck Hardy, who dined at the hotel, noted with some interest. The men ate hastily, rose, and departed, leaving Hardy and Waring, who called for a second cup of coffee and rolled a cigarette while waiting.

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

Waring sat with his unlighted cigarette between his fingers. The sheriff proffered a match. Their eyes met. Waring nodded his thanks and blew a smoke-ring.

"How are things down in Sonora?" queried Hardy.

"Quiet."

Mrs. Adams questioned Waring with her eyes. He nodded. "This is Mr. Waring," she said, rising. "This is Mr. Hardy, our sheriff."

The men shook hands. "Mrs. Adams is a good cook," said Waring.

A clatter of hoofs and the sound of a cheery voice broke the silence.

A young cowboy jingled into the room. "Hello, Buck! Hello, mother!" And Lorry Adams strode up and kissed his mother heartily. "Got a runnin' chance to come to town and I came--runnin'. How's everything?"

Mrs. Adams murmured a reply. Buck Hardy was watching Waring as he glanced up at the boy. The sheriff pulled a cigar from his vest and lighted it. In the street he paused in his stride, gazing at the end of his cigar. Lorry Adams looked mighty like Jim Waring, of Sonora. Hardy had heard that Waring had been killed down in the southern country. Some one had made a mistake.

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

Lorry noticed that his mother seemed perturbed. He turned to Waring with a questioning challenge in his gray eyes.

Mrs. Adams touched the boy's arm. "This is your father, Lorry."

Lorry glanced from one to the other.

Waring made no movement, offered no greeting, but stood politely impassive.

Mrs. Adams spoke gently: "Lorry!"

"Why, hello, dad!" And the boy shook hands with his father.

Waring gestured toward a chair. Lorry sat down. His eyes were warm with mild astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lorry flushed. "I--I guess you are," he stammered. "Mother, you never told me that."

"You were too young to understand, Lorry."

"And is that why you left him?"

"Yes."

"Well, maybe you were right. But dad sure looks like a pretty decent hombre to me."

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

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

Lorry rose.

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

Mrs. Adams put her arm about her son's shoulders. "Your father is a hard man," she told him.

"Was he mean to you, mother?"

"No--never that."

"Well, I don't understand it. He looks like a real man to me. Why did he come back?"

"He said he came back to see you."

"Well, he's my father, anyway," said Lorry.

In the low hills west of Stacey, Lorry was looking for strays. He worked alone, whistling as he rode, swinging his glasses on this and that arroyo and singling out the infrequent clumps of greasewood for a touch of brighter color in their shadows. He urged his pony from crest to crest, carelessly easy in the saddle, alive to his work, and quietly happy in the lone freedom of thought and action.

He felt a bit proud of himself that morning. Only last night he had learned that he was the son of Waring of Sonora; a name to live up to, if Western standards meant anything, and he thought they did.

The fact that he was the son of James Waring overcame for the time being the vague disquietude of mind attending his knowledge that his mother and father had become estranged. He thought he understood now why his mother had made him promise to go unarmed upon the range. His companions, to the last man, "packed a gun."

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

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

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

For some time he focused his gaze at the Notch, from which the road sprang and flowed in slow undulations to a vanishing point in the blank spaces of the west. His pony, Gray Leg, head up and nostrils working, twitched back one ear as Lorry spoke: "You see it, too?"

Gray Leg continued to gaze into the distance, occasionally stamping an impatient forefoot, as though anxious to be off. Lorry lowered his glass and raised it again. In the circle of the binoculars he saw a tiny, distant figure dismount from a black horse and walk back and forth across the road directly below the Notch. Lorry wiped his glasses and centered them on the Notch again. The horseman had led his horse to a clump of brush. Presently the twinkling  front of an automobile appeared--a miniature machine that wormed slowly through the Notch and descended the short pitch beyond. Suddenly the car swerved and stopped. Lorry saw a flutter of white near the machine. Then the concealed horseman appeared on foot. Lorry slipped the glass in his shirt.

