Produced by Kevin Handy, Dave Maddock, Gene Smethers and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team JIM WARING OF SONORA-TOWN OR, TANG OF LIFE BY HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS AUTHOR OF OVERLAND RED, ETC. ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. BOYD SMITH August 1918 To Robert Frothingham [Illustration: Waring of Sonora-Town] Waring of Sonora-Town _The heat acrost the desert was a-swimmin' in the sun, When Waring of Sonora-Town, Jim Waring of Sonora-Town, From Salvador come ridin' down, a-rollin' of his gun. He was singin' low and easy to his pony's steady feet, But his eye was live and driftin' Round the scenery and siftin' All the crawlin' shadows shiftin' in the tremblin' gray mesquite. Eyes was watchin' from a hollow where a outlaw Chola lay; Two black, snaky eyes a-yearnin' For Jim's hoss to make the turnin', Then to send a bullet burnin' through his back--the Chola way. And Jim Waring's gaze, a-rovin' round the desert as he rode, Settled quick--without him seemin' To get wise and quit his dreamin'-- On a shiny ring a-gleamin' where no ring had ever growed. The lightnin' don't give warnin'; just a lick and she is through; Waring set his gun to smokin' Playful like, like he was jokin', And--a Chola lay a-chokin' ... and a buzzard cut the blue._ Contents I. The Cañon II. José Vaca III. Donovan's Hand IV. The Silver Crucifix V. The Tang of Life VI. Arizona VII. The Return of Waring VIII. Lorry IX. High-Chin Bob X. East and West XI. Spring Lamb XII. Bud Shoop and Bondsman XIII. The Horse Trade XIV. Bondsman's Decision XV. John and Demijohn XVI. Play XVII. Down the Wind XVIII. A Piece of Paper XIX. The Fight in the Open XX. City Folks XXI. A Slim Whip of a Girl XXII. A Tune for Uncle Bud XXIII. Like One Who Sleeps XXIV. The Genial Bud XXV. The Little Fires XXVI. Idle Noon XXVII. Waco XXVIII. A Squared Account XXIX. Bud's Conscience XXX. In the Hills XXXI. In the Pines XXXII. Politics XXXIII. The Fires of Home XXXIV. Young Life XXXV. The High Trail Illustrations Waring of Sonora-Town A huddled shape near a boulder "I came over--to tell you--that it was Pat's gun" They made coffee and ate the sandwiches she had prepared _From drawings by E. Boyd Smith_ TANG OF LIFE Chapter I _The Cañon_ Waring picketed his horse in a dim angle of the Agua Fria Cañon, spread his saddle-blanket to dry in the afternoon sun, and, climbing to a narrow ledge, surveyed the cañon 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 cañon 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 cañon's mouth. He had planned to intercept the men where the trail crossed this arroyo, or, should the trail show pony tracks, to follow them into the 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 cañon 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 cañon; 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 cañon, occasionally glancing up as some dim star burned through the deepening dusk and bloomed to a silvery maturity. Presently a faint pallor overspread the cañon 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 cañon floor. Across the cañon the farther trail ran past a broad, blank wall of rock. No horseman could cross that open space unseen. Waring, seated upon 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 cañon 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 cañon. 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. Chapter II _José Vaca_ 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 José 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 cañon, 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 cañon. 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 cañon 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 cañon 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 señor is welcome." Waring dismounted. "Juan, I have two of your friends here; José Vaca and Ramon Ortego." Armigo seemed surprised. "José 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 señor says. And the señor has made a fight?" "With those hombres? Not this journey! José 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. "José and Ramon are your countrymen, Juan." "Si, señor. 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--señor--" "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." "Señor, 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, señor, 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 señor 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 señor sleeps with the horses," said Armigo significantly. Ramon bent his head and muttered a prayer. "And if you pray," said Armigo, shifting the blankets from one arm to the other, "pray then that the two horses that you borrowed may return. As for your Uncle José, he will not die." "And we shall be taken to the prison," said Ramon." "You should have killed the gringo." And Armigo's tone 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. José Vaca glared up at him hungrily. The lower lip, pendulous, showed his broken teeth. Waring thought of a trapped wolf. Juan glanced from one to the other. But the gringo seemed incurious, merely gazing at the pictures on the walls; a flaming print of the Madonna, one of the Christ, a cheap photograph of Juan and his señora 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." José Vaca had spoken, but Waring was watching Ramon's eyes. "All right, hombre. Muchas gracias." "And now you will let me go?" queried Vaca. "I haven't said so." Waring's tone was pleasant, almost indifferent. Ramon's face was troubled. Of what use was it to try and deceive 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, señor." "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. CHAPTER III _Donovan's Hand_ 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, señor. He is a good boy." "Well, he's in dam' bad company. How about Vaca?" Juan Armigo shrugged his shoulders. "Are you afraid of him, Juan?" "No. But if he were to ask me for anything, it would be well to let 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 cañon. 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 José 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 José Vaca out of here as soon as he can travel," he told Armigo. "You may have to explain if he is found here." And Waring strode to the adobe. Ramon was awake and talking with his uncle. Waring told him to get something to eat. Then he turned to Vaca. "José," 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, señor." "You are an honest man," laughed Waring. "But we won't change saddles. Come on!" Ramon mounted and rode beside Waring until they were out of sight of the ranch-house, when Waring reined up. "Where is that money?" he asked suddenly. "I do not know, señor." "Did you know where it was yesterday?" Ramon hesitated. Was this a trap? Waring's level gaze held the young Mexican to a straight answer. "Si, señor. 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--señor!" 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 José 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. Chapter IV _The Silver Crucifix_ 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 demanded. It was rumored that he was in the employ of the American Government; that he had been disappointed in a love affair; that he had a wife 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 José. 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 Señor 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 José?" "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 señor 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
{'title': 'Jim Waring of Sonora-Town; Or, Tang of Life by Henry Herbert Knibbs', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}