. ). ftnibba 
 
 SUNNY MATEEL. 
 
 THE SUNGAZERS. 
 
 TEMESCAL. 
 
 WILD HORSES. 
 
 SADDLE SONGS. 
 
 PARTNERS OF CHANCE. 
 
 SONGS OF THE TRAIL. With decorative 
 
 sketches. 
 THE RIDIN 1 KID FROM POWDER RIVER. 
 
 With colored frontispiece. 
 TANG OF LIFE. Illustrated in color by 
 
 E. BOYD SMITH. 
 RIDERS OF THE STARS. 
 SUNDOWN SLIM. Illustrated. 
 SONGS OF THE OUTLANDS. Tales of the 
 
 Hoboes and Other Verse. 
 OVERLAND RED. A Tale of the Moonstone 
 
 Canon Trail. Illustrated in Color. 
 STEPHEN MARCH'S WAY. Illustrated. 
 LOST FARM CAMP. Illustrated. 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
Tang of Life 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 By 
 
 Henry Herbert Knibbs 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 Vfe KitertfOie $rt0 Camfaribse 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY STREET ft SMITH CORPORATION 
 COPYRIGHT, XQlS, BY HENRY H. KNIBBS 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Published August iqtB 
 
To 
 
 Robert Frothingham 
 
 663077 
 
Contents 
 
 I. The Cafion . ;;..;. . . . 1 
 
 H. JosSVaca ; .' .; . .. . . . 9 
 
 HI. Donovan's Hand . . . . ... 20 
 
 IV. The Silver Crucifix . . ... .32 
 
 V. The Tang of Life . . . . ; .41 
 
 VI. Arizona 51 
 
 VII. The Return of Waring ; . . . . 68 
 
 VIII. Lorry .;....... 79 
 
 IX. High-Chin Bob . . . . . . .88 
 
 X. East and West . . ... . .98 
 
 XI. Spring Lamb 110 
 
 XII. Bud Shoop and Bondsman . . . . 125 
 
 XIII. The Horse Trade . . . . . .135 
 
 XIV. Bondsman's Decision . . . . 145 
 XV. John and Demijohn . .... .157 
 
 XVI. Play 171 
 
 XVII. Down the Wind . . .... .183 
 
 XVIII. A Piece of Paper . . . . . . .197 
 
 XIX. The Fight in the Open . . . . . 208 
 
 XX. City Folks .225 
 
 XXI. A Slim Whip of a Girl *..- ./ .. . . 237 
 
 XXII. A Tune for Uncle Bud 248 
 
 ix 
 
Contents 
 
 XXIII. Like One Who Sleeps ...... 256 
 
 XXIV. The Genial Bud . . . . . .265 
 XXV. The Little Fires * i . . . . .274 
 
 XXVI. Idle Noon ........ 289 
 
 XXVII. Waco . . . . t . * . . .302 
 
 XXVIII. A Squared Account . = 314 
 
 XXIX. Bud's Conscience .. *. % . . .332 
 XXX. In the Hills . . * ' <. . . . .339 
 
 XXXI. In the Pines . . . . . .\ i; . 349 
 
 XXXII. Politics . . > >. . ,. . . .356 
 
 XXXIII. The Fires of Home . . . . . . 365 
 
 XXXIV. Young Life . . . . .,,. .. : , v 4 . .375 
 XXXV. The High Trail . _ * * : . , .,. ^ .383 
 
TANG OF LIFE 
 
 Chapter I 
 The Canon 
 
 WARING picketed his horse in a dim 
 angle of the Agua Fria Canon, spread 
 his saddle-blanket to dry in the after- 
 noon 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 cafion in daylight. The natural 
 trail through the Agua Fria was along the western 
 wall; a trail that he had avoided, working his toil- 
 some 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 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 mfc -fresh, tracks that morning. His problem was 
 si&^te., Tixe &nfc\Fer w.ould 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 nib- 
 bled 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. War- 
 ing 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, occasion- 
 ally glancing up as some dim star burned through 
 the deepening dusk and bloomed to a silvery ma- 
 turity. 
 
 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 
 
The Canon 
 
 shift in a sort*t>f 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 cation 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, vanish- 
 ing. 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 out- 
 line 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 
 
 3 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 caflon. 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 evi- 
 dently heard him, for he twitched back one ear, but 
 maintained his attitude of keen interest in an invis- 
 ible 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 vis- 
 ible, 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 
 
 4 
 
The Canon 
 
 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 dis- 
 liked 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 am- 
 bushment. 
 
 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 
 
 5 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 hand- 
 kerchief 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 Mexi- 
 can 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 atten- 
 
 6 
 
The Canon 
 
 tion 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 War- 
 ing'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 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 
 
 Jose Vaca 
 
 ^ "\HE young Mexican's face was beaded with 
 sweat as he rose and stared down at the 
 
 _M. wounded man. Clumsily he attempted to 
 help Waring, who washed and bandaged the shat- 
 tered 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 cap- 
 tured Jose Vaca, notorious in Sonora as leader in out- 
 lawry. 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 Uoofs on the gravel. The gunman had been 
 
 9 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 side- 
 ways 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 buck- 
 skin 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 
 
 10 
 
Jose Vaca 
 
 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 ban- 
 dit might ride wide when approaching the ranches 
 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, super- 
 stitious, 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 
 
 11 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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, va- 
 grant breeze stirred in the brush and fluttered the 
 handkerchief round Waring's throat. Ahead, the 
 canon broadened to the mesa lands, where the dis- 
 tant 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 Mexi- 
 can 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, hah* Mexican. The youth Ramon trem- 
 bled, fearing that the gringo would lose patience. 
 
Jose Vaca 
 
 Across the northern end of the canon the winnow- 
 ing 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 inco- 
 herently 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 door- 
 way 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 an- 
 swered with his name. 
 
 "Si! Si!" exclaimed Armigo. "The senor is wel- 
 
 come." 
 
 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. 
 
 13 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 sefior 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 cor- 
 ral. 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 tapa- 
 deras. 
 
 "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 sad- 
 dle, 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 
 
 14 
 
Jose Vaca 
 
 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 con- 
 siderably. 
 
 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 is n'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 did n't 
 you refuse him? Why did you tell him you would sell 
 them, but that you would not lend them to him?" 
 
 15 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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 makia^ 
 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 lamp- 
 light 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 Ar- 
 migo's tone was matter-of-fact. "Or perhaps told 
 
 16 
 
Jose Vaca 
 
 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 War- 
 ing, 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 
 
 17 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 re- 
 sembling 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 have n'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 '11 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. 
 
 18 
 
Jose Vaca 
 
 The horses, with the exception of Waring's buck- 
 skin 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 drows- 
 ily. "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. War- 
 ing 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, 
 
 to 
 
Donovan's Hand 
 
 go hunt up those horses in the cafion. 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 dis- 
 appeared. 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 
 xurned to Vaca. 
 
 21 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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 n't your kind. You are free. Don't jab- 
 ber. 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 Sal- 
 azar?" 
 
 "Si! Near the acequia." 
 
 " The Placeta Burro. I know the place. You '11 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 sun- 
 light. 
 
Donovan's Hand 
 
 "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 did n'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 n't lie to 
 me, and because you did n'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." 
 
 23 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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 tapa- 
 deras. 
 
 Heretofore he had considered subtlety, trickery, 
 qualities to be desired, and not incompatible with 
 honor. In a flash he realized the difference, the dis- 
 tinction 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 
 
 24 
 
Donovan's Hand 
 
 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, turn- 
 ing 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 man- 
 ager, 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 Dono- 
 
 25 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 van'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 does n't show up why, that 
 raise can wait." 
 
 "Then I'll just date the change to-day," said 
 Quigley. "Take a logk 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 ab- 
 sorbed in a letter. 
 
 The gunman paused halfway across the office. 
 
Donovan's Hand 
 
 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 superin- 
 tendent'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 did n'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. 
 
 27 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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?" 
 
 28 
 
Donovan's Hand 
 
 "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 would n'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 let- 
 ter yesterday telling me to cut down expenses. This 
 last holdup will make them sore. Here's the proposi- 
 tion. 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 hun- 
 dred 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 serv- 
 ice of the Ortez Mines. Or if Waring were to agree to 
 the suggestion, Donovan would have pulled Waring 
 down to his own level. 
 
 29 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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, War- 
 ing reached out his arm. "Give it to me," he said 
 quietly. Quigley laughed. Waring's eyes were un- 
 readable. 
 
 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!" 
 
 30 
 
Donovan's Hand 
 
 "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 ad- 
 vantageous. 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 go- 
 ings, though they seldom knew where he went or defi- 
 nitely when he would return. His mildness of man- 
 ner 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 de- 
 manded. 
 
 It was rumored that he was in the employ of the 
 American Government; that he had been disappointed 
 
 32 
 
The Silver Crucifix 
 
 In a love affair; that he had a wife and son living some- 
 where in the States; that for very good reasons he 
 could not return to the States; that he was a danger- 
 ous 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 strid- 
 ing 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 
 
 33 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 Ijis, 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 " 
 
 "Thesenor 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 dis- 
 cussing the Ortez robbery. Donovan's name, War- 
 ing'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. 
 
 34 
 
The Silver Crucifix 
 
 Finding himself opposite the hotel, Waring glanced 
 about and strode in. As he entered the hallway lead- 
 ing 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. Evi- 
 dently 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." 
 
 "Has n'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 
 tc the credit of the Ortez Mine this afternoon?" 
 
 35 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "You did." 
 
 "Just show Donovan here the receipt I asked you 
 to keep for me." 
 
 "All right. I '11 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 War- 
 ing's voice expressed innocent surprise. "When did 
 you enroll as a policeman?" 
 
 Donovan was about to interrupt when the police- 
 man 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." 
 
 "Does n't seem to worry you," said Stanley. 
 
 "No. I'm leaving town. I'm through with this 
 game." 
 
 "Getting too hot?" 
 
The Silver Crucifix 
 
 "No. I'm getting cold feet," said Waring, laugh- 
 ing. "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 hunt- 
 ing men and of being hunted. Pedro Salazar was 
 now a member of the Sonora police through Dono- 
 van'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 
 
 37 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 circum* 
 stance 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. War- 
 ing 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. 
 
 38 
 
The Silver Crucifix 
 
 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 War- 
 ing, booted and spurred, entered the lobby with a 
 man in pajamas. They talked with the clerk a mo- 
 ment, shook hands, and Waring strode to the door- 
 way. 
 
 "Any word for the Ortez people?" queried Stan- 
 ley 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 
 
 39 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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. 
 \nd 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. 
 
Chapter V 
 The Tang of Life 
 
 WARING rode until dawn, when he pick- 
 eted Dex in a clump of chaparral and 
 lay down to rest. He had purposely 
 passed the water-hole, a half-mile south, after hav- 
 ing 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 rest- 
 less, 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 
 
 41 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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. War- 
 ing quieted him with a word. 
 
 To the west of the chaparral lay the trail, paral- 
 leled 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 some- 
 thing 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." 
 
The Tang of Life 
 
 "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 cruci- 
 fix 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 
 
 43 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 shad- 
 owy 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 un- 
 inhabited. 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 un- 
 obstructed 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 
 
 44 
 
The Tang of Life 
 
 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." 
 
 45 , 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 account- 
 able 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 War- 
 
 46 
 
The Tang of Life 
 
 ing stretched behind a rock and was soon asleep. 
 Ramon wondered at the other's indifference to dan- 
 ger, 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 day- 
 light. 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 '11 figure that I put you out of busi- 
 ness to get rid of you. They'll look for a dead Mexi- 
 can, and a live gringo riding north, alone. But 
 they're too wise to ride up here. They'll trail up 
 afoot and out of sight. That's your one chance." 
 
 "My chance, senor?" 
 
 47 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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. 
 
 48 
 
The Tang of Life 
 
 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 where- 
 abouts, 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 reputa- 
 tion. 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 be- 
 cause he had to count upon possibilities far ahead 
 he drew 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 
 
 49 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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. 
 
Chapter VI 
 
 Arizona 
 
 WARING, who had known the man in 
 Sonora, called him by name. The other's 
 smile faded, and his eyes narrowed. War- 
 ing 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 
 
 51 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 ap- 
 peared. 
 
 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 gun- 
 man 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 scat- 
 tering 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 sig- 
 naled to him to ride closer. Together they swung 
 down the valley, dodging the low brush and leaping 
 rocks at top speed. 
 
 52 
 
Arizona 
 
 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 is n'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?" 
 
 53 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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. Incident- 
 ally 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 
 
 54 
 
Arizona 
 
 to the hitching-rail in front of the cantina. He did n't 
 need to be told that they were the picked horses of 
 the rurales, and that for some strange reason his su- 
 perior 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 Mex- 
 ico 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 sub- 
 dued buzz came from the corner where the rurales 
 sat, and he caught the name "Waring." 
 
 55 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "And the whole town ain't worth the matches to 
 burn it up," he continued. "If it was n'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 is n'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 
 
 56 
 
Arizona 
 
 kid then, but a comer. Had kind of light, curly hair. 
 His face was as smooth as a girl's. He was n'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 would n'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 did n'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 
 was n'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 explana- 
 tion." 
 
 The lank man nodded. "There's a time coming 
 when they '11 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." 
 
 57 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 " 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 Graces 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 re- 
 called that on that day he had ridden his favorite 
 horse, a deep-chested buckskin, slender legged, and 
 swift, with a strain of thorough-bred. 
 
 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 
 
 58 
 
Arizona 
 
 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 man- 
 acled. 
 
 "Jack!" 
 
 The assistant shoved back his chair and came to 
 the window. 
 
 "There's the rest of your picture," said the col- 
 lector. 
 
 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 
 
 59 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 North faced the hot-blooded Southern haste that 
 demanded Waring as prisoner. The collector, ad- 
 dressing the leader of the rurales, suggested that 
 they talk it over in the cantina. "And don't for- 
 get you're on the wrong side of the line," he added. 
 
 The Captain of rurales and one of his men dis- 
 mounted and followed the Americans into the can- 
 tina. 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 Or- 
 tego, 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 
 
 60 
 
Arizona 
 
 smuggling. He rode a horse across the line with- 
 out 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 door- 
 way. 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 can- 
 tina 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 in- 
 tonation, 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. 
 
 61 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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, Sefior Capitan, and because you did n't get 
 your man." 
 
 The collector of customs stood with his cigar care- 
 fully 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 chal- 
 lenge between them: "You did n't get your man!" 
 
 The captain glanced at the two quiet figures in the 
 doorway. Beyond them were his own men, but be- 
 tween 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. 
 
Arizona 
 
 The Mexican swung round and strode out, fol- 
 lowed 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 ar- 
 rested for smuggling. Mebby you're all right per- 
 sonal, but officially I got a case against you. What 
 do you know about raising cucumbers? I got a cata- 
 logue 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 " 
 
 63 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 " Where have you planted them, Pat?" 
 
 "Oh, hell! They ain't planted yet. We're just 
 figuring. Now, up Las Graces 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 Graces?" 
 
 "Yes, I got her back." 
 
 "Speaking of horses, I saw a pinto down in So- 
 
 nora " 
 
 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. 
 
 64 
 
Arizona 
 
 "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 collec- 
 tor 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?" 
 
 65 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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 
 would n'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 in- 
 stant. He thrust out his bony hand. "I'll leave that 
 to you, Jim." 
 