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

Gray Leg, scenting a new interest, tucked himself together. The sand sprayed to little puffs of dust as he swung to a lope.

Lorry was curious--and a bit elated at the promise of a break in the monotony of hunting stray cattle. Probably some Eastern tourist had taken the grade below the Notch too fast and ditched his machine. Lorry would ride over and help him to right the car and set the pilgrim on his way rejoicing. He had helped to right cars before. Last month, for instance; that big car with the uniformed driver and the wonderfully gowned women. He recalled the fact that one of them had been absolutely beautiful, despite her strange mufflings. She had offered to pay him for his trouble. When he refused she had thanked him eloquently with her fine eyes and thrown him a kiss as he turned to go. She had thrown that kiss with two hands! There was nothing stingy about that lady!

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

The pony loped toward the Notch, quite as eager as his rider to attend a performance that promised action. Within a half-mile of the Notch, Lorry pulled the pony to a walk. Just beyond the car he had seen the head and ears of a horse. The rider was afoot, talking to the folks in the car. This didn't look quite right.

He worked his pony through the shoulder-high brush until within a few yards of the other man, who was evidently unwelcome. One of the two women stood in front of the other as though to shield her.

Lorry took down his rope just as the younger of the two women saw his head above the brush. The strange horseman, noting her expression, turned quickly. Lorry's pony jumped at the thrust of the spurs. The rope circled like a swallow and settled lightly on the man's shoulders. The pony wheeled. The blunt report of a gun punctured the silence, followed by the long-drawn ripping of brush and the snorting of the pony.

The man was dragging and clutching at the brush. He had dropped his gun. Lorry dug the spurs into Gray Leg. The rope came taut with a jerk. The man rolled over, his hands snatching at the noose about his neck. Lorry dismounted and ran to him. He eased the loop, and swiftly slipped it over the man's feet.

Gray Leg, who knew how to keep a rope taut better than anything else, slowly circled the fallen man. Lorry picked up the gun and strode over to the car. One of the women was crouching on the running-board. In front of her, pale, straight, stiffly indignant, stood a young woman whose eyes challenged Lorry's approach.

"It's all right, miss. He won't bother you now."

"Is he dead?" queried the girl.

"I reckon not."

"I heard a shot. I thought you killed him."

"No, ma'am. He took a crack at me. I don't pack a gun."

"You're a cowboy?" And the girl laughed nervously, despite her effort to hold herself together.

"I aim to be," said Lorry, a trifle brusquely.

The elder woman peered through her fingers. "Another one!" she moaned.

"No, mother. This one is a cowboy. It's all right."

"It sure is. What was his game?"

"He told us to give him our money."

"Uh-uh. This is the second holdup here at the Notch this summer."

"He's trying to get up!" exclaimed the girl.

"My hoss'll take care of him."

"But your horse might drag him to death."

"Well, it's his own funeral, ain't it?"

The girl's eyes grew big. She stepped back. If she had only said something Lorry would have felt better. As it was he felt decidedly uncomfortable.

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

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

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

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

Lorry stepped to the car to examine it.

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

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

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

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

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

Lorry grinned. A minute or two ago she had been afraid that the man wouldn't get up. Lorry slipped the rope from the man's ankles and tied it to the front axle. The girl got in the car. The pony buckled to his work. The machine stuttered and purred. With a lurch it swung back into the road. The girl's mother rose, brushed her skirt, and stepped to the car. Lorry unfastened the rope and reined to one side.

The car steered badly. The girl stopped it and beckoned to Lorry.

"There's something wrong with the steering-gear. Are the roads good from here to the next town?"

"Not too good. There's some heavy sand about a mile west."

She bit her lip. "Well, I suppose we'll have to turn back."

"You could get to Stacey, ma'am. You could get your car fixed, and my mother runs the hotel there. It's a good place to stop."

"How far?"

"About eight miles. Three miles back the road forks and the left-hand road goes to town. The regular automobile road don't go to Stacey."