 And that night, because each was a gunman un- 
 surpassed in his grim profession, they laughed and 
 talked about things trivial, leaving the deeper cur- 
 rents undisturbed. And the assistant collector, eat- 
 ing with them in the adobe back of the office, won- 
 dered 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 
 
 66 
 
Arizona 
 
 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." 
 
Chapter VII 
 The Return of Waring 
 
 THE interior of the little desert hotel at 
 Stacey, Arizona, atoned for its bleached and 
 weather-worn exterior by a refreshing neat- 
 ness 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 
 
 68 
 
The Return of Waring 
 
 wall. Mrs. Adams stepped toward him. The- man 
 turned and smiled. She gazed with awakening as- 
 tonishment 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 was n'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 affec- 
 tionately. "You need n't have said that, Annie. You 
 knew what I was when I married you. And no man 
 ever said I was n't straight. Just what made you 
 leave Sonora without saying a word? Did n't I al- 
 ways 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 
 
 69 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 could n't live happy without 
 that excitement. And you thought I was happy be- 
 cause 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 did n't dare think about that part of it. I 
 was afraid of you. I got so I could n't sleep, wor- 
 rying 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 could n'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 would n't 
 speak to me. And the Mexican women hated me. I 
 
 70 
 
The Return of Waring 
 
 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, is n't he?" 
 
 Mrs. Adams smiled despite herself. "Yes, this fall. 
 He started in with the Starr people at the spring 
 round-up." 
 
 "Could n'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 vou're Annie Adams a^ain! Wpll. Tipre's vmir 
 
 71 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 husband's name, if you don't mind." And he signed 
 the register, "James Waring, Sonora, Mexico." 
 
 "Is n'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 won- 
 dered 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. Did n'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 did n'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." 
 
 72 
 
The Return of Waring 
 
 "You rode over?" 
 
 "Yes. Why not? I know the country." 
 
 Mrs. Adams turned and gestured toward the stair- 
 way. She followed him and showed him to a room. 
 So he had n'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 re- 
 freshing 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 " 
 
 73 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 
 did n'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 un- 
 human quality of intense alertness, that incompre- 
 hensible 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 
 fris fingers. The sheriff proffered a match. Their eyes 
 
 74 
 
The Return of Waring 
 
 met. Waring nodded his thanks and blew a smoke- 
 ring. 
 
 "How are things down in Sonora?" queried Hard^ 
 
 "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 War- 
 ing, 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 touch- 
 ing 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. 
 
 75 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 curi- 
 ous to know just what kind of man he was. He did n't 
 talk much; that was certain. The boy remembered 
 that his mother had not said much about her hus- 
 band, 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 com- 
 fort. And his mother had told him that she would be 
 
 76 
 
The Return of Waring 
 
 known as "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 stam- 
 mered. "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. 
 
 77 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 shoul- 
 ders. "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. 
 
Chapter VIII 
 
 Lorry 
 
 IN the low hills west of Stacey, Lorry was look- 
 ing 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 under- 
 stood 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 go- 
 ing unarmed, and he had added to this distinction by 
 acquiring a skill with the rope that occasioned much 
 
 79 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 natural jealousy among his fellows. To be tophand 
 with a rope among such men as Blaze Andrews, Slim 
 Trivet, Red Bender, and High-Chin Bob, the fore- 
 man, 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 had 
 n't she told him more about it all? He felt that she 
 had taken a kind of mean advantage of his unwav- 
 ering 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 did n'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 un- 
 dulations to a vanishing point in the blank spaces 
 of the west. His pony, Gray Leg, head up and nos- 
 trils 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 
 
 80 
 
Lorry 
 
 horse and walk back and forth across the road directly 
 below the Notch. Lorry wiped his glasses and cen- 
 tered 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 con- 
 cealed 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 him- 
 self together. The sand sprayed to little puffs of 
 dust as he swung to a lope. 
 
 Lorry was curious and a bit elated at the prom- 
 ise 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 rejoic- 
 ing. 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 beau- 
 tiful, despite her strange mufflings. She had offered 
 to pay him for his trouble. When he refused she had 
 
 81 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 noth- 
 ing 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 did n'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. 
 
 82 
 
Lorry 
 
 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 chal- 
 lenged 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 nerv- 
 ously, 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/' 
 
 83 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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 did n'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 did n't know what the rope meant. I was 
 
 frightened. And before I knew what had happened 
 
 M 
 
Lorry 
 
 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 would n'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 regu- 
 lar automobile road don't go to Stacey." 
 
 85 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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. 
 
 86 
 
Lorry 
 
 you 
 
 m-*~r * J 
 
 "What you got to say about my turnin' 
 loose?" he queried as the other sat up. 
 
 "NothinV 
 
 "All right. Get a movin' and don't try to run, 
 I got my rope handy." 
 
Chapter IX 
 High-Chin Bob 
 
 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 typi- 
 cal 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 ac- 
 count of goin' lame. Hop along. I '11 take care of him." 
 
 The man plodded across the sand. Lorry fol- 
 lowed 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 per- 
 turbed. That girl had asked him to let the man go 
 and she had said "please." But, like all women, she 
 did n'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. 
 
 88 
 
High-Chin Bob 
 
 "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, any- 
 how?" 
 
 "Mebby you'd hold up anybody if you hadn't 
 at 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 prom- 
 ised 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 " 
 
 89 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 con- 
 dition. 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?" 
 
 90 
 
High-Chin Bob 
 
 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 would n'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 trem- 
 bled 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. 
 
 91 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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'retoowillin'." 
 
 "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 re- 
 ward." 
 
 "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 
 
 92 
 
High-Chin Bob 
 
 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 ar- 
 rogance 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 jok- 
 ingly. 
 
 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 enter- 
 tain hobos. I'll herd this hombre to camp." 
 
 93 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "He says he ain't had a meal since yesterday," 
 ventured Lorry. 
 
 High gathered up the reins of his horse. "A boss- 
 thief ain't supposed to eat. Hump yourself, Willy!" 
 
 Waco got to his feet, wavered, and sat down sud- 
 denly. "I'm all in, mister," he whined. 
 
 High Chin laughed and swung up his arm. Waco 
 sank down with his hands to his face. Lorry bit his 
 lips. Waco lowered his hands and begged for mercy. 
 Across his white face ran a vivid, purple welt where 
 High Chin's quirt had burned him. High Chin raised 
 his foot and kicked the tramp in the ribs. 
 
 Waco squirmed in the sand. High Chin stood over 
 him, his arm raised. 
 
 Lorry pushed his horse close to the foreman. His 
 voice was almost musical as he spoke: 
 
 "Let him up, High." 
 
 The foreman's face went blank with surprise. That 
 one of his men and the kid of the outfit should 
 question his actions! 
 
 "Let him up, High!" 
 
 High Chin swung his arm. Lorry whipped out the 
 tramp's gun and swung it up. The butt came down 
 on High Chin's sombrero. The foreman gave at the 
 knees and wilted to the ground. 
 
 "You handled that about right," said a voice. 
 
 Lorry turned to see a quiet figure astride a big 
 buckskin horse; a man who sat easily in the saddle and 
 smiled. 
 
 94 
 
High-Chin Bob 
 
 "Why, hello, dad!" 
 
 "Get his gun," said Waring. 
 
 High-Chin Bob lay where he had fallen, his arms 
 outflung. Lorry dismounted and secured the gun. 
 Waco, groaning, staggered to his feet and started to 
 walk away. . 
 
 "Let him go," said Waring. "He won't get far." 
 
 Lorry turned the foreman over. High Chin was 
 hard hit, but his heavy sombrero had broken the full 
 force of the blow. Lorry hardly knew what to do. 
 And Waring sat watching, offering no suggestion. 
 Presently the foreman's hands moved. In spite of 
 himself, Lorry wished that he had put less down- 
 right weight into the blow. High Chin's eyelids flut. 
 tered. He sat up. Slowly it came to him that it was 
 Lorry and not a stroke of lightning that had knocked 
 him out. His hand crept down to his belt. Waring 
 smiled. 
 
 A quick flush streaked the foreman's white face. 
 He twisted round and got to his feet. Lorry stepped 
 back. 
 
 High Chin swung stiffly to his horse. "Where's 
 my gun?" he asked. 
 
 "The boy's got it," said Waring. 
 
 "What you got to say about it?" snarled the fore- 
 man. 
 
 "You asked for your gun." 
 
 High Chin's gaze drifted past Waring to where 
 Waco had turned and was coming back. 
 
 95 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 So- 
 
 nera 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 chal- 
 lenged. 
 
 Waring made no movement, but sat quietly watch- 
 
High-Chin Bob 
 
 ing 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 witl 
 insulting ease he flicked his burned-out cigarette in 
 the foreman's face. 
 
 Without a word High Chin whirled his horse and 
 rode toward the hills. 
 
 Waring sat watching him until Lorry spoke. 
 
 "They say he's put more than one man across the 
 divide," he told his father. 
 
 "But not on an even break," said Waring. "Get 
 that hombre on his horse. He's in bad shape." 
 
 Lorry helped Waco to mount. They rode toward 
 Stacey. 
 
 * Waring rode with them until the trail forked. "I 
 was on my way to the Starr Ranch," he told Lorry. 
 "I think I can make it all right with Starr, if you say 
 the word." 
 
 "Not me," said Lorry. "I stand by what I do." 
 
 Waring tried to conceal the smile that crept to his 
 lips. "All right, Lorry. But you'll have to explain 
 to your mother. Better turn your man over to Buck 
 Hardy as soon as you get in town. Where did you 
 pick him up?" 
 
 "He was holdin' up some tourists over by the Notch. 
 He changed his mind and came along with me." 
 
 Waring rode down the west fork, and Lorry and 
 the tramp continued their journey to Stacey. 
 
Chapter X 
 
 East and West 
 
 MRS. ADAMS, ironing in the kitchen, was 
 startled by a peremptory ringing of the 
 bell on the office desk. The Overland had 
 arrived and departed more than an hour ago. She 
 patted her hair, smoothed her 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 her- 
 self 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. 
 
 98 
 
East and West 
 
 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 remem- 
 ber that this is n't New York. I think we are fortu- 
 nate 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. 
 
 99 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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 mat. 
 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 did n'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 un- 
 happy in this glorious country? But mother seemed 
 so unimpressed! "And I hope that steering-knuckle 
 does n'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, 
 
 100 
 
East and West: ,% ? 
 
 until just toward the last. As for the other man 
 she shivered as she wondered what would have hap 
 pened 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 second- 
 ary 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 erst- 
 while slumbering desire for a draught of the real Ro- 
 mance of the West, heretofore only enjoyed in un- 
 satisfying 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. 
 
 101 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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 prox- 
 imity, 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 be- 
 lieve 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. War- 
 ing 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 
 
 102 
 
East and West 
 
 mine, but that her husband owned some stock in one 
 of the richest mines in Old Mexico. Waring grew en- 
 thusiastic 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 alto- 
 gether 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 ques- 
 tions; 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 Albu- 
 querque covering a steering-knuckle for an automo- 
 bile. 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. 
 
 103 
 
Tan^ of Life 
 
 There was some mighty fine scenery back in the 
 Horseshoe Range, west. Perhaps the girl liked West- 
 ern 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 Moun- 
 vains, 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 Horse- 
 shoe. 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 did n'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 stock- 
 holders 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 
 
 104 
 
East and West 
 
 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 did n'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. 
 
 105 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 -"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 no- 
 ticed 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." 
 
 "Were n'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 inter- 
 esting, because he has n't been tamed. I don't think 
 he has any real feeling, though, or he would n'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 
 
 106 
 
East and West 
 
 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 '11 get tanked, and the hobo '11 
 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 did n'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 did n'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 did n'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 des- 
 
 107 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 ert 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, 
 lave 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 ex- 
 citement. She heard Lorry's voice distinctly : 
 
 "The best thing for you is to fan it. Don't try the 
 train. They '11 get you sure if you do. No, I don't ex- 
 plain 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 
 
 108 
 
East and West 
 
 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." 
 
Chapter XI 
 
 Spring Lamb 
 
 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 atten- 
 tion 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 
 
 110 
 
Spring Lamb 
 
 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 con- 
 clusive emphasis. 
 
 Lorry disappeared, and in the bustle of prepara- 
 tion 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 did n'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 wonder- 
 ing, now, if you would let me look over that ma- 
 chine. 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 neve/ 
 
 111 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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. Wes- 
 ton 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 com- 
 plimented Mrs. Weston about her hair, and espe- 
 cially 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 tin- 
 kering 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 re- 
 
Spring Lamb 
 
 ported 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 horsesr 
 ma'am; no two just alike, but kind of generally th( 
 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 did n'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 scen- 
 ery. 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. Wes- 
 ton." 
 
 113 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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 eye- 
 brows, and I thought mebby I was bein' took as a 
 joke." 
 
 "Oh, no, indeed!" 
 
 Lorry disappeared again. As he worked he won- 
 dered 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 re- 
 turned 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 pol- 
 ished 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." 
 
 114 
 
Spring Lamb 
 
 Lorry hesitated. "Did n'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 would n'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 
 does n't matter." 
 
 "Oh, it ain't your fault. But I was n'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 could n'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 did n'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." 
 
 115 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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 veri- 
 table long-eared statue of dejection. Mrs. Weston 
 turned a page, but the printed word was flat and in- 
 significant. 
 
 She felt as though she were in a kind of twilight 
 valley, midway between the hills of slumber and wake- 
 fulness. For the moment she forgot the name of the 
 town itself. She knew that she could recall it if she 
 
 116 
 
Spring Lamb 
 
 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 un- 
 sophisticated 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 intoler- 
 able 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 be- 
 havior because they were there. 
 
 It seemed past comprehension that anything start- 
 ling 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 
 
 117 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 in his office talking with the undersheriff . The under- 
 sheriff twisted the end of his black mustache and 
 looked wise. 
 
 "They told me at the hotel that he had gone rid- 
 ing 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 did n'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 under- 
 sheriff. 
 
 "Nothing. The man did n'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 let- 
 ting 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? " 
 
 118 
 
Spring Lamb 
 
 "I would. I'd hold my own brother for playing a 
 trick like that." 
 
 "Well, I don't sabe it," asserted the undersherifL 
 "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 
 
 119 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 at the hitching-rail, and Hardy, who had an eye for 
 a good horse, openly admired the big buckskin. War- 
 ing 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 hesita- 
 tion. 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "I changed my mind. I did n'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 did n'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 did n'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." 
 
 120 
 
Spring Lamb 
 
 *'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?" 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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 atti- 
 tudes 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 
 
Spring Lamb 
 
 veranda rail, and alighted square in the saddle of 
 Wai-ing'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 did n'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 sud- 
 denly, but he did n't make any mistake about the 
 best horse." 
 
 123 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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 restau- 
 rants 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 thrill- 
 ing, 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! 
 
Chapter XII 
 
 Bud Shoop and Bondsman 
 
 AS a young man, Bud Shoop had punched 
 cattle on the southern ranges, cooked for 
 a surveying outfit, prospected in the Mo- 
 gollons, 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 Per- 
 cheron 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 
 
 125 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 agri- 
 cultural endeavor, with the pawns steadying plough- 
 shares as they crept from square to square until the 
 opposing cattle king suffered ignominious checkmate, 
 his prerogative of free movement gone, his army scat- 
 tered, 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 
 
 126 
 
Bud Shoop and Bondsman 
 
 of the Forest Service. Bondsman accompanied him, 
 stalking seriously at his master's heels. The super- 
 visor was busy. Biid 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 any- 
 
 127 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 thing 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 an- 
 other 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?" 
 