"Well, I suppose there is nothing else to do. I'll try and turn around." And the girl backed the car and swung round in a wavering arc. When the car faced the east she stopped it.

Lorry rode alongside. She thanked him for his services. "And please don't do anything to that man," she pleaded. "He has been punished enough. You almost killed him. He looked so wretched. Can't you give him a good talking to and let him go?"

"I could, ma'am. But it ain't right. He'll try this here stunt again. There's a reward out for him."

"But won't you--please!"

Lorry flushed. "You got a good heart all right, but you ain't been long in the West. Such as him steals hosses and holds up folks and robs trains--"

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

"I reckon any man is an officer when wimmin-folk is gettin' robbed. And I aim to put him where he belongs."

"Thank you for helping us," said the girl's mother.

"You're right welcome, ma'am." And, raising his hat, Lorry turned and rode to where the man lay.

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

"What you got to say about my turnin' you loose?" he queried as the other sat up.

"Nothin'."

"All right. Get a movin'--and don't try to run. I got my rope handy."

The man's rusty black coat was torn and wrinkled. His cheap cotton shirt was faded and buttonless. His boots were split at the sole, showing part of a bare foot. He was grimy, unshaven, and puffed unhealthily beneath the eyes. Lorry knew that he was but an indifferent rider without seeing him on a horse. He was a typical railroad tramp, turned highwayman.

"Got another gun on you?" queried Lorry.

The man shook his head.

"Where'd you steal that horse?"

"Who says I stole him?"

"I do. He's a Starr horse. He was turned out account of goin' lame. Hop along. I'll take care of him."

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

They approached a low ridge and worked up a winding cattle trail. On the crest Lorry reined up. The man sat down, breathing heavily.

"What you callin' yourself?" asked Lorry.

"A dam' fool."

"I knew that. Anything else?"

"Waco--mebby."

"Waco, eh? Well, that's an insult to Texas. What's your idea in holdin' up wimmin-folk, anyhow?"

"Mebby you'd hold up anybody if you hadn't et since yesterday morning."

"Think I believe that?"

"Suit yourself. You got me down."

"Well, you can get up and get movin'."

The man rose. He shuffled forward, limping heavily. Occasionally he stopped and turned to meet a level gaze that was impersonal; that promised nothing. Lorry would have liked to let the other ride. The man was suffering--and to ride would save time. But the black, a rangy, quick-stepping animal, was faster than Gray Leg. But what if the man did escape? No one need know about it. Yet Lorry knew that he was doing right in arresting him. In fact, he felt a kind of secret pride in making the capture. It would give him a name among his fellows. But was there any glory in arresting such a man?

Lorry recalled the other's wild shot as he was whirled through the brush. "He sure tried to get me!" Lorry argued. "And any man that'd hold up wimmin ought to be in the calaboose--"

The trail meandered down the hillside and out across a barren flat. Halfway across the flat the trail forked. Lorry had ceased to whistle. At the fork his pony stopped of its own accord. The man turned questioningly. Lorry gestured toward the right-hand trail. The man staggered on. The horses fretted at the slow pace. Keen to anticipate some trickery, Lorry hardened himself to the other's condition. Perhaps the man was hungry, sick, suffering. Well, a mile beyond was the water-hole. The left-hand trail led directly to Stacey, but there was no water along that trail.

They moved on across a stretch of higher land that swept in a gentle, sage-dotted slope to the far hills. Midway across the slope was a bare spot burning like white fire in the desert sun. It was the water-hole. The trail became paralleled by other trails, narrow and rutted by countless hoofs.

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

The man drank, and Lorry helped him up and across the sand to the rim of the water-hole. The man gazed at the shimmering pool with blurred eyes.

Lorry rolled a cigarette. "Roll one?" he queried.

The man Waco took the proffered tobacco and papers. His weariness seemed to vanish as he smoked. "That pill sure saved my life," he asserted.

"How much you reckon your life's worth?"