 128 
 
Bud Shoop and Bondsman 
 
 "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 'ta- 
 ble 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 noth- 
 ing 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. 
 
 129 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "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 '11 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 tim- 
 ber along the north side of the creek over on the mea^ 
 dows. 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 inf o'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 
 
 130 
 
Bud Shoop and Bondsman 
 
 through, if it goes through. I don't promise any- 
 thing. 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 '11 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 could n't see the need for improve- 
 ments. 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 min- 
 ute. 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." 
 
 131 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "Congratulations, John. Saturday, come two 
 weeks, then." 
 
 And Bud heaved himself up. The Airedale, Bonds- 
 man, 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 J 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' scanda- 
 lous." 
 
 Torrance smiled, and waved his hand as Bud wad- 
 dled 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 Tor- 
 rance 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 sub- 
 conscious 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." 
 
 132 
 
Bud Shoop and Bondsman 
 
 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 confi- 
 dential. 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 did n't know that you were going 
 into politics, Mr. Torrance." 
 
 "You 're oft 7 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 
 
 133 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 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 Me. Shoop had come close to 
 freezing to death during that tedious ride. 
 
 Bud Snoop'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 other- 
 wise. 
 
Chapter XIII 
 The Horse Trade 
 
 THE following day a young cowboy, mounted 
 upon a singularly noticeable buckskin horse, 
 rode down the main street of Jason and dis- 
 mounted at the Forestry Office. Torrance was read- 
 ing a letter when his clerk proffered the young man 
 a chair and notified the supervisor that a Mr. Adams 
 wished to see him. 
 
 A few minutes later, Lorry was shown in. The door 
 closed. 
 
 Torrance surveyed the strong, young figure with 
 inward approval. "I have your letter. Sit down. 
 I see your letter is postmarked St. Johns." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Know anything about the Service?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Why do you want to get into it?" 
 
 "I thought mebby I'd like the work." 
 
 "Have you any recommendations?" 
 
 "Nothin' except what you're lookin' at." 
 
 Torrance smiled. "Could you get a letter from 
 your last employer?" 
 
 "Not the kind of letter that would do any good. 
 I had an argument with the foreman, and he fired 
 
 me." 
 
 135 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Torrance had heard something about the matter, 
 and did not question further at the time. 
 
 "Do you drink?" queried Torrance. 
 
 "I never monkeyed with it much. I reckon I could 
 if I wanted to." 
 
 Torrance drummed on the desk with his long, 
 strong fingers. He reached in a drawer and drew out 
 a letter. 
 
 "How about that?" 
 
 Lorry glanced at the heading. Evidently the 
 sheriff knew of his general whereabouts. The letter 
 stated that the sheriff would appreciate information 
 leading to the apprehension of Lawrence Adams, 
 wanted for aiding a prisoner to escape and for having 
 in his possession a horse that did not belong to him. 
 
 "What he says is right," Lorry asserted cheerfully. 
 "I busted into the jail and turned that hobo loose, 
 and I borrowed the horse I'm riding. I aim to send 
 him back. My own horse is in the corral back at 
 Stacey." 
 
 "What was your idea in letting the man go after 
 arresting him?" 
 
 Lorry's clear color deepened. "I was n't figurin* 
 on explainin' that." 
 
 "You don't have to explain. But you will admit 
 that the charges in this letter are rather serious. We 
 don't want men in the Service who are open to criti- 
 cism. You're pretty young to have such a record. 
 It's up to you to explain or not, just as you like. 
 
 136 
 
The Horse Trade 
 
 But anything you tell me will be treated as absolutely 
 confidential, Adams." 
 
 "All right. Well, everything I done that day went 
 wrong. I caught the hobo tryin' to rob a couple of 
 wimmin over by the Notch. I was takin 5 him to 
 Stacey when Bob Brewster butted in. The hobo was 
 sick, and I did n't aim to stand and see him kicked and 
 beat up with a quirt, even if he did steal one of the 
 Starr horses. I told High Chin to quit, but his hearin' 
 was n't good, so I had to show him. Then I got to 
 thinkin* I was n't so much takin' a pore, busted 
 tramp to jail. And it made me sick when everybody 
 round town was callin' me some little hero. Then one 
 of the Starr boys told me High Chin was cinchin' up 
 to ride in and get the hobo, anyhow, so I busted the 
 lock and told him to fan it." 
 
 "Why did n't you appeal to the sheriff?" 
 
 "Huh! Buck Hardy is all right. But I can tell you 
 one thing; he's not the man to stand up to High Chin 
 when High is drinkin'. Why, I see High shove a gun 
 in Hardy's face once and tell him to go home and go to 
 bed. And Hardy went. Anyhow, that hobo was my 
 prisoner, and I did n't aim to let High Chin get hi? 
 hands on him." 
 
 "I see. Well, you have a strange way of doing 
 things, but I appreciate why you acted as you did. 
 Of course, you know it is a grave offense to aid a 
 prisoner to escape." 
 
 "Buck Hardy seems to think so." 
 
 137 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "So do I. And how about that horse?" 
 
 "Well, next day I was fixin' up the machine and 
 foolin' around that machine belonged to them 
 tourists that the fella stuck up when along about 
 sundown Buck Hardy comes swellin' up to me and 
 tells me I 'm under arrest. He could n't prove a darned 
 thing if I had n't said I done the job. But, anyhow, 
 he did n't see it my way, so I borrowed Waring's 
 horse and come down this way. Everybody saw me 
 take the horse. You can't call that stealin'." 
 
 "Did Hardy ride after you?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. But he was so far behind I couldn't 
 hear what he wanted. That big buckskin is a wonder. 
 I wish I owned him." 
 
 Torrance mentally patched the fragments of evi- 
 dence together. He decided that a young man who 
 could capture a holdup man, best the notorious High 
 Chin in a fight, repair a broken automobile, turn a 
 prisoner loose, and make his own escape all within 
 the short compass of forty-eight hours was a rather 
 capable person in a way. And Torrance knew by 
 Lorry's appearance and manner that he was still on 
 the verdant side of twenty. If such a youth chose to 
 turn his abilities in the right direction he might ac- 
 complish much. Lorry's extreme frankness satisfied 
 Torrance that the boy had told the truth. He 
 would give him a chance. 
 
 "Do you know Bud Shoop?" queried the super- 
 visor. 
 
 138 
 
The Horse Trade 
 
 "No, sir. I know what he looks like. He's been 
 to our hotel." 
 
 "Well, you might look him up. He may be out of 
 town. Possibly he is up at his homestead on the Blue 
 Mesa. Tell Mr. Shoop that I sent you to him. He 
 will understand. But you will have to square your- 
 self with the authorities before I can put you to 
 work/' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. But I don't aim to ride back to Stacey 
 just because I know where it is. If they want me, they 
 can find me." 
 
 "That is your affair. When your slate is clear " 
 
 "Mr. Waring to see you," said the clerk, poking 
 his head through the doorway. 
 
 Torrance stepped out and greeted Waring heartily. 
 Lorry was surprised; both to see his father and to 
 learn that Torrance and he were old friends. 
 
 "I saw this horse as I rode up, and I took a fancy 
 to him," said Waring, after having nodded to Lorry. 
 "Sorry to bother you, Torrance." 
 
 "Here's the man you'll bother, I think," said Tor- 
 rance, indicating Lorry. "He's riding that horse." 
 
 Lorry grinned. "Want to trade horses?" 
 
 "I don't know. Is that your horse?" 
 
 "Nope. I borrowed him. Is that your horse?" 
 And he indicated Gray Leg. 
 
 "No. I borrowed him." 
 
 Torrance laughed. "The buckskin seems to be 
 a pretty fair horse." 
 
 139 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "Then I ought to get somethin' to boot," sug- 
 gested Lorry. 
 
 "How much?" laughed Waring. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. You'll find that buckskin a 
 mighty likely rambler." 
 
 Waring turned to Torrance. "You'll witness that 
 we made this trade, John?" 
 
 "All right. But remember; neither of you owns the 
 horse you are trading." 
 
 "But we're goin' to," asserted Lorry. 
 
 Waring reached beneath his coat and unbuckled a 
 heavy belt. From buckle to tongue it glittered with 
 cartridges and a service-worn holster bulged with a 
 short-barreled Colt's .45. He handed the belt to 
 Lorry. 
 
 "It's a good gun," he said, "and I hope you'll 
 never need to use it." 
 
 Lorry stammered his thanks, untied Dex, and gave 
 the reins into Waring's hand. "The trade goes," he 
 said. "But we change saddles." 
 
 "Correct," said Waring. "And here's a letter 
 from your mother." 
 
 Lorry slid the letter in his shirt. ""How's the 
 Weston folks?" 
 
 "They were to leave this morning. Mrs. Weston 
 asked me to pay you for repairing their machine. She 
 gave me the money." 
 
 "You can keep it. I was n't workin' for pay." 
 
 "All right. Going to stay down here awhile?" 
 
 140 
 
The Horse Trade 
 
 "I aim to. Did you see anything of Buck Hardy on 
 the way down?" 
 
 "Hardy? Why, no. But I rode part way with his 
 deputy. He's due here some time to-day." 
 
 "That bein' the case," said Lorry, swinging to the 
 saddle, "I reckon I'll hunt up Bud Shoop. Thanks 
 for my horse. Mebby I '11 be back in this town in two, 
 three days." And he was gone. 
 
 Waring dropped Dex's reins. "Got a minute to 
 spare, Torrance?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed. You're looking well, Jim." 
 
 In the office they shook hands again. 
 
 "It's a long time," said Torrance, proffering a 
 cigar. "You were punching cattle for the Box S and 
 I was a forest ranger those days. Did Mexico get too 
 hot?" 
 
 "Warm. What's the boy doing down here?" 
 
 "He seems to be keeping out of the way of the 
 sheriff," laughed Torrance. "Incidentally he applied 
 for a position as ranger." 
 
 "Did he? I 'm glad of that. I was afraid he might 
 get to riding the high trails. He's got it in him." 
 
 "You seem to know him pretty well." 
 
 "Not so well as I would like to. I'm his father." 
 
 "Why, I had no idea but, come to think of it, he 
 does resemble you. I did n't know that you were 
 married." 
 
 "Yes. I married Annie Adams, of Las Cruces. 
 He's our boy." 
 
 141 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Torrance saw that Waring did not care to talk 
 further on the subject of his married life. And Tor- 
 rance recalled the fact that Mrs. Adams, who lived in 
 Stacey, had been in Mexico. 
 
 " He 's a live one," said Torrance. "I think I '11 take 
 him on." 
 
 "I don't ask you to, John. He's got to play the 
 game for himself. He may not always do right, but 
 he'll always do what he thinks is right, if I am any 
 judge. And he won't waste time doing it. I told 
 Hardy's deputy on the way down that he might as 
 well give up running after the boy. Hardy is pretty 
 sore. Did Lorry tell you?" 
 
 "Yes. And I can understand his side of it." 
 
 "I think that little Weston girl dazzled him," said 
 Waring. "She's clever, and Lorry has n't seen many 
 of her kind. I think he would have stayed right in 
 Stacey and faced the music if she had n't been there 
 when Hardy tried to arrest him. Lorry is only 
 eighteen. He had to show off a little." 
 
 "Will Hardy follow it up?" 
 
 "Not too strong. The folks in Stacey are giving 
 Hardy the laugh. He's not so popular as he might 
 be." 
 
 "I can't say that I blame Hardy, either. The boy 
 was wrong." 
 
 "Not a bit. Lorry was wrong." 
 
 "It will blow over," said Torrance. "I had no 
 idea he was your son." 
 
 142 
 
The Horse Trade 
 
 Waring leaned back in his chair. "John, I had 
 two reasons for coming down here. One was to 
 get my horse. That's settled. Now I want to talk 
 about leasing a few thousand acres down this 
 way, with water-rights. I'm through with the 
 other game. I want to run a few cattle in here, 
 under fence. I think it will pay." 
 
 Torrance shook his head. 'The Mormons and 
 the Apaches will keep you poor, Jim." 
 
 "They might, if I tried it alone. But I have a 
 partner just up from the border. You remember 
 Pat. He's been customs inspector at Nogales 
 for some time." 
 
 "I should say I do remember him!" 
 
 "Well, he asked me to look around and write 
 to him. I think we could do well enough here. 
 What do you know about the land north of here, 
 on up toward the Santa Fe?" 
 
 Torrence pondered the situation. The times 
 were, indeed, changing when men like Waring and 
 Pat ceased to ride the high trails and settled down 
 to ranching under fence. The day of the gunman 
 was past, but two such men as Pat and Waring 
 would suppress by their mere presence in the 
 country the petty rustling and law-breaking that 
 had made Torrance's position difficult at times. 
 
 "I'll see what I can do," said he. "About how 
 much land?" 
 
 "Ten or twenty thousand, to begin with." 
 
 143 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "There's some Government land not on the res- 
 ervation between here and the railroad. There are 
 three or four families of squatters on it now. I don't 
 know how they manage to live, but they always 
 seem to have beef and bacon. You might have some 
 trouble about getting them off and about the 
 water. I '11 let you know some time next month just 
 what I can do." 
 
 "We won't have any trouble," said Waring. 
 "That's the last thing we want. I'll ride over next 
 month. You can write to me at Stacey if anything 
 turns up." 
 
 "I'll write to you. Do you ever get hungry? 
 Come on over to the hotel. I 'm as hungry as a bear." 
 
Chapter XIV 
 
 Bondsman's Decision 
 
 BUD SHOOP'S homestead on the Blue 
 Mesa lay in a wide level of grassland, 
 round which the spruce of the high coun- 
 try swept in a great, blue-edged circle., To the west 
 the barren peak of Mount Baldy maintained a soli- 
 tary vigil in sunshine and tempest. Away to the 
 north the timbered plateaus dropped from level to 
 level like a gigantic stair until they merged with the 
 horizon-line of the plains. The air on the Blue Mesa 
 was thin and keen; warm in the sun, yet instantly 
 cool at dusk. A mountain stream, all but hidden by 
 the grasses, meandered across the mesa to an emer- 
 ald hollow of coarse marsh-grass. A few yards from 
 this pool, and on its southern side, stood the moun- 
 tain cabin of the Shoop homestead, a roomy build- 
 ing of logs, its wide, easy-sloping veranda roof cov- 
 ered with home-made shakes. Near the house was a 
 small corral and stable of logs. Out on the mesa a thin 
 crop of oats wavered in the itinerant breeze. Round 
 the cabin was a garden plot that had suffered from 
 want of attention. Above the gate to the door-yard 
 was a weathered sign on which was lettered carefully : 
 
 " The rose is red; the violet blue; 
 Please shut this gate when you come through." 
 
 145 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 And on the other side of the sign, challenging the 
 possible careU ?sness of the chance visitor, was the 
 legend : 
 
 " Now y<>u 've been in and had your chuck, 
 Please close this gate, just once, for luck." 
 
 Otherwise the place was like any mountain home- 
 stead of the better sort, viewed from without. The 
 interior of the cabin, however, was unusual in that 
 it boasted of being the only music-room within 
 fifty miles in any direction. 
 
 When the genial Bud had been overtaken with 
 the idea of homesteading, he had had visions of a 
 modest success which would allow him to entertain 
 his erstwhile cow-puncher companions when they 
 should ride his way. To this end he had labored 
 with more heart than judgment. 
 
 The main room was large and lighted by two un- 
 usually large windows. The dimensions of the room 
 were ample enough to accommodate a fair number 
 of dancers. Bud knew that if cowboys loved any- 
 thing they loved to dance. The phonograph was so 
 common that it offered no distinction in gracing 
 Bud's camp; so with much labor and expense he 
 had freighted an upright piano from the distant 
 railroad, an innovation that at first had stunned and 
 then literally taken the natives off their feet. Rid- 
 ers from all over the country heard of Bud's piano, 
 questioned its reality, and finally made it a point to 
 jog over and see for themselves. 
 
 146 
 
Bondsman's Decision 
 
 For a time Bud's homestead was popular. A real 
 piano, fifty miles from a settlement, was something 
 worth riding far to see. But respect for the shining 
 veneer of the case was not long-lived. In a moment 
 of inspiration, a cowboy pulled out his jackknife 
 and carved his home brand on the shining case. Bud 
 could have said more than he did when he discov- 
 ered it. Later another contingent, not to be out- 
 done, followed this cowboy's incisive example and 
 carved its brand on the piano. Naturally it became 
 a custom. No visitor in boots and chaps left the 
 cabin without first having carved some brand. 
 
 Bud suffered in silence, consoling himself with 
 the thought that while there were many pianos in 
 the lower country, there were none like his. And 
 "As long as you don't monkey with her works or 
 shoot her up," he told his friends, "I don't care how 
 much you carve her; only leave enough sidin' and 
 roof to hold her together." 
 
 Cowboys came, danced long and late as Bud 
 pumped the mechanical player, and thrilled to the 
 shuffle of high-heeled boots. Contingent after con- 
 tingent came, danced, and departed joyously, leav- 
 ing Bud short on rations, but happy that he could 
 entertain so royally. Finally the novelty wore off, 
 and Bud was left with his Airedale, his saddle-ponies, 
 and the hand-carved piano. 
 
 But Bud had profited by the innovation. An 
 Easterner sojourning with Bud for a season, had 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 taught him to play two tunes "Annie Laurie " 
 and "Dixie." "Real hand-made music," Bud was 
 wont to remark. And with these tunes at his dis- 
 posal he was more than content. Many a long even- 
 ing he sat with his huge bulk swaying in the light 
 of the hanging lamp as he wandered around Max- 
 welton's braes in search of the true Annie Laurie; 
 or hopped with heavy sprightliness across the sandy 
 bottoms of Dixie, while Bondsman, the patient 
 Airedale, sat on his haunches and accompanied Bud 
 with dismal energy. 
 
 Bud was not a little proud of his accomplishment. 
 The player was all right, but it lacked the human 
 touch. Even when an occasional Apache strayed in 
 and borrowed tobacco or hinted at a meal, Bud was 
 not above entertaining the wondering red man with 
 music. And Bud disliked Apaches. 
 
 And during these latter days Bud had had plenty 
 of opportunity to indulge himself in music. For 
 hours he would sit and gently strike the keys, find- 
 ing unexpected harmonies that thrilled and puzzled 
 him. The discords did n't count. And Bondsman 
 would hunch up close with watchful eye and one 
 ear cocked, waiting for the familiar strains of "Annie 
 Laurie" or "Dixie." He seemed to consider these 
 tunes a sort of accompaniment to his song. If he 
 dared to howl when Bud was extemporizing, Bud 
 would rebuke him solemnly, explaining that it was 
 not considered polite in the best circles to interrupt 
 
 148 
 
Bondsman's Decision 
 
 a soloist. And an evening was never complete with- 
 out "Annie Laurie," and "Dixie," with Bondsman's 
 mournful contralto gaining ascendance as the even- 
 ing progressed. 
 
 "That dog bosses me around somethin* scanda- 
 lous," Bud was wont to remark, as he rose from his 
 labors and prepared for bed. "There I was huntin' 
 around for that chord I lit on the other night and 
 almost findin' it, when he has to howl like a coyote 
 with a sore throat and spile the whole thing. I 
 ought to learned more tunes." 
 
 It was almost dusk when Lorry topped the trail 
 that led across the Blue Mesa to Bud's cabin. Gray 
 Leg pricked his ears, and jogged over the wide level, 
 heading straight for the corral. The cabin was dark. 
 Lorry hallooed. A horse in the corral answered, 
 nickering shrilly. Lorry found some loose gramma 
 grass in the stable and threw it to the horse. If this 
 was Shoop's place, Shoop would not be gone long, or 
 he 'd have turned the horse to graze on the open mesa. 
 
 Lorry entered and lighted the lamp. He gazed 
 with astonishment at the piano. But that could 
 wait. He was hungry. In a few minutes he had a fire 
 going, plates laid for two, had made coffee and cut 
 bacon. He was mixing the dough for hot biscuit 
 when he heard some one ride up. He stepped to 
 the door. A bulky figure was pulling a saddle from 
 a horse. Lorry called a greeting. 
 
 149 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "Just a minute, friend," came from the darkness. 
 
 Lorry stepped to the kitchen, and put the biscuit 
 pan in the oven. A saddle thumped on the veranda, 
 and Bud Shoop, puffing heavily, strode in. He 
 nodded, filled a basin, and washed. As he polished 
 his bald spot, his glance traveled from the stove to the 
 table, and thence to Lorry, and he nodded approval. 
 
 "Looks like you was expectin' comp'ny," he said, 
 smiling. 
 
 "Yep. And chuck's about ready." 
 
 "So am I," said Bud, rubbing his hands. 
 
 "I'm Adams, from Stacey." 
 
 "That don't make me mad," said Bud. "How's 
 things over to your town?" 
 
 "All right, I guess. Mr. Torrance " 
 
 Bud waved his hand. "Let's eat. Been out since 
 daylight. Them biscuits is just right. Help your- 
 self to the honey." 
 
 "There's somebody outside," said Lorry, his 
 arm raised to pass the honey jar. 
 
 "That's my dog, Bondsman. He had to size up 
 your layout, and he's through and waitin' to size 
 up you. Reckon he's hungry, too. But business 
 before pleasure is his idea mostly. He's tellin' me to 
 let him in. That there dog bosses me around some- 
 thin' scandalous. When did you get in?" 
 
 "About sundown." 
 
 "Uh-uh. I seen that your horse had n't grazed 
 out far yet. How do you like this country?" 
 
 150 
 
Bondsman's Decision 
 
 "Good summer country, all right. Too high for 
 stock in winter." 
 
 "Yes. Four feet of snow on the mesa last win- 
 ter. When you say 'Arizona' to some folks, they 
 don't think of snow so deep a hoss can't get from 
 the woods over there to this cabin." Bud Shoop 
 sighed and rose. "Never mind them dishes. Morn- 
 in' '11 do." 
 
 "Won't take a minute," said Lorry. 
 
 Bud's blue eyes twinkled as he waddled to the 
 living-room. Young Adams was handy around a 
 kitchen. He had laid plates for two, knew how to 
 punch dough, was willing to wash the dishes with- 
 out a hint, and had fed the horse in the corral. 
 
 "He trots right along, like he knew where he was 
 goin'," Bud said to himself. "I like his looks 
 but that ain't always a sign." 
 
 Lorry whistled as he dried the dishes. Bud was 
 seated in a huge armchair when Lorry entered the 
 room. Shoop seemed to pay no attention to Bonds- 
 man, who whined and occasionally scratched on the 
 door. 
 
 "Funny thing happened this mornin'," said 
 Shoop, settling himself in his chair. "I was ridin' 
 down the ole Milk Ranch Trail when I looked up 
 and seen a bobcat lopin' straight for me. The cat 
 did n't see me, but my hoss stopped, waitin' for me 
 to shoot. Well, that kittycat come right along till 
 I could 'a' almost roped him. Bondsman that 's 
 
 151 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 my dog never seen him, neither, till I hollered. 
 You ought to seen that cat start back without losin' 
 a jump. I like to fell off the hoss, laughin'. Bonds- 
 man he lit out " 
 
 "I'll let him in," said Lorry, moving toward the 
 door. 
 
 " After that cat," continued Shoop, "but the 
 cat never treed, I reckon, for pretty soon back 
 comes Bondsman, lookin' as disgusted as a hen in a 
 rainstorm. 'We're gettin' too old,' I tells Bonds- 
 
 man " 
 
 "Ain't you goin' to let him in?" queried Lorry. 
 
 " We're gettin' too old to chase bobcats just 
 for fun," concluded Shoop. "What was you sayin'?" 
 
 "Your dog wants to come in." 
 
 "That's right. Now I thought you was listenin' 
 to me." 
 
 "I was. But ain't he hungry?" 
 
 Shoop chuckled. "Let him in, son." 
 
 Lorry opened the door. Bondsman stalked in, 
 sniffed at Lorry's boots, and padded to the kitchen. 
 
 "What do you feed him?" said Lorry, hesitating. 
 
 "He won't take nothin' from you," said Shoop, 
 heaving himself up. "I've had him since he was a 
 pup. You set down and I'll 'tend to him. 
 
 "And I says to him," said Shoop, as he returned 
 to his chair, "I says, 'Bondsman, that there cat 
 was just passin' the buck to us to see if we was 
 game.' And he ain't got over it yet." 
 
Bondsman's Decision 
 
 "I've roped 'em," said Lorry "roped 'em out 
 of a tree." 
 
 "Uh-uh. Where 'd you learn to rope?" 
 
 "At the Starr Ranch. I worked there once." 
 
 "Git tired of it?"' 
 
 "Nope. I had a argument with the foreman." 
 
 "Uh-uh. I reckon it ain't hard to pick a fuss with 
 High Chin." 
 
 "I was n't lookin' for a fuss. It was his funeral." 
 
 "So I heard; all but the procession." 
 
 "And that's why I came up to see you. Mr. Tor- 
 ranee told me to hunt you up." 
 
 "He did, eh? Well, now, John sure gets queer 
 idees. I don't need a man round here." 
 
 "I was after a job in the Service." 
 
 "And he sends you to me. Why, I ain't ever 
 worked a day for the Service." 
 
 "I guess he wanted you to look me over," said 
 Lorry, smiling. 
 
 "Well, they 's lots of time, 'less you're in a hurry." 
 
 "If I can't get in the Service, I'll look up a job 
 punchin'," said Lorry. "I got to get somethin'." 
 
 Bondsman stalked in, licking his chops. He nuz- 
 zled Shoop's hand. Lorry snapped his fingers. Bonds- 
 man strode to him. Lorry patted his knee. The big 
 dog crouched and sprang to Lorry's knees, where he 
 sat, studying him quizzically, his head to one side, 
 his keen eyes blinking in the lamplight. Lorry 
 laughed and patted the dog. 
 
 153 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "He's trying to get my number," said Lorry. 
 
 "He's got it," said Shoop. "You could 'a' snapped 
 your fingers off afore he'd 'a* come nigh you, 'less 
 he wanted to. And while we're talkin' about it, 
 you can tell John Torrance I said to give you a try." 
 
 Lorry sat up quickly. "Guess you didn't know 
 that Buck Hardy is lookin' for me," said Lorry. 
 "Mr. Torrance says I got to square myself with 
 Buck afore I get the job." 
 
 "He did, eh? Well, speakin' of Buck, how would 
 you like to hear a little talk from a real music-box?" 
 
 "Fine!" 
 
 Shoop waddled to the piano. "I ain't no reg'lar 
 music sharp," he explained unnecessarily, "but I 
 got a couple of pieces broke to go polite. This here 
 piano is cold-mouthed, and you got to rein her just 
 right or she'll buffalo you. This here piece is 'Annie 
 Laurie.' " 
 
 As Bud struck the first note, Bondsman leaped 
 from Lorry's knees and took his place beside the 
 piano. The early dew had just begun to fall when 
 Bondsman joined in. Lorry grinned. The dog and 
 his master were absolutely serious in their efforts. 
 As the tune progressed, Lorry's grin faded, and he 
 sat gazing intently at the huge back of his host. 
 
 :< Why, he 's playin* like he meant it," thought 
 Lorry. "And folks says Bud Shoop was a regular 
 top-hand stem-winder in his day." 
 
 Shoop labored at the piano with nervous care. 
 
 154. 
 
Bondsman's Decision 
 
 When he turned to Lorry his face was beaded with 
 sweat. 
 
 "I rode her clean through to the fence," he said, 
 with a kind of apologetic grin. "How did you like 
 that piece?" 
 
 "I always did like them old tunes," replied Lorry. 
 "Give us another." 
 
 Snoop's face beamed. "I only got one more that 
 I can get my rope on. But if you can stand it, I can. 
 This here one is 'Dixie.' " 
 
 And Bud straightened his broad shoulders, pushed 
 back his sleeves, and waded across the sandy bot- 
 toms of Dixie, hitting the high spots with staccato 
 vehemence, as though Dixie had recently suffered 
 from an inundation and he was in a hurry to get to 
 dry land. Bondsman's moody baritone reached up 
 and up with sad persistency. 
 
 Lorry was both amused and astonished. Shoop's 
 intensity, his real love for music, was a revelation. 
 Lorry felt like smiling, yet he did not smile. Bud 
 Shoop could not play, but his personality forced its 
 own recognition, even through the absurd medium 
 of an untutored performance on that weird upright 
 piano. Lorry began to realize that there was some- 
 thing more to Bud Shoop than mere bulk. 
 
 Bud swung round, puffing. "I got that tune where 
 I can keep her in sight as long as she lopes on the 
 level. But when she takes to jumpin' stumps and 
 makin' them quick turns, I sure have to do some 
 
 155 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 hard ridin* to keep her from losin* herself. Me and 
 Bondsman's been worryin' along behind them two 
 tunes for quite a spell. I reckon I ought to started 
 in younger. But, anyhow, that there piano is right 
 good comp'ny. When I been settin' here alone, 
 nights, and feelin' out her paces, I get so het up and 
 interested that I don't know the fire's out till Bonds- 
 man takes to shiverin' and whinin' and tellin' me 
 he'd like to get some sleep afore mornin'." 
 
 And Bondsman, now that the music had stopped, 
 stalked to Lorry and eyed him with an expression 
 which said plainly: "It's his weak spot this music. 
 You will have to overlook it. He's really a rather 
 decent sort of person." 
 
 "I got a mechanical player in the bedroom," said 
 Shoop. "And a reg'lar outfit of tunes for dances." 
 
 Lorry was tempted to ask to hear it, but changed 
 his mind. "I've heard them players. They're sure 
 good for a dance, but I like real playin' better." 
 
 Bud Shoop grinned. "That's the way with Bonds- 
 man here. Now he won't open his head to one of 
 them paper tunes. I've tried 'em all on him. You 
 can't tell me a dog ain't got feelin's." 
 
Chapter XV 
 John and Demijohn 
 
 THE grass on the high mesa was heavy 
 with dew when Lorry stepped from the 
 cabin next morning. His pony, Gray Leg, 
 stood close to the corral, where Shoop's horses were 
 playfully biting at him over the bars. Lorry un- 
 hobbled Gray Leg and turned Shoop's horses out to 
 water. The three ponies trotted to the water-hole, 
 sniffed at the water, and, whirling, raced across 
 the mesa, pitching and kicking in the joy of liber- 
 ation. 
 
 After breakfast Bud and Lorry sat out in the sun, 
 enjoying the slow warmth. The morning air was 
 still keen in the shade. Bondsman lay between them, 
 watching the distant horses. 
 
 "He won't let 'em get far into the timber," said 
 Shoop. "He sure saves me a lot of steps, roundin' 
 up them bosses." 
 