Waco blew a smoke-ring and nodded toward it as it dissolved. Lorry pondered. The keen edge of his interest in the capture had worn off, leaving a blunt purpose--a duty that was part of the day's work. As he realized how much the other was at his mercy a tinge of sympathy softened his gray eyes. Justice was undeniably a fine thing. Folks were entitled to the pursuit of happiness, to life and liberty he had read somewhere. He glanced up. Waco, seated opposite, had drifted back into a stupor, head sunk forward and arms relaxed. The stub of his cigarette lay smouldering between his feet. Lorry thought of the girl's appeal.

"Just what started you to workin' this holdup game?" he queried.

Waco's head came up. "You joshin' me?"

"Nope."

"You wouldn't believe a hard-luck story, so what's the use?"

"Ain't any. I was just askin' a question. Roll another?"

Waco stuck out his grimy paw. His fingers trembled as he fumbled the tobacco and papers.

Lorry proffered a match. "It makes me sick to see a husky like you all shot to pieces," said Lorry.

"Did you just get wise to that?"

"Nope. But I just took time to say it."

Waco breathed deep, inhaling the smoke. "I been crooked all my life," he asserted.

"I can believe that. 'Course you know I'm takin' you to Stacey."

"The left-hand trail was quicker," ventured the tramp.

"And no water."

"I could ride," suggested Waco.

Lorry shook his head. "If you was to make a break I'd just nacherally plug you. I got your gun. You're safer afoot."

"I'll promise--"

"Nope. You're too willin'."

"I'm all in," said Waco.

"I got to take you to Stacey just the same."

"And you're doin' it for the money--the reward."

"That's my business."

"Go ahead," said the tramp. "I hope you have a good time blowin' in the dough. Blood-money changes easy to booze-money when a lot of cow-chasers get their hooks on it."

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

"That's the way with you guys that do nothin' but chase a cow's tail over the country. You handle folks the same as stock--rough stuff and to hell with their feelin's."

"You're feelin' better," said Lorry. "Stand up and get to goin'."

As Waco rose, Lorry's pony nickered. A rider was coming down the distant northern hillside. In the fluttering silken bandanna and the twinkle of silver-studded trappings Lorry recognized the foreman of the Starr Rancho; Bob Brewster, known for his arrogance as "High-Chin Bob."

"Guess we'll wait a minute," said Lorry.

Waco saw the rider, and asked who he was.

"It's High Chin, the foreman. You been ridin' one of his string of horses--the black there."

"He's your boss?"

"Yes. And I'm right sorry he's ridin' into this camp. You was talkin' of feelin's. Well, he ain't got any."

Brewster loped up and dismounted. "What's your tally, kid?"

Lorry shook his head. "Only this," he said jokingly.

Brewster glanced at Waco. "Maverick, all right. Where'd you rope _him_?"

"I run onto him holdin' up some tourists down by the Notch. I'm driftin' him over to Stacey."

High Chin's eyes narrowed. "Was he ridin' that horse?" And he pointed to the black.

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

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

With his arm outflung the tramp staggered up to the foreman. "I come back--to tell you--that I'm going to live to get you right. I got a hunch that all hell can't beat out. I'll get you!"

"We won't have any trouble," said Waring.

High Chin whirled his horse round. "What's it to you? Who are you, buttin' in on this?"

"My name is Waring. I used to mill around Sonora once."

High Chin blinked. He knew that name. Slowly he realized that the man on the big buckskin meant what he said when he asserted that there would be no trouble.

"Well, I'm foreman of the Starr, and you're fired!" he told Lorry.

"That's no news," said Lorry, grinning.

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

"Not this journey," said Waring, pushing his horse between them. "The boy don't pack a gun. I do."

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

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

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

Waring made no movement, but sat quietly watching the other's gun hand. "You have your gun?" he said, as though asking a question. "If you mean business, go ahead. I'll let you get your gun out--and then I'll get you--and you know it!" And with insulting ease he flicked his burned-out cigarette in the foreman's face.

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

Waring sat watching him until Lorry spoke.

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

"But not on an even break," said Waring. "Get that hombre on his horse. He's in bad shape."

Lorry helped Waco to mount. They rode toward Stacey.

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

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

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

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

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

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 apron, 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 assured 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 passed 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-fashioned wash in a real, old-fashioned 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 shivered 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 shimmering 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 glass.

"I am going to make him sorry he refused to let that man go," she told the mirror. "Oh, I shall be nice to him! So nice that--" She did not complete the thought. She was naturally gracious. When she set out to be exceptionally nice--"Oo, la, la!" she exclaimed. "And he's nothing but a cowboy!"

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

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

After supper that evening Mrs. Weston and Alice were introduced to Waring, who came in late. Waring chatted with Mrs. Weston out on the veranda in the cool of the evening. Alice was surprised that her mother seemed 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 that she had never seen a gold mine, but that her husband owned some stock in one of the richest mines in Old Mexico. Waring grew enthusiastic as he described mine operating in detail, touching the subject with the ease of experience, yet lightly enough to avoid wearisome technicalities. The girl listened, occasionally stealing a glance at the man's profile in the dusk. She thought the boy Lorry looked exceedingly like Mr. Waring.

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

Presently Lorry rose and strode across the street to the station. He talked with the agent, who showed him a telegraph duplicate for an order on Albuquerque covering a steering-knuckle for an automobile. When Lorry reappeared he was whistling. It would take some time for that steering-knuckle to arrive. Meanwhile, he was out of work, and the Westons 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 to ride. He was rather inclined to think that her mother did not. He would suggest a trip to the Horseshoe Mountains, as it would be pretty dull at the hotel. Nothing but cowboys and Indians riding in and out of town. But there were some Hopi ruins over in the Horseshoe. Most Easterners were interested in ruins. He wished that the Hopis had left a ruin somewhat nearer town.

Yet withal, Lorry was proud to think that his father could be so interesting to real Easterners. If they only knew who his father was! Lorry's train of thought was making pretty good time when he checked it suddenly. Folks in town didn't know that Waring was his father. And "The whole 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 Ortez Mine, 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 never imagined it could be so charming."

"We have some hill country west of here worth looking at. If you intend to 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 look for Mrs. Adams.

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

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

The Westons finally went to their rooms. Lorry, out of sorts with himself 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 post confidentially. "And then she forgot I was livin' in the same county--after supper. And she did it a-purpose. I reckon she's tryin' to even up with me for jailin' that hobo after she said 'please.' Well, two can play at that even-up game."

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

"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's such fun to watch his eyes when he smiles. He is really good-looking and interesting, because he hasn't been tamed. I don't think he has any real feeling, though, or he wouldn't have brought that poor creature to Stacey and put him in jail. But Mr. Waring is different. He seems so quiet 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 tiptoed downstairs again and out into the night. He found Buck Hardy in a saloon up the street. Men in the saloon joked with Lorry about his capture. He seldom drank, but to-night he did not refuse Hardy's invitation to have something." While they were chatting a rider from the Starr Rancho came 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, was coming to town that night and "put one over" on the sheriff by stealing the prisoner.

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

Lorry's first idea was to report all this to Buck Hardy. But he feared ridicule. 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 Chin heard that he had done so, he would be out of a job. And there was the reward. If the prisoner's identity was proven, Lorry would get the reward. The cowboy didn't want to see Lorry lose such easy money.

The subject seemed to require some liquidation, and Lorry finally decided that he himself was the only and legal custodian of the prisoner. As for the reward--shucks! He didn't want blood-money. But High 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 the hills, was too excited to sleep. She drew a chair to the window, and sat back where she could view the vague outline of the hills and a world filled with glowing stars. The town was silent, save for the occasional opening or closing of a door and the infrequent sound of feet on the sidewalk. She forgot the hazards of the day in dreaming of the West; no longer a picture out of books, but a reality. She scarcely noticed the quiet figure that came round the opposite corner and passed into the shadows of the jail across the street. She heard the clink of a chain and a sharp, tearing sound as of wood being rent asunder. She peered from her window, trying to see what was going on in the shadows.

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

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

She saw one of the figures creep along the opposite wall and shuffle across the street. She felt like calling out. Instead she rose and opened her door. She would tell her mother. But what good would that do? She returned to the window. Lorry, standing on the street corner, seemed to be watching an  invisible something far down the street. Alice Weston heard the sound of running horses. A group of cowboys galloped up. She heard 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 the worst of it is," he soliloquized, "she'll think I did it because she asked me to let him go. Guess I been steppin' on my foot the whole dog-gone day."

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

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

He answered their greeting with a cheery "Good-mornin'," and immediately turned 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 own plain riding-skirt and blouse appear rather countrified. And after breakfast Lorry watched the preparations for the ride with a critical eye. No one would know whether or not he cared to go. They seemed to have taken it for granted that he would. He whistled softly, and shook his 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 got into him lately."

Back at the hotel Lorry was leaning against the veranda rail, talking to Mrs. Weston. "I reckon it will be kind of tame for you, ma'am. I was wondering, now, if you would let me look over that machine. I've helped fix '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 resembled Waring so closely that Mrs. Weston remarked it aloud.

Lorry flushed. "I think Mr. Waring is a right good-lookin' man, don't you?"

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'd feel some proud if I was her mother."

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Weston stepped into the car, which was parked on the south side of the building. Lorry, whistling blithely, searched until he found a wrench in one of the forward-door pockets. He disappeared beneath the car. Mrs. Weston could hear him tinkering at something. She leaned back, breathing deep of the clean, thin air. She could not recall having felt so thoroughly content and keenly alive at the same time. She had no desire to say or do anything.

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

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

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

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

"Well, who'd 'a' kept you company, ma'am? Anita, she's busy. Anyhow, I seen 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, what difference does it make how old a lady is, if she is pretty?"

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

"Me! Why, not so anybody could hear 'em. Now, I think my mother is right pretty, 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 seen you kind of raise your eyebrows, and I thought mebby I was bein' took as a joke."

"Oh, no, indeed!"

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

With some pieces of timber Lorry jacked up the front of the machine and removed 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 the car. Mrs. Weston consented, deciding that she would not pay him until her daughter returned.

He attached the hose to a faucet, and suggested that Mrs. Weston take a chair, which he brought from the veranda. He hosed the car, and as he polished 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 of Sonora-Town? It's a whizzer. Well, that's him. All the cowboys sing that song."

"I have never heard it."

"Well, mebby dad wouldn't like that I sing it. He's kind of funny that way. 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 was sayin'. 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 my mother, and they went to live in Sonora, down in Mexico. Some of the minin' outfits down there hired him regular to--to protect their interests. I guess ma couldn't stand that kind of life, for after a few years she brought me up here. I was just a kid then. Ma she built up a good trade at this hotel. Folks call her Mrs. Adams. Her name was Adams afore she got married. We been here ten years. Dad didn't know where she was till last week he showed up here. I reckon she thought he got killed long 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 up to 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, she shines 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 them talking at the rear of the hotel shortly after Sheriff Hardy had inquired for Lorry. Several townsfolk came in, ate, and departed on their several ways.

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

The town was quiet. A hand-car with its section crew of Mexicans clicked past, and hummed on down the glittering rails. A stray burro meandered
about, and finally came to a stop in the middle of the street, where he stood, stoically enduring the sun, a veritable long-eared statue of dejection. Mrs. Weston turned a page, but the printed word was flat and insignificant.

She felt as though she were in a kind of twilight valley, midway between the hills of slumber and wakefulness. For the moment she forgot the name of the town itself. She knew that she could recall it if she tried. A dog lay asleep beneath the station platform opposite, one relaxed paw over his nose. Some one was calling to some one in the kitchen. A figure passed 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 him work, rather enjoying his energy. A healthy young animal as unsophisticated as a kitten, and really innately kind and innocent of intent to flatter. He was not at all like the bright young savage who had roped and almost choked to death that awful man.

It was impossible to judge a person at first sight and especially under unusual circumstances. And he seemed not at all chagrined that he had not gone with the others to the hills. Alice had enjoyed reading about Westerners--rough, boisterous beings intolerable to Mrs. Weston even in print. And Mrs. Weston thought that proper environment and association might bring out their better qualities, even as the boy, Lorry, seemed to have improved--well, since yesterday morning. Perhaps he was on his good behavior because they were there.

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

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

A few blocks up the street, Buck Hardy was seated in his office talking with the undersheriff. The undersheriff twisted the end of his black mustache and looked wise.

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

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

"That hobo was gone when I went to talk to him this morning. The lock was 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 both stations. 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 always had 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 him that'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 put High-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 walloped High 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's interested in young Adams a whole lot."

When Hardy and his deputy rode over to the hotel there was a pause in the chatter. Alice Weston was describing their journey to her mother and calling upon Waring to substantiate her vivid assertions of the wonderful adventure. The saddle-horse still stood at the hitching-rail, and Hardy, who had an eye for a good horse, openly admired the big buckskin. Waring was talking with Lorry. Mrs. Adams had gone in. Hardy indicated that he wanted to speak to Lorry, and he included Waring in his gesture. Lorry rose and glanced quickly at Alice Weston. She was leaning forward in her chair, suddenly aware of a subtle undercurrent of seriousness. 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' a tramp."

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

"Well, if you want to know, in company," said Lorry, "High Chin and the boys had it framed up to give that hobo a goin'-over for stealin' a Starr horse. They figured to bust in the jail, same as I did. I got that straight; 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 get him."

"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, and the folks over there won't appear against him, how could you prove anything?"

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

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

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

"You're right, Hardy."

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

"Two of my boys are out looking for the man. You're under arrest till he is 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 sat watching them. She could not hear what they were saying, but their attitudes 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 veranda steps 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 way the 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 step on the stairway behind her. She turned her head slightly. Lorry, booted and spurred, stood just within the doorway. He had something in his hand; a peculiarly shaped bundle wrapped loosely in a newspaper. Hardy was talking to Waring. The undersheriff was standing close to Waring's horse. Alice Weston had seen the glint in Lorry's eyes. She held her breath.

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

Alice Weston had risen. The undersheriff grabbed the reins of the horse nearest him and mounted. Hardy ran to the other horse. Side by side they raced 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 answer the girl's question.

"Lorry and the sheriff had a little argument. Lorry didn't wait to finish it. It was something about that hobo that bothered you yesterday."

Alice crushed her handkerchief to her mouth. "I--shall we get ready for dinner?" 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't make 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 notice what 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 thirty miles 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 she confessed to herself that the event of Lorry's escape would have been much more thrilling, in retrospect at least, had he chosen to wave his hasty farewell with a silken bandanna, or even a pistol. To ride off like that, waving a leg of lamb!
 

As a young man, Bud Shoop had punched cattle on the southern ranges, cooked for a surveying outfit, prospected in the Mogollons, and essayed homesteading on the Blue Mesa, served as cattle inspector, and held for many years the position of foreman on the great Gila Ranch, where, with diligence and honor, he had built up a reputation envied by many a lively cow-puncher and seldom tampered with even by Bud's most vindictive 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 to put his foot in the stirrup."

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

The old trails were changing to roads. The local freight intermittently disgorged tons of harvesting machinery. The sound of the Klaxton was heard in the land. Despite the times and the manners, Bud's girth increased insidiously. His hard-riding days were past. Progress marched steadily onward, leaving an after-guard of homesteaders intrenched behind miles of barbed-wire fence and mazes of irrigating-ditches. The once open range was now a chessboard of agricultural endeavor, with the pawns steadying ploughshares as they crept from square to square until the opposing cattle king suffered ignominious checkmate, his prerogative of free movement gone, his army scattered, his castles taken, and his glory surviving only in the annals of the game.

Incidentally, Bud Shoop had saved a little money, and his large popularity would have won for him a political sinecure; but he disliked politics quite as heartily as he detested indolence. He needed work not half so much as he wanted it.