 "I can whistle Gray Leg to me," said Lorry. 
 "Then the other horses '11 come." 
 
 Shoop nodded. "What you goin' to do to-day?" 
 
 "Me? Well, it's so kind of quiet and big up here 
 I feel like settin' around and takin' it all in. I ain't 
 been in the high country much. 'Course I don't 
 aim to camp on you." 
 
 157 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "You're sure welcome," said Shoop heartily. "It 
 gets lonesome up here. But if you ain't got no 
 reg'lar plan I was thmkin' of ridin' over to Sheep 
 Crossin' and mebby on down to Jason." 
 
 "Suits me fine!" 
 
 Shoop heaved himself up. Lorry whistled shrilly. 
 Gray Leg, across the mesa, raised his head. Lorry 
 whistled again. The pony lowered his head and 
 nipped at the bunch-grass as he moved slowly to- 
 ward the house. Snoop's horses watched him, and 
 finally decided that they would follow. Gray Leg 
 stopped just out of reach. 
 
 "Get in the corral, there!" said Lorry, waving his 
 arm. 
 
 The pony shied and trotted into the corral, the 
 other horses following. 
 
 Bondsman was not exactly disgruntled, but he 
 might have been happier. Shoop had told him to 
 "keep house" until they returned. 
 
 "It's a funny thing," said Shoop as he mounted. 
 "Now, if I was to tell that dog he was gettin' too 
 old to ramble with me, he'd feel plumb sick and no 
 account. But when I tell him he's got to do some- 
 thin' like watchin' the house he thinks it's a 
 reg'lar job. He's gettin' old, but, just like folks, he 
 wants to think he's some use. You can't tell me dogs 
 don't know. Why, I've seen young folks so durned 
 fussy about their grandmas and grandpas, trying 
 to keep 'em from putterin' around, that the old 
 
 [158 
 
John and Demijohn 
 
 folks just nacherally folded their hands and set 
 down and died, havin' nothin' else to do. And a dog 
 is right proud about bein' able to do somethin'. 
 Bondsman there keeps me so busy thinkin' of how 
 I can keep him busy that I ain't got time to shine 
 my boots. That there dog bosses me around some- 
 thin' scandalous." 
 
 "That's right," acquiesced Lorry. "I seen a ole 
 mule once that they turned loose from a freight 
 wagon because he was too old to pull his own weight. 
 And that mule just followed the string up and down 
 the hills and across the sand, doin' his best to tell 
 the skinner that he wanted to get back into the har- 
 ness. He would run alongside the other mules, and 
 try to get back in his old place. They would just 
 naturally kick him, and he'd turn and try to wallop 
 'em back. Then he'd walk along, with his head 
 hangin' down and his ears floppin', as if he was 
 plumb sick of bein' free and wanted to die. The last 
 day he was too stiff to get on his feet, so me and 
 Jimmy Harp heaved him up while the skinner was 
 gettin' the chains on the other mules. That ole mule 
 was sure wabblin' like a duck, but he come aside his 
 ole place and followed along all day. We was freight- 
 in' in to camp, back in the Horseshoe Hills. You 
 know that grade afore you get to the mesa? Well, 
 the ole mule pulled the grade, sweatin' and puffin* 
 like he was pullin' the whole load. And I guess he 
 was, in his mind. Anyhow, he got to the top, and 
 
 159 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 laid down and died. Mules sure like to work. Now 
 a horse would have fanned it." 
 
 Shoop nodded. "I never seen a animile too lazy 
 to work if it was only gettin' his grub and exercise. 
 But I've seen a sight of folks too lazy to do that 
 much. Why, some folks is so dog-gone no account 
 they got to git killed afore folks ever knowed they 
 was livin'. Then they's some folks so high-chinned 
 they can't see nothin' but the stars when they'd do 
 tollable well if they would follow a good hoss or a 
 dog around and learn how to live human. But this 
 ain't gettin' nowhere, and the sun's keepin' right 
 along doin' business." 
 
 They rode across the beautiful Blue Mesa, and 
 entered the timberlands, following a ranger trail 
 through the shadowy silences. At the lower level, 
 they came upon another mesa through which wound 
 a mountain stream. And along a stream ran the 
 trail, knee-high in grass on either side. 
 
 Far below them lay the plains country, its hazy 
 reaches just visible over the tree-tops. Where the 
 mountain stream merged with a deeper stream the 
 ground was barren and dotted with countless tracks 
 of cattle and sheep. This was Sheep Crossing, a nat- 
 ural pass where the cattlemen and sheepmen drifted 
 their stock from the hills to the winter feeding- 
 grounds of the lower country. It was a checking 
 point for the rangers; the gateway to the hills. 
 
 The thin mountain air was hot. The unbridled 
 
 160 
 
John and Dem\john 
 
 ponies drank eagerly, and were allowed to graze. The 
 men moved over to the shade of a blue-topped spruce. 
 As Lorry was about to sit down he picked an empty 
 whiskey bottle from the grass, turned the label to- 
 ward Shoop, and grinned. He tossed the bottle into 
 the edge of the timber. 
 
 Shoop rolled a cigarette, and Lorry squatted be- 
 side him. Presently Snoop's voice broke the indolent 
 silence of noon: "Just why did you chuck that bottle 
 over there?" 
 
 "I don't know. Horse might step on it and cut 
 himself." 
 
 "Yes. But you chucked it like you was mad at 
 somethin'. Would you thrun it away if it was full?" 
 
 "I don' know. I might 'a' smelt of it to see if it was 
 whiskey or kerosene some herder forgot." 
 
 "It's right curious how a fella will smell of a bot- 
 tle to see what's in it or what's been in it. Most folks 
 does that. I guess you know what whiskey smells 
 like." 
 
 "Oh, some; with the boys once or twice. I never 
 did get to like it right well." 
 
 Shoop nodded. "I ain't what you'd call a drinkin' 
 man myself, but I started out that way. I been tor- 
 able well lit up at times. But temperance folks what 
 never took a drink can tell you more about whiskey 
 than I can. Now that there empty bottle, a hundred 
 and thirty miles from a whiskey town, kind of set me 
 thinkin'. 5 ' 
 
 Jdl 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 tony leaned back against the spruce and watched 
 a hawk float in easy circles round the blue emptiness 
 above. He felt physically indolent; at one with the 
 silences. Shoop's voice came to him clearly, but as 
 though from a distance, and as Shoop talked Lorry 
 visualized the theme, forgetting where he was in the 
 vivid picture the old ex-cowboy sketched in the rough 
 dialect of the range. 
 
 "I 've did some thinkin' in my time, but not enough 
 to keep me awake nights," said Shoop, pushing back 
 his hat. "That there whiskey bottle kind of set me 
 back to where I was about your years and some 
 lively. Long about then I knowed two fellas called 
 'John' and 'Demijohn.' John was young and a right 
 good cow-hand. Demijohn was old, but he was al- 
 ways dressed up like he was young, and he acted right 
 lively. Some folks thought he was young. They met 
 up at a saloon down along the Sante Fe. They got 
 acquainted, and had a high ole time. 
 
 "That evenin', as John was leavin' to go back to 
 the ranch, Demijohn tells him he'll see him later. 
 John remembers that. They met up ag'in. And 
 finally John got to lookin' for Demijohn, and if he 
 did n't show up reg'lar John would set out and chase 
 Demijohn all over the country, afoot and ahorse- 
 back, and likin' his comp'ny more every time they 
 met. 
 
 "Now, tnis nere Demijohn, who was by rights a 
 city fella, got to takin' to the timber and the mesas, 
 
 !M 
 
John and Demijohn 
 
 with John followin' him around lively. Ole Demi- 
 john would set in the shade of a tree no tellin' how 
 he got there and John would ride up and light 
 down; when mebby Demijohn would start off to 
 town, bein' empty, and John after him like hell was n't 
 hot enough 'less he sweat runnin'. And that young 
 John would ride clean to town just to say 'How' to 
 that ole hocus. And it come that John got to payin' 
 more attention to Demijohn than he did to punchin* 
 cows. Then come a day when John got sick of chasm* 
 Demijohn all over the range, and he quit. 
 
 "But the first thing he knowed, Demijohn was a 
 chasin' him. Every time John rode in and throwed 
 off his saddle there 'd be ole Demijohn, settin' in the 
 corner of the corral or under his bunk or out in the 
 box stall, smilin' and waitin'. Finally Demijohn got 
 to followin' John right into the bunk-house, and John 
 tryin' his durndest to keep out of sight. 
 
 "One evenin', when John was loafin' in the bunk- 
 house, ole Demijohn crawls up to his bunk and asks 
 him, whisperin', if he ain't most always give John 
 a good time when they met up. John cussed, but 
 'lowed that Demijohn was right. Then Demijohn 
 took to pullin' at young John's sleeve and askin' him 
 to come to town and have a good time. Pretty soon 
 John gets up and saddles his cayuse and fans it for 
 town. And that time him and Demijohn sure had 
 one whizzer of a time. But come a week later, when 
 John gits back to the ranch, the boss is sore and fires 
 
 163 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 him. Then John gits sore at the boss and at himself 
 and at Demijohn and the whole works. So he saddles 
 up and rides over to town to have it out with Demi- 
 john for losin' a good job. But he could n't lick Demi- 
 john right there in town nohow. Demijohn was too 
 frequent for him. 
 
 "When young John wakes up next mornin' he is 
 layin' under a tree, mighty sick. He sees he is up on 
 the high mesa, but he don' know how he got there; 
 only his pony is grazin' near by, with reins all tromped 
 and the saddle 'way up on his withers. John sets up 
 and rubs his eyes, and there he sees ole Demijohn 
 settin' in the grass chucklin' to hisself , and his back 
 is turned to young John, for he don't care nohow for 
 a fella when he is sick. Ole Demijohn is always feelin* 
 good, no matter how his friends feel. Well, young 
 John thinks a while, and pretty soon he moseys over 
 to a spring and gets a big, cold drink and washes his 
 head, and feels better. 
 
 "He never knowed that just plain water tasted so 
 good till that mornin'. Then he sets awhile, smellin* 
 of the clean pine air and listenin' to the wind runnin' 
 loose in the tree-tops and watchin' the clouds driftin' 
 by, white and clean and proud-like. Pretty soon he 
 rares up and walks over to the tree where ole Demi- 
 john sets rockin' up and down and chucklin'. He takes 
 a holt of Demijohn by the shoulder, and he says: 
 'You darned ole hocus, you, I lost my job, and I'm 
 broke, lopin' around this country with you.' 
 
 164 
 
John and Demijohn 
 
 "'Forget it!' says ole Demijohn. 'Ain't I good 
 comp'ny?' 
 
 "'Mebby you be for some folks,' says young 
 John. 'But not for me. You don't belong up in this 
 here country; you belong back in town, and I reckon 
 you better fan it.' 
 
 "Ole Demijohn he laughed. 'You can't run me off 
 the range that easy,' he says. 
 
 '"I can't, eh?' says young John, and he pulls his 
 gun and up and busts ole Demijohn over the head. 
 Then, bein' a likely young fella, he shuts his jaw tight 
 and fans it back to the ranch. The fo'man is some 
 surprised to see him come ridin' up, whistlin' like he 
 owned the works. Fellas what's fired mostly looks 
 for work some place else. But young John got the idee 
 that he owed it to hisself to make good where he 
 started as a cow-hand. 'I busted my ole friend Demi- 
 john over the head,' he says to the fo'man. 'We 
 ain't friends no more.' 
 
 "The fo'man he grins. 'All right, Jack,' he says. 
 'But if I see him hangin' round the corrals ag'in, or in 
 the bunk-house, you need n't to wait for me to tell 
 you which way is north.' 
 
 "Well, young John had done a good job. 'Course 
 ole Demijohn used to come sneakin' round in the 
 moonlight, once in a spell, botherin' some of the boys, 
 but he stayed clear of young John. And young John 
 he took to ridin' straight and hard and 'tendin' to 
 business. I ain't sayin' he ever got to be president or 
 
 165 
 
Tang of Lite 
 
 superintendent of a Sunday School, for this ain't no 
 story-book yarn; but he always held a good job when 
 he wanted it, and he worked for a good boss which 
 was hisself." 
 
 Lorry grinned as he turned to Shoop. "That ole 
 Demijohn never got close enough to me to get busted 
 on the head." 
 
 "Them bosses is strayin' down the creek," said 
 Shoop, rising. 
 
 They turned and rode north, somewhat to Lorry's 
 surprise. The trail was ragged and steep, and led from 
 the mesa to the canon bottom of the White River. 
 Before Lorry realized where they were, Jason loomed 
 before them on the mesa below. 
 
 "She's a quick trail to town in summer," explained 
 Shoop. "Snow hangs too heavy in the canon to ride 
 it in winter." 
 
 At Jason they tied their horses, and entered the 
 ranger's office. Lorry waited while Shoop talked with 
 Torrance in the private office. Presently Shoop came 
 to the door and gestured to Lorry. 
 
 "Mr. Shoop says he thinks you could qualify for 
 the Service,!' Torrance said. '* We will waive the 
 matter of recommendations from the Starr people. 
 But there is one thing I can't do. I can't hire a man 
 who is wanted by the authorities. There's a deputy 
 sheriff in town with a warrant for you. That is strictly 
 your affair. If you can square yourself with the dep- 
 uty, I '11 put you to work." 
 
 166 
 
John and Demijohn 
 
 "I'll go see what he wants," said Lorry. 
 
 "He wants you. Understand, you'll only jeop- 
 ardize your chances by starting a row." 
 
 "They won't be a row," said Lorry. 
 
 When he returned he was accompanied by the 
 deputy. Lorry took his stand without parley. 
 
 "I want to ask you folks a question, and then I'm 
 through," he asserted. "Will you listen to what he 
 says and what I say, and then say who is right?" 
 
 "That might not settle it," said Torrance. "But 
 go ahead." 
 
 "Then all I got to say is, was I right or wrong when 
 I turned that hobo loose and saved him from gettin' 
 beat up by High Chin and the boys, and mebby 
 strung up, afore they got through?" 
 
 "Morally you were right," said Torrance. "But 
 you should have appealed to Sheriff Hardy to guard 
 his prisoner." 
 
 "That's all right, Mr. Torrance. But suppose they 
 was n't time. And suppose, now Buck's deputy 
 is here to listen to it, suppose I was to say that 
 Buck is scared to death of High-Chin Bob. Every- 
 body knows it." 
 
 The deputy flushed. He knew that Lorry spoke 
 the truth. 
 
 Torrance turned to Shoop. "What do you think, 
 Bud?" 
 
 Bud coughed and shrugged his heavy shoulders. 
 "Bein' as I'm drug into this, I say the boy did a good 
 
 167 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 job and he's right about Hardy, which you can tell 
 him," he added, turning to the deputy. 
 
 "Then that's all I got to say," and Lorry pushed 
 back his hat and rumpled his hair. 
 
 The deputy was not there to argue. He had been 
 sent to get Lorry. 
 
 "I don't say he ain't right. But how about my job 
 if I ride back to Stacey with nothin' to show for the 
 trip but my expense card?" 
 
 "Buck Hardy is n't a fool," said Torrance. 
 
 "Oh, hell!" said Lorry, turning to the deputy. 
 "I'll go back with you. I'm sick of jawin' about the 
 right and the wrong and who 's to blame. But I want 
 to say in company that I'll go just as far as the 
 county line of this county. You're south of your 
 county. If you can get me across the line, I '11 go on to 
 Stacey." 
 
 Bud Shoop mopped his face with a bandanna. He 
 was not overhot, but he wanted to hide the grin that 
 spread over his broad countenance. He imagined he 
 could see the deputy just about the time they ar- 
 rived at the county line, and the mental picture 
 seemed to amuse him. 
 
 "The idee is, the kid thinks he's right," said Shoop 
 presently. "Speakin' personal, I never monkey with 
 a man when he thinks he's right and he is." 
 
 "All I got to go by is the law," asserted the dep- 
 uty. "As for Adams here sayin' I won't run him in, 
 I got orders to do it, and them orders goes." 
 
 168 
 
John and Demijohn 
 
 "Adams has applied for a position in the Service," 
 said Torrance. 
 
 "I ain't got anything against Lorry personal," 
 said the deputy. 
 
 "Then just you ride back an 5 tell Buck Hardy that 
 Bud Shoop says he'll stand responsible for Adams 
 keepin' the peace in Jason County, same as I stood, 
 responsible for Buck oncet down in the Panhandle. 
 Buck will remember, all right." 
 
 "Can't you give me a letter to Buck, explainin* 
 things?" queried the deputy. 
 
 Bud glanced at Torrance. "I think we can," said 
 the supervisor. 
 
 Lorry stepped to the door with the deputy. There 
 was no personal feeling evident as they shook hands. 
 
 "You could tell ma to send down my clothes by 
 stage," said Lorry. 
 
 Shoop and Torrance seemed to be enjoying them- 
 selves. 
 
 "I put hi my say," said Bud, " 'cause I kind of like 
 the kid. And I reckon I saved that deputy a awful 
 wallopin*. When a fella like young Adams talks 
 pleasant and chokes his hat to death at the same time 
 you can watch out for somethin' to fall." 
 
 "Do you think Adams would have had it out with 
 him?" 
 
 "He'd 'a' rode along a spell, like he said. Mebby 
 just this side of the county line he'd 'a' told the 
 deputy which way was north. And if the deputy 
 
 169 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 did n't take the hint, I reckon Adams would 'a' lit 
 into him. I knowed Adams's daddy afore he mar- 
 ried Annie Adams and went to live in Sonora." 
 
 "Then you knew that his father was Jim War- 
 ing?" 
 
 "'I sure did. And I reckon I kep' somebody from 
 gettin' a awful wallopin 5 . I was a kid oncet myself." 
 
Chapter XVI 
 Play 
 
 ^~ ""^HE installation of Bud Shoop as supervisor 
 of the White Mountain District was cele- 
 
 - l brated with an old-fashioned barbecue by 
 the cattlemen and sheepmen leasing on the reserve. 
 While John Torrance had always dealt fairly with 
 them, the natives felt that he was more or less of a 
 theorist in the matter of grazing-leases. Shoop was 
 a practical cowman; one of themselves. Naturally 
 there was some dissatisfaction expressed by dis- 
 gruntled individuals who envied Shoop's good for- 
 tune. But this was overwhelmed by the tide of popu- 
 lar acclaim with which Shoop was hailed as a just 
 administrator of their grazing-rights. 
 
 The barbecue was a boisterous success. Although 
 the day of large holdings was past, the event lacked 
 nothing in numbers or enthusiasm. The man who 
 owned a hundred head of cattle was quite as popular 
 as his neighbor who owned perhaps eight hundred or 
 a thousand. Outfits fraternized, ran pony races, 
 roped for prizes, and rode bucking horses, as their 
 predecessors had raced, roped, and "rode 'em" in the 
 days of old. 
 
 Lorry, itching to enter the roping contest, was 
 checked by a suggestion from the genial Bud. 
 
 171 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "I've heard you was top-hand with a rope. But 
 you're a ranger, by the grace of God and me and 
 John Torrance. Let the boys play, but don't play 
 with 'em yet. Keep 'em guessin' just how good you 
 are. Let 'em get to know you slow and solid." 
 
 Lorry accepted Bud's advice, and made himself 
 popular with the various outfits by maintaining a 
 silence when questioned as to how he "put High- 
 Chin Bob out of business." The story of that affair 
 had had a wide circulation, and gained interest when 
 it became known that High Chin and his men were 
 present. Their excuse for coming was only legitimate 
 in that a barbecue draws no fine lines of distinction. 
 Any one who has a horse and an appetite is welcome. 
 The Starr riders were from the northern county, but 
 they would have been quite as welcome had they come 
 from Alaska. 
 
 Bud Shoop was present in a suit of religiously 
 severe black, his pants outside his boots. He had 
 donned a white shirt and knotted a black silk ban- 
 danna round his short neck. 
 
 The morning was noisy with pony races, roping 
 contests, and the riding of pitching horses. The 
 events were not tabulated, but evolved through the 
 unwritten law of precedent. 
 
 After the noon feast there was talk of a shooting- 
 match. Few of the local men packed guns, and none 
 of them openly. The Starr riders were the only excep- 
 tion. This fact was commented upon by some of the 
 
 172 
 
Play 
 
 old-timers, who finally accosted Bud with the sug- 
 gestion that he "show that Starr outfit what a gun 
 was made for." Bud declined. 
 
 "I ain't had a gun in my hand, except to clean it, 
 since I quit punchin'," he told them. "And, anyhow, 
 I'm no fancy gun sharp." 
 
 "High Chin and his outfit is sure handin' it to us," 
 complained the old-timers. "And you're about the 
 only man here who could show 'em." 
 
 "No use provin' it to 'em when they know it," 
 Bud said. 
 
 The committee retired and consulted among them- 
 selves. Bud was talking with a cattleman when they 
 again accosted him. 
 
 "Say, Bud, them Starr boys has cleaned us out on 
 ropin' and racin'. We trimmed 'em on ridin'. Now 
 that makes two to one, and we're askin' you as a old- 
 timer if we're goin' to let them fellas ride north 
 a-tellin' every hay-tosser atween here and Stacey 
 that we're a bunch of jays?" 
 
 "Oh, shucks!" was all Bud had to say. 
 
 "And that High-Chin Bob says he aims to hang 
 young Adams's scalp on his belt afore he gits through," 
 asserted a townsman. 
 
 "I'll set in the game," said Bud. 
 
 And he waddled across the street to his office. In 
 a few minutes he came back and mingled with the 
 crowd. The Starr boys were pitching dollars at a 
 mark when Bud and a companion strolled past. 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 High Chin invited Shoop to join in the game. Shoop 
 declined pleasantly. 
 
 "Things is runnin' slow," said a Starr man. "Wish 
 I'd 'a' fetched my music along. Mebby I could git 
 somebody to sing me to sleep." 
 
 Bud laughed. "Have a good time, boys." And he 
 moved on. 
 
 "That was one for you and yore piano," said 
 his companion. 
 
 "Mebby so. We'll let that rest. I'm lookin' for a 
 friend of mine." And Shoop edged along the crowd. 
 
 The man that Shoop was looking for was standing 
 alone beneath the shade of an acacia, watching the 
 crowd. He was a tall, heavy man, dark-featured, with 
 a silver-gray beard and brown eyes that seemed to 
 twinkle with amusement even when his lips were 
 grim. The giant sheepman of the south country was 
 known to every one on account of his great physique 
 and his immense holdings in land and sheep. Shoop 
 talked with him for a few minutes. Together they 
 strolled back to the crowd. 
 
 The Starr boys were still pitching dollars when 
 Shoop and the sheepman approached. 
 
 "Who's top-hand in this game?" queried Shoop 
 genially. 
 
 "High Chin and at any game you got," said a 
 Starr man. 
 
 "Well, now!" 
 
 "Any game you got." 
 
 174 
 
Play 
 
 Shoop gazed about, saw Lorry, and beckoned to 
 him. 
 
 "Here's my candidate," said Shoop. "He kep' out 
 of the ropin' so as to give you fellas a chance." And 
 he turned to Lorry. "Give him a whirl," he said, 
 indicating High Chin. "It's worth a couple of dol- 
 lars just to find out how good he is." 
 
 High Chin surveyed the circle of faces, poised a 
 dollar, and threw it. Lorry threw and lost. High 
 Chin pocketed the two dollars. The Starr boys 
 grinned. High Chin threw again. The dollar slid 
 close to the line. Lorry shied his dollar and knocked 
 the other's coin several feet away from the line. 
 
 "Try him ag'in," said Shoop. 
 
 Lorry tossed again. His dollar dropped on the line. 
 High Chin threw. His coin clinked squarely on 
 Lorry's, but spun off, leaving it undisturbed. 
 
 "You break even at that game," said Shoop. 
 "It was a good shot." 
 
 "Folks been sayin' the same of you," said High 
 Chin, turning to the supervisor. 
 
 "Oh, folks will talk. They're made that way," 
 chuckled Shoop. 
 
 "Well, I got ten bucks that says High Chin can 
 outshoot any hombre in this crowd," said a Starr boy. 
 
 "I'm right glad you got it," said Shoop pleasantly. 
 
 "Meanin' I stand to lose it, eh?" 
 
 "Oh, gosh, no! You're steppin' on your bridle. I 
 was congratulatin' you on your wealth " 
 
 175 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "I ain't seen that you been flashin' any money," 
 said the cowboy. 
 
 "Nope. That ain't what money's made for. And 
 I never bet on a sure thing. Ain't no fun in that." 
 
 The giant sheepman, whose movements were as 
 deliberate as the sun's, slowly reached in his pocket 
 and drew out a leather pouch. He counted out forty 
 dollars in gold-pieces. 
 
 "I'll lay it even," he said, his eyes twinkling, "that 
 Bud Shoop can outshoot any man in the crowd." 
 
 "I'll take ten of that," said the Starr man. 
 
 "And I'll take ten," said another cowboy. 
 
 "John," said Shoop, turning to the sheepman, 
 "you're a perpendicular dam' fool." 
 
 Word went forth that High-Chin Bob, of the Starr, 
 and Bud Shoop were to shoot a match for a thousand 
 dollars a side, and some of the more enthusiastic be- 
 lieved it. In a few minutes the street was empty of 
 all save the ponies at the hitching-rails. 
 
 In a shallow arroyo back of town the excited throng 
 made wagers and talked of wonderful shots made by 
 the principals. High Chin was known as a quick and 
 sure shot. Shoop's reputation was known to fewer of 
 the crowd. The Starr boys backed their foreman to 
 the last cent. A judge was suggested, but declined 
 as being of the locality. Finally the giant sheepman, 
 despite his personal wager, was elected unanimously. 
 He was known to be a man of absolute fairness, and 
 qualified to judge marksmanship. He agreed to 
 
 176 
 
Play 
 
 serve, with the proviso that the Starr boys or any of 
 High Chin's friends should feel free to question his 
 decisions. The crowd solidified back of the line, 
 where Shoop and High Chin stood waiting for the 
 test. 
 
 The marksmen faced two bottles on a rock some 
 thirty paces away. At the word, each was to "go for 
 his gun" and shoot. High Chin carried his gun in the 
 usual holster. Bud Snoop's gun was tucked in the 
 waistband of his pants. 
 
 "Go!" said the sheepman. 
 
 High Chin's hand flashed to his hip. His gun 
 jumped and spoke. Shoop's wrist turned. Both bot- 
 tles were shattered on the instant. A tie was declared. 
 
 The men were placed with their backs toward the 
 targets two empty bottles. The sheepman faced 
 them, with his hands behind his back. When he 
 snapped his fingers they were to turn and fire. Many 
 of the onlookers thought this test would leave High 
 Chin a point ahead. 
 
 Both men swung and fired at the signal. Again 
 both bottles were shattered. Although a tie was 
 again declared, the crowd cheered for Shoop, realiz- 
 ing his physical handicap. Yet many asserted that 
 High Chin was the faster man, won to this decision 
 by his lightning speed of movement and his easy 
 manner, suggesting a kind of contemptuous indiffer- 
 ence to results. 
 
 In contrast to High Chin's swift, careless efficiency, 
 
 177 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Shoop's solid poise and lack of elbow motion showed 
 in strong relief. Their methods were entirely dis- 
 similar. But it was evident to the old-timers that 
 Shoop shot with less effort and waste motion than his 
 lithe competitor. And High Chin was the younger 
 man by twenty years. 
 
 Thus far the tests had not been considered diffi- 
 cult. But when the sheepman stepped off ten paces 
 and faced the competitors with a cigar held at arm's 
 length, the chattering of the -crowd ceased. High 
 Chin, as guest, was asked to shoot first. He raised 
 his gun. It hung poised for a second. As it jumped 
 in his hand the ash flirted from the end of the cigar. 
 The crowd stamped and cheered. Shoop congratu- 
 lated High Chin. The crowd hooted and called to 
 Shoop to make good. Even as they called, his hand 
 flashed up. Hardly had the report of his gun startled 
 them to silence when they saw that his hands were 
 empty. A roar of laughter shook the crowd. Some 
 one pointed toward the sheepman. The laughter 
 died down. He held a scant two inches of cigar in 
 his fingers. Then they understood, and were silent 
 again. They gathered round the sheepman. He held 
 up his arms. Shoop's bullet had nipped the cigar in 
 two before they had realized that he intended to 
 shoot. 
 
 "You're havin' the luck," said High. 
 
 " You 're right," said Shoop. "And luck, if she keeps 
 steadv gait, is just as good a hoss to ride as they is." 
 
 178 
 
Play 
 
 Still, there were those who maintained that Shoop 
 had made a chance hit. But High Chin knew that 
 this was not so. He had met his master at the six- 
 gun game. 
 
 Bud Shoop 's easy manner had vanished. As solid 
 as a rock, his lips in a straight line, he waited for the 
 next test while High Chin talked and joked with the 
 bystanders. 
 
 "You'll shoot when you see something to shoot 
 at," was the sheepman's word. The crowd laughed. 
 He stood behind the marksmen, a tin can in each 
 hand. Both High Chin and Shoop knew what was 
 coming, and Shoop decided to surprise the assem- 
 blage. The main issue was not the shooting con- 
 test, and if High-Chin Bob had not already seen 
 enough of Shoop's work to satisfy him, the genial 
 Bud intended to clinch the matter right there. 
 
 Without warning, the sheepman tossed the cans 
 into the air. Shoop and High Chin shot on the in- 
 stant. But before High Chin's can touched the 
 ground Shoop shot again. It was faster work than 
 any present had ever seen. A man picked up the 
 cans and brought them to the sheepman. One can 
 had a clean hole in it. The other had two holes 
 through it. Those nearest the marksmen wondered 
 why Shoop had not shot twice at his own can. But 
 the big sheepman knew that Shoop had called High 
 Chin's bluff about "any game going." 
 
 Even then the match was a tie so far as precedent 
 
 179 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 demanded. Each man had made a hit on a moving 
 target. 
 
 The crowd had ceased to applaud. 
 
 "How about a try from the saddle?" suggested 
 High Chin. 
 
 "I reckon I look just as fat and foolish set tin' hi 
 a saddle as anywhere," said Shoop. 
 
 The crowd shuffled over to a more open spot, on 
 the mesa. Shoop and High Chin mounted their 
 horses. A tin cracker box was placed on a flat rock 
 out in the open. 
 
 The men were to reload and shoot at top speed 
 as they rode past the box. The Starr foreman im- 
 mediately jumped his pony to a run, and, swaying 
 easily, threw a shot at the box as he approached it, 
 another and another when opposite, and, turning 
 in the saddle, fired his three remaining shots. The 
 box was brought back and inspected. The six shots 
 had all hit. 
 
 Shoop, straight and solid as a statue, ran his pony 
 down the course, but held his fire until almost oppo- 
 site the box. Then six reports rippled out like the 
 drawing of a stick quickly across a picket fence. It 
 was found that the six shots had all hit in one side 
 of the box. The sheepman was asked for a decision. 
 He shook his head and declared the match a draw. 
 And technically it was a draw. Every one seemed 
 satisfied, although there was much discussion among 
 individuals as to the relative merits of the contestants. 
 
 180 
 
Play 
 
 As the crowd dispersed and some of them pre- 
 pared to ride home, two horsemen appeared on the 
 northern road, riding toward town. As they drew 
 nearer Shoop chuckled. Lorry, standing a few paces 
 away, glanced at him. 
 
 The supervisor was talking to Bob Brewster. 
 "High, you're the best I ever stacked up against, 
 exceptin* one, and it's right curious that he is just 
 a-ridin' into this powwow. If you want to see what 
 real shootin' is, get him to show you." 
 
 "I don't know your friend," said High, eyeing 
 the approaching horsemen, "but he's a beaut if he 
 can outshoot you." 
 
 "Outshoot me? Say, High, that hombre ridin' 
 the big buckskin hoss there could make us look 
 about as fast as a couple of fence-posts when it comes 
 to handlin' a gun. And his pardner ain't what you'd 
 call slow." 
 
 High Chin's lean face darkened as he recognized 
 Waring riding beside a gaunt, long-legged man whose 
 gray eyes twinkled as he surveyed the little group. 
 
 "Pat and Jim Waring," muttered Shoop. 
 "And us just finished what some would call a ole- 
 time shootin'-bee!" 
 
 "Who's your friend?" queried High Chin, al- 
 though he knew. 
 
 "Him? That's Jim Waring, of Sonora. And say, 
 High, I ain't his advertisin' agent, but between you 
 and me he could shoot the fuzz out of your ears and 
 
 181 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 never as much as burn 'em. What I'm tellin' you is 
 first-class life insurance if you ain't took out any. 
 And before you go I just want to pass the word that 
 young Adams is workin' for me. Reckon you might 
 be interested, seein' as how he worked for you a 
 spell." 
 
 High Chin met Shoop's gaze unblinkingly. He 
 was about to speak when Pat and Waring rode up 
 and greeted the supervisor. High Chin wheeled his 
 horse and loped back to town. A few minutes later 
 he and his men rode past. To Shoop's genial wave 
 of farewell they returned a whoop that seemed edged 
 with a vague challenge. 
 
 Pat, who was watching them, asked Shoop who 
 the man was riding the pinto. 
 
 "Why, that's High-Chin Bob Brewster, Starr 
 fo'man. He's kind of a wild bird. I reckon he came 
 over here lookin' for trouble. He's been walkin' 
 around with his wings and tail spread like he was 
 mad at somethin'." 
 
 "I thought I knew him," said Pat. And he 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 Shoop noticed that Waring was gazing at Pat in 
 a peculiar manner. He attached no significance to 
 this at the time, but later he recalled the fact that 
 there had been trouble between Pat and the Brews- 
 ter boys some years ago. The Brewsters had then 
 openly threatened to "get Pat if he ever rode north 
 again." 
 
Chapter XVII 
 
 Down the Wind 
 
 WARING, several miles out from the home 
 shack, on the new range, sat his horse 
 Dexter, watching his men string fence. 
 They ran the barbed wire with a tackle, stringing it 
 taut down the long line of bare posts that twin- 
 kled away to dots in the west. Occasionally Waring 
 rode up and tested the wire with his hand. The men 
 worked fast. Waring and Pat had picked their men; 
 three husky boys of the high country who consid- 
 ered stringing fence rather pleasant exercise. There 
 was no recognized foreman. Each knew his work, 
 and Waring had added a foreman's pay to their 
 salaries, dividing it equally among them. Later they 
 would look after the ranch and the cattle. 
 
 Twenty thousand acres under fence, with plenty 
 of water, would take care of eight hundred or a 
 thousand head of cattle. And as a provision against 
 a lean winter, Waring had put a mowing-machine 
 in at the eastern end of the range, where the bunch- 
 grass was heavy enough to cut. It would be neces- 
 sary to winter-feed. Four hundred white-faced 
 Herefords grazed in the autumn sunshine. Riding 
 round and among them leisurely was the Mexican 
 youth, Ramon. 
 
 183 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Backed against a butte near the middle of the 
 range was the broad, low-roofed ranch-house. A 
 windmill purred in the light breeze, its lean, flick- 
 ering shadow aslant the corrals. The buildings 
 looked new and raw in contrast to the huge pile of 
 grayish-green greasewood and scrub cedar gathered 
 from the clearing round them. 
 
 In front of the house was a fenced acre, ploughed 
 and harrowed to a dead level. This was to be Pat's 
 garden, wherein he had planned to grow all sorts of 
 green things, including cucumbers. At the moment 
 Pat was standing under the veranda roof, gazing 
 out across the ranch. The old days of petty warfare, 
 long night rides, and untold hardships were past. 
 Next spring his garden would bloom; tiny green 
 tendrils would swell to sturdy vines. Corn-leaves 
 would broaden to waving green blades shot with the 
 rich brown of the ripening ears. Although he had 
 never spoken of it, Pat had dreamed of blue flowers 
 nodding along the garden fence; old-fashioned bache- 
 lor's-buttons that would spring up as though by 
 accident. But he would have to warn Waco, the 
 erstwhile tramp, not to mistake them for weeds. 
 
 "Peace and plenty," muttered Pat, smiling to him- 
 self. "The Book sure knows how to say those things." 
 
 The gaunt, grizzled ex-sheriff reached in his vest 
 for a cigar. As he bit the end off and felt for a match, 
 he saw a black speck wavering in the distance. He 
 shaded his eyes with his hand. 
 
 184 
 
Down the Wind 
 
 "T ain't a machine," he said. "And it ain't a 
 buckboard. Some puncher lookin' for a job, most 
 likely." 
 
 He turned and entered the house. Waco, shaven 
 and in clean shirt and overalls, was "punching 
 dough" in the kitchen. 
 
 "Did Jim say when he would ride in?" queried 
 Pat. 
 
 "About sundown. I fixed 'em up some chuck 
 this morning. Jim figures they're getting too far out 
 to ride in every noon." 
 
 "Well, when you get your bread baked we'll take 
 a whirl at those ditches. How are the supplies hold- 
 ing out?" 
 
 "We're short on flour. Got enough to last over 
 till Monday. Plenty bacon and beans and lard." 
 
 "All right. We'll hook up to-morrow and drive 
 
 in." 
 
 Waco nodded as he tucked a roll of dough into 
 the pan. Pat watched him for a moment. Waco, 
 despite his many shortcomings, could cook, and, 
 strangely enough, liked to putter round the garden. 
 
 Picked up half-starving on the mesa road, near 
 St. Johns, he had been brought to the ranch by Pat, 
 where a month of clean air and industry had re- 
 shaped the tramp to something like a man. Both 
 Pat and Waring knew that the hobo was wanted in 
 Stacey. They had agreed to say nothing about the 
 tramp's whereabouts just so long as he made him- 
 
 185 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 self useful about the ranch. They would give him a 
 chance. But, familiar with his kind, they were 
 mildly skeptical as to Waco's sincerity of purpose. 
 If he took to drinking, or if Buck Hardy heard of 
 his whereabouts, he would have to go. Meanwhile, 
 he earned his keep. He was a good cook, and a good 
 cook, no matter where or where from, is a power in 
 the land. 
 
 As Waco closed the oven door some one hallooed. 
 Pat stepped to the veranda. A cowboy astride a 
 bay pony asked if Waring were around. 
 
 "I can take your message," said Pat. 
 
 "Well, it's for you, I guess. Letter from Buck 
 Hardy." 
 
 "Yes, it's for me," said Pat. "Who sent you?" 
 
 "Hardy. Said something about you had a man 
 down here he wanted." 
 
 "All right. Stay for chuck?" 
 
 "I got to git back. How's things down this way?" 
 
 "Running on time. Just tell Buck I'll be over 
 right soon." 
 
 "To-day?" 
 
 Pat's gray eyes hardened. "Buck tell you to ask 
 me that?" 
 
 " Well no. I was just wonderin'." 
 
 "Then keep right on wondering," said Pat. "You 
 got your answer." 
 
 The cowboy swung up and rode off. "To hell with 
 him!" he said. "Thinks he can throw a scare into 
 
 186 
 
Down the Wind 
 
 me because he's got a name for killin'. To hell witfr 
 him!" 
 
 Pat climbed the hill back of the house and sur< 
 veyed the glimmering levels. 
 
 "Wish Jim would ride in. Funny thing Hardy 
 sending a Starr boy with word for me. But perhaps 
 the kid was riding this way, anyhow." 
 
 Pat shook his head, and climbed slowly down to 
 the house. Waco was busy in the kitchen when he 
 came in. 
 
 After the noon meal, Pat again climbed the hill. 
 He seemed worried about something. When he re- 
 turned he told Waco to hitch the pintos to the 
 buckboard. 
 
 " Get your coat," he told Waco. " We 're going over 
 to Stacey." 
 
 Waco's hands trembled. "Say, boss, if you don't 
 mind" 
 
 "Get your coat. I'll talk to Buck. You need n't 
 to worry. I'll square you with Buck. We can use 
 you here." 
 
 Waco did as he was told. They drove out of the 
 yard. Waco leaped down and closed the gate. 
 
 The pintos shook themselves into the harness and 
 trotted down the faintly marked new road. The 
 buckboard swayed and jolted. Something rubbed 
 against Waco's hip. He glanced down and saw Pat's 
 gun on the seat between them. Pat said nothing. 
 He was thinking hard. The cowboy messenger's 
 
 187 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 manner had not been natural. The note bore the 
 printed heading of the sheriff's office. Perhaps it 
 was all right. And if it were not, Pat was not the 
 man to back down from a bluff. 
 
 Several miles out from the ranch ran the naked 
 posts of the line fence. Pat reined in the ponies and 
 gazed up and down the line. A mile beyond, the 
 ranch road merged with the main-traveled highway 
 running east and west. He spoke to the horses. 
 They broke into a fast trot. Waco, gripping the 
 seat, stared straight ahead. Why had Pat laid that 
 gun on the seat? 
 
 A thin, gray veil drifted across the sun. From 
 the northwest a light wind sprang up and ran across 
 the mesa, whipping the bunch-grass. The wind 
 grew heavier, and with it came a fine, dun-colored 
 dust. An hour and the air was thick with a shifting 
 red haze of sand. The sun glowed dimly through the 
 murk. 
 
 Waco turned up his coat-collar and shivered. The 
 air was keen. The ponies fought the bit, occasion- 
 ally breaking into a gallop. Pat braced his feet and 
 held them to a trot. A weird buzzing came down 
 the wind. The ponies reared and took to the ditch 
 as a machine flicked past and drummed away in the 
 distance. 
 
 To Waco, rigid and staring, the air seemed filled 
 with a kind of hovering terror, a whining threat 
 of danger that came in bursts of driving sand and 
 
 188 
 
Down the Wind 
 
 dwindled away to harsh whisperings. He stood it 
 as long as he could. Pat had not spoken. 
 
 Waco touched his arm. "I got a hunch," he said 
 hoarsely, "I got a hunch we oughta go back." 
 
 Pat nodded. But the ponies swept on down the 
 road, their manes and tails whipping in the wind. 
 Another mile and they slowed down in heavy sand. 
 The buckboard tilted forward as they descended 
 the sharp pitch of an arroyo. Unnoticed, Pat's gun 
 slipped to the floor of the wagon. 
 
 In the arroyo the wind seemed to have died away, 
 leaving a startled quietness. It still hung above 
 them, and an occasional gust filled their eyes with 
 grit. Waco drew a deep breath. The ponies tugged 
 through the heavy sand. 
 
 Without a sound to warn them a rider appeared 
 close to the front wheel of the buckboard. Waco 
 shrank down in sodden terror. It was the Starr fore- 
 man, High-Chin Bob. Waco saw Pat's hand flash 
 to his side, then fumble on the seat. 
 
 "I'm payin' the Kid's debt," said High Chin, 
 and, laughing, he threw shot after shot into the de- 
 fenseless body of his old enemy. 
 
 Waco saw Pat slump forward, catch himself, and 
 finally topple from the seat. As the reins slipped 
 from his fingers the ponies lunged up the arroyo. 
 Waco crouched, clutching the foot-rail. A bullet 
 hummed over his head. Gaining the level, the 
 ponies broke into a wild run. The red wind whined 
 
 189 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 as it drove across the mesa. The blackboard lurched 
 sickeningly. A scream of terror wailed down the 
 wind as the buckboard struck a telegraph pole. A 
 blind shock and for Waco the droning of the wind 
 had ceased. 
 
 Dragging the broken traces, the ponies circled the 
 mesa and set off at a gallop toward home. At the 
 side of the road lay the splintered buckboard, wheels 
 up. And Waco, hovering on the edge of the black 
 abyss, dreamed strange dreams. 
 
 Waring, riding in with the crew, found the ranch- 
 house deserted and the pinto ponies dragging the 
 shreds of a broken harness, grazing along the fence. 
 Waring sent a man to catch up the team. Ramon 
 cooked supper. The men ate in silence. 
 
 After supper Waring changed his clothes, saddled 
 Dex, and packed some food in the saddle-pockets. 
 "I am going out to look for Pat," he told one of his 
 men. "If Waco shows up, keep him here till I get 
 back. Those horses did n't get away from Pat. 
 Here's a signed check. Get what you need and keep 
 on with the work. You're foreman till I get back." 
 
 "If there's anything doing " began the cow- 
 boy. 
 
 "I don't know. Some one rode in here to-day. 
 It was along about noon that Pat and Waco left. 
 The bread was baked. I'd say they drove to town 
 for grub; only Pat took his gun without the hok 
 
 190 
 
Down the Wind 
 
 ster. It looks bad to me. If anything happens to 
 me, just send for Lorry Adams at the Ranger Sta- 
 tion." 
 
 Waring rode out, looking for tracks. His men 
 watched him until he had disappeared behind a rise. 
 Bender, the new foreman, turned to his fellows. 
 
 "I'd hate to be the man that the boss is lookin' 
 for," he said, shaking his head. 
 
 "Why, he's lookin' for Pat, ain't he?" queried 
 one of the men. 
 
 "That ain't what I mean," said the foreman. 
 
 The wind died down suddenly. The sun, just 
 above the horizon, glowed like a disk of burnished 
 copper. The wagon ruts were filled with fine sand. 
 Waring read the trail. The buckboard had traveled 
 briskly. It had stopped at the line. The tracks of 
 the fretting ponies showed that clearly. Alongside 
 the tracks of the ponies were the half-hidden tracks 
 of a single horse. Waring glanced back at the sun, 
 and put Dex to a lope. He swung into the main 
 road, his gaze following the half-obliterated trail of 
 the single horseman. Suddenly he reined up. The 
 horseman had angled away from the road and had 
 ridden north across the open country. He had not 
 gone to Stacey. Waring knew that the horseman 
 had been riding hard. Straight north from where 
 Waring had stopped was the Starr Ranch. 
 
 He rode on, his heart heavy with a black pre- 
 191 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 monition. The glowing copper disk was now half- 
 hidden by the western hills. 
 
 At the brink of the arroyo he dismounted. He 
 could see nothing distinctly in the gloom of its 
 depths. Stooping, he noted the wagon tracks as he 
 worked on down. His foot struck against something 
 hard. He fumbled and picked Pat's gun from the 
 sand. Every chamber was loaded. 
 
 "He did n't have a chance." Waring was startled 
 by his own voice. He thrust the gun in his waist- 
 band. The twilight deepened rapidly. Rocks and 
 ridges in the arroyo assumed peculiar shapes like 
 those of men crouching; men prone; men with heads 
 up, listening, watching, waiting. Yet Waring's in- 
 stinct for hidden danger told him that there was no 
 living thing in the arroyo unless Suddenly he 
 sprang forward and dropped to his knees beside a 
 huddled shape near a boulder. 
 
 "Pat! "he whispered. 
 
 Then he knew; saw it all as clearly as though he 
 had witnessed it the ambushment in the blind- 
 ing sandstorm; the terror-stricken Waco; the fright- 
 ened ponies; the lunging and swaying buckboard. 
 And Pat, left for dead, but who had dragged him- 
 self from the roadway in dumb agony. 
 
 The dole of light from the sinking sun was gone. 
 Waring's hands came away from the opened shirt 
 shudderingly. He wiped his hands on the sand, and, 
 rising, ran back to Dex. He returned with a whiskey 
 
 192 
 
Down the Wind 
 
 frask. Pat was of tough fiber and tremendous vital- 
 ity. If the spark were still unquenched, if it could 
 be called back even for a breath, that which Waring 
 knew, yet wanted to confirm beyond all doubt, might 
 be given in a word. He raised Pat's head, and barely 
 tilted the flask. The spirit of the mortally stricken 
 man, perchance loath to leave such a brave hermit- 
 age, winged slowly back from the far shore of 
 dreams. In the black pit of the arroyo, where death 
 crouched, waiting, life flamed for an instant. 
 
 Waring felt the limp body stir. He took Pat's 
 big, bony hand in his. 
 
 "Pat! "he whispered. 
 
 A word breathed heavily from the motionless lips. 
 "You, Jim?" 
 
 "Yes! For God's sake, Pat, who did this thing?'*. 
 
 "Brewster Bob. Letter in my coat." 
 
 "I'll get him!" said Waring. 
 
 "Shake!" exclaimed the dying man, and the grip 
 of his hand was like iron. Waring thought he had 
 gone, and leaned closer. "I'm kind of tired 
 Jim. Reckon I '11 rest." 
 
 Waring felt the other's grip relax. He drew his 
 hand from the stiffening fingers. A dull pain burned 
 in his throat. He lighted a match, and found thft 
 message that had lured Pat to his death in the other's 
 coat-pocket. He rose and stumbled up the arroyo 
 to his horse. 
 
 Halfway back to the ranch, and he met Ramon 
 
 193 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 riding hard. "Ride back," said Waring, "Hook 
 up to the wagon and come to the arroyo." 
 
 "Have you found the Senor Pat?" 
 
 "Yes. He is dead." 
 
 Ramon whirled his pony and pounded away in 
 the darkness. 
 
 Out on the highway two long, slender shafts of 
 light slid across the mesa, dipped into an arroyo, 
 and climbed skyward as a machine buzzed up the 
 opposite pitch. The lights straightened again and 
 shot on down the road, swinging stiffly from side to 
 side. Presently they came to a stop. In the soft 
 glow of their double radiance lay a yellow-wheeled 
 buckboard, shattered and twisted round a telegraph 
 pole. The lights moved up slowly and stopped 
 again. 
 
 A man jumped from the machine and walked round 
 the buckboard. Beneath it lay a crumpled figure. 
 The driver of the machine ran a quick hand over the 
 neck and arms of Waco, who groaned. The driver 
 lifted him and carried him to the car. Stacey lay 
 some twenty miles behind him. He was bound 
 .south. The first town on his way was thirty miles 
 distant. But the roads were good. He glanced back 
 at the huddled figure in the tonneau. The car purred 
 on down the night. The long shafts of light lifted 
 over a rise and disappeared. 
 
 In about an hour the car stopped at the town of 
 Grant, Waco was carried from the macnine to a 
 
 194 
 
Down the Wind 
 
 room in the hotel, and a doctor was summoned. 
 Waco lay unconscious throughout the night. 
 
 In the morning he was questioned briefly. He 
 gave a fictitious name, and mentioned a town he 
 had heard of, but had never been in. His horses 
 had run away with him. 
 
 The man who had picked him up drove away next 
 morning. Later the doctor told Waco that through 
 a miracle there were no bones broken, but that he 
 would have to keep to his bed for at least a week. 
 Otherwise he would never recover from the severe 
 shock to his nervous system. 
 
 And Waco, recalling the horror of the preceding 
 day, twisted his head round at every footstep in the 
 hall, fearing that Waring had come to question him. 
 He knew that he had done no wrong; in fact, he had 
 told Pat that they had better drive back home. But 
 a sense of shame at his cowardice, and the realiza- 
 tion that his word was as water in evidence, that he 
 was but a wastrel, a tramp, burdened him with an 
 aching desire to get away to hide himself from 
 Waring's eyes, from the eyes of all men. 
 
 He kept telling himself that he had done nothing 
 wrong, yet fear shook him until his teeth chattered. 
 What could he have done even had he been cour- 
 ageous? Pat had had no chance. 
 
 He suffered with the misery of indecision. Habit 
 inclined him to flee from the scene of the murder. 
 Fear of the law urged him. Three nights after he 
 
 195 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 had been brought to Grant, he dressed and crept 
 down the back stairs, and made his way to the rail- 
 road station. Twice he had heard the midnight 
 freight stop and cut out cars on the siding. He 
 hid in the shadows until the freight arrived. He 
 climbed to an empty box-car and waited. Train- 
 men crunched past on the cinders. A jolt and he 
 was swept away toward the west. He sank into a 
 half sleep as the iron wheels roared and droned be- 
 neath him. 
 
Chapter XVIII 
 
 A Piece of Paper 
 
 IN the little desert hotel at Stacey, Mrs. Adams 
 was singing softly to herself as she moved about 
 the dining-room helping Anita clear away the 
 breakfast dishes. Mrs. Adams had heard from 
 Lorry. He had secured a place in the Ranger Service. 
 She was happy. His letter had been filled with en- 
 thusiasm for the work and for his chief, Bud Shoop. 
 This in itself was enough to make her happy. She 
 had known Bud in Las Cruces. He was a good man. 
 And then Jim had settled down. Only last week 
 he had ridden over and told her how they were get- 
 ting on with the work at the ranch. He had hinted 
 then that he had laid his guns away. Perhaps he 
 had wanted her to know that more than anything 
 else. She had kissed him good-bye. His gray eyes 
 had been kind. "Some day, Annie," he had said. 
 Her face flushed as she recalled the moment. 
 
 A boot-heel gritted on the walk. She turned. 
 Waring was standing in the doorway. His face was 
 set and hard. Involuntarily she ran to him. 
 
 "What is it, Jim? Lorry?" 
 
 He shook his head. She saw at once that he was 
 dressed for a long ride and that an unusual cir- 
 cumstance a gun swung at his hip. He usually 
 
 197 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 wore a coat and carried his gun in a shoulder 
 holster. But now he was in his shirt-sleeves. A 
 dread oppressed her. He was ready on the instant 
 to fight, but with whom? Her eyes grew big. 
 
 "What is it?" she whispered again. 
 
 "The Brewster boys got Pat." 
 
 "Not they did n't kill him!" 
 
 Waring nodded. 
 
 "But, Jim " 
 
 "In the Red Arroyo on the desert road. I found 
 him. I came to tell you." 
 
 "And you are going " 
 
 "Yes. I was afraid this would happen. Pat made 
 a mistake." 
 
 "But, Jim! The law the sheriff you don't 
 have to go." 
 
 "No," he said slowly. 
 
 "Then why do you go? I thought you would never 
 do that again. I I prayed for you, Jim. I 
 prayed for you and Lorry. I asked God to send you 
 back to me with your two hands clean. I told Him 
 you would never kill again. Oh, Jim, I wanted you 
 here! Don't!" she sobbed. 
 
 He put his arm round her shoulders. Stooping, 
 he kissed her. 
 
 "You are going?" she asked, and her hands 
 dropped to her sides. 
 
 "Yes; I told Pat I would get Brewster. Pat went 
 out with his hand in mine on that word. My God, 
 
 198 
 
A Piece of Paper 
 
 Annie, do you think I could ride back to the ranch 
 and face the boys or sleep nights with Pat's hand 
 reaching for me in the dark to remind me of my 
 word? Can't you see where I stand? Do you think 
 I could look Lorry in the face when he knew that I 
 sat idle while the man that murdered Pat was riding 
 the country free?" 
 
 "Pat was your friend. I am your wife," said Mrs. 
 Adams. 
 
 Waring's lips hardened. "Pat's gone. But I'm 
 calling myself his friend yet. And the man that got 
 him is going to know it." 
 
 Before she could speak again Waring was gone. 
 
 She dropped to a chair and buried her face in her 
 arms. Anita came to her and tried to comfort her. 
 But Mrs. Adams rose and walked to the office door- 
 way. She saw Waring riding down the street. She 
 wanted to call out to him, to call him back. She felt 
 that he was riding to his death. If he would only 
 turn! If he would only wave his hand to show that 
 he cared But Waring rode on, straight and stern, 
 black hate in his heart, his free hand hollowed as 
 though with an invisible vengeance that was gone 
 as he drew his fingers tense. 
 
 He rode north, toward the Starr Ranch. He passed 
 a group of riders drifting some yearlings toward 
 town. A man spoke to him. He did not reply. 
 
 And as he rode he heard a voice the Voice of 
 his desert wanderings, the Voice that had whispered 
 
 199 
 
Tang of Life" 
 
 to him from the embers of many a night fire in the 
 Southern solitudes. Yet there, was this difference. 
 That voice had been strangely dispassionate, de- 
 tached; not the voice of a human being* But now 
 the Voice was that of his friend Pat softly reiterat- 
 ing: "Not this way, Jim." 
 
 And Waring cursed. His plan was made. He 
 would suffer no interference. If Brewster were at the 
 Starr Ranch, he would question him first. If he 
 were not, there would be no questioning. Waring 
 determined to trail him. If Brewster had left that 
 part of the country, that would prove his guilt. 
 
 Waring knew that Hardy and his men had ridden 
 south, endeavoring to find some clue to the mur- 
 derer's whereabouts. Waring, guided by almost 
 absolute knowledge, rode in the opposite direction 
 and against a keen instinct that told him High-Chin 
 Bob was not at the ranch. Yet Waring would not 
 overlook the slightest chance. Brewster was of the 
 type that would kill a man in a quarrel and ride 
 home, depending on his nerve and lack of evidence 
 to escape punishment. 
 
 The Voice had said, "Not this way, Jim." And 
 Waring knew that it had been the voice of his own 
 instinct. Yet a stubborn purpose held him to his 
 course. There was one chance in a thousand that 
 Bob Brewster was at the ranch and would disclaim 
 all knowledge of the shooting. 
 
 Starr was away when Waring arrived. Mrs. Starr 
 
 200 
 
A Piece of Paper 
 
 made Waring welcome, and told him that her hus- 
 band would be in that evening. He was out with 
 one of his men running a line for a new fence. The 
 old days of open range were past. And had Mr. 
 Waring heard that Pat had been killed? Buck 
 Hardy was out searching for the murderer. Did Mr. 
 Waring know of a likely foreman? Bob Brewster 
 had left suddenly. Jasper her husband was 
 not well : had the rheumatics again. He could hardly 
 walk and his foreman had left. "Things always 
 happened that way." 
 
 Mrs. Starr paused for lack of breath. 
 ; "When did Brewster leave, Mrs. Starr?" 
 
 "Why, the last Jasper seen of him was Wednes- 
 day morning. Jasper is worried. I'm right glad you 
 rode over. He'll be glad to see you." 
 
 "Do you mind if I look over the horses in your 
 corral?" 
 
 "Goodness, no! I'll have Sammy go with you " 
 
 "Thanks; but I'd rather you said nothing to the 
 boys." 
 
 "You don't think that Bob " 
 
 "Mrs. Starr, I would n't say so if I knew it. Bob 
 Brewster has friends up here. I'm looking for one of 
 them." 
 
 "Goodness, Mr. Waring, I hope you don't think 
 any of our boys was mixed up in that." 
 
 "I hope not. Have you seen Tony or Andy Brew- 
 ster lately?" 
 
 201 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "Why, no. I why, yes! Tony and Andy rode 
 over last Sunday. I remember it was Sunday because 
 Bob was out to the line shack. Tony and Andy hung 
 around for a while, and then rode out to look for 
 Bob." 
 
 "Well, I'll step over and look at the horses. You 
 say Jasper will be in this evening?" 
 
 "If he ain't too stiff with rheumatics to ride 
 back." 
 
 Waring walked round the corrals, looking for a 
 pony lame forward and with half a front shoe gone. 
 Finally he noticed a short-coupled bay that had not 
 moved when he had waved his arm. Waring climbed 
 through the bars and cornered the horse. One front 
 shoe was entirely gone, and the pony limped as War- 
 ing turned him loose. 
 
 Mrs. Starr was getting supper when Waring re- 
 turned to the house. 
 
 "Any of the boys coming in with Jasper?" he 
 queried. 
 
 "Why, nobody except Pete. Pete's been layin' off. 
 He claims his horse stepped in a gopher hole and threw 
 him. Jasper took him along, feelin' like he wanted 
 some one on account of his rheumatics. Jasper gets 
 so stiff ridin' that sometimes he can hardly get on his 
 horse. Mebby you noticed Pete's pony, that chunky 
 bay in the corral lame forward." 
 
 "Yes, I noticed that. But that pony did n't step 
 in a gopher hole. He was ridden down by some one 
 
 202 
 
A Piece of Paper 
 
 in a hurry to get somewhere. He cast a shoe and went 
 tender on the rocks." 
 
 Mrs. Starr stared at Waring. 
 
 He shook his head and smiled. "I don't know. I 
 can only guess at it." 
 
 "Well, you'll stay for supper and you can talk 
 to Jasper. He's worried." 
 
 "Thank you. And would you mind asking this 
 man Pete in to supper with us?" 
 
 "I figured to, him being with Jasper and not feeling 
 right well." 
 
 About sundown Starr rode in. Waring helped him 
 from his horse. They shook hands in silence. The old 
 cattleman knew at once why Waring had come, but 
 he had no inkling of what was to follow. 
 
 The cowboy, Pete, took care of the horses. A little 
 later he clumped into the house and took a seat in a 
 corner. Waring paid no attention to him, but talked 
 with Starr about the grazing and the weather. 
 
 Just before supper Starr introduced Waring. 
 
 The cowboy winced at Waring's grip. "Heard tell 
 of you from the boys," he said. 
 
 "You want to ride over to our place," said Waring 
 pleasantly. "Pat and I will show you some pretty 
 land under fence." 
 
 The cowboy's eyelids flickered. How could this 
 man Waring speak of Pat that way, when he must 
 know that Pat had been killed? Everybody knew 
 that. Why did n't Mrs. Starr or Starr say something? 
 
 203 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 But Starr was limping to the table, and Mrs. Starr 
 was telling them to come and have supper. 
 
 In the glow of the hanging lamp, Starr's lined, 
 grizzled features were as unreadable as carved 
 bronze. Waring, at his left, sat directly opposite the 
 cowboy, Pete. The talk drifted from one subject to 
 another, but no one mentioned