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

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

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

Presently the supervisor called him in. Bud rose heavily and plodded to another 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 the shiny dome of his head to his dusty boot. And Torrance thought he knew why Bud had called. The Airedale sat in the outer office, watching his master. 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'll wait 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 as always."

"What can I do for you?"

"Well, I ain't seen a doctor for so long I can't tell you; but I reckon I 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'm scheduled 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 to think 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 out flatfooted and ask for work.

His frown deepened as the supervisor asked another question: "Do you think 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 every hill and canon, every hogback and draw and flat from here to the Tonto Basin."

"I know it. I was coming to that. The grazing-leases are the most important items just now. You know cattle, and you know something about the 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'll tackle anything."

"Well, the Department has confidence enough in me to suggest that I name a successor, subject to their approval. Do you think that you could hold down 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 to headquarters--"

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

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

"I have stopped there. It's a neat place. Would you take the boy on if you 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 was characteristic. He would do nothing hastily. Moreover, with Shoop as supervisor, it was safe to assume that the natives would hesitate to attempt their usual subterfuges in regard to grazing-leases. Bud was too well known for that. Torrance had had trouble with the cattlemen and sheepmen. He knew that Shoop's mere name would obviate much argument and bickering.

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

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

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

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

"You'd swamp the office. All right. I'll have my clerk draft a letter of application. You can sign it. I'll add my word. It will take some time to put this through, if it goes through. I don't promise anything. Come in at noon and sign the letter. Then you might drop in in about two weeks; 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 of that country up there and look around."

Torrance leaned forward. "There's one more thing, Bud. I know this job offers a temptation to a man to favor his friends. So far as this office is concerned, I don't want you to have any friends. I want things run straight. I've given the best of my life to the Service. I love it. I have dipped into my own pocket when Washington couldn't see the need for improvements. I have bought fire-fighting tools, built trails, and paid extra salaries at times. Now I will be where I can back you up. Keep things right up to the minute. If you get stuck, wire me. Here's your territory on this map. You know the country, but you will find this system of keeping track of the men a big help. The pins show where each man is working. We can go over the office detail after we have heard from 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 this work when I leave. There has been a big shake-up in the Service. Some of
us stayed on top."

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

And Bud heaved himself up. The Airedale, Bondsman, thumped the floor with his tail. Bud turned a whimsical face to the supervisor. "Now listen to that! What does he say? Well, he's tellin' me he sabes I got a chanct 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 and went back to the hotel so he can watch things go by. That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous."

Torrance smiled, and waved his hand as Bud waddled from the office, with Bondsman 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 moment Torrance forgot office detail in a general appreciation of the Western rider, who, once in the saddle, despite age or physical attributes, bears himself with a subconscious ease that is a delight to behold, be he lean Indian, lithe Mexican, or bed-rock American with a girth, say, of fifty-two inches and weighing perhaps not less than two hundred and twenty pounds.

"He'll make good," soliloquized the supervisor. "He likes horses and dogs, and he knows men. He's all human--and there's a lot of him. And they say that Bud Shoop used to be the last word in riding 'em straight up, 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 file the copy. I'll take care of it. And if Mr. Shoop is appointed to my place, he need know nothing about this letter."

"Yes, sir."

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

"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'm with the Service as long as it will have me. But if some clever politician happens to get hold of Shoop, there isn't a man in this mesa country that could win against him. He's just the type that the mesa people 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's life with which he had long been familiar. The Airedale, Bondsman, had once been shot wantonly by a stray Apache. Shoop had found the dog as it crawled along the corral fence, trying to get to the cabin. Bud had ridden fifty miles through a winter snowstorm with Bondsman across the saddle. 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 mesa land, a worn outfit of saddlery, and a small bank account. But his greatest asset, of which he was blissfully unconscious, was a big, homely love for things human and for animals; a love that set him apart from his fellows who looked upon men and horses and dogs as merely useful or otherwise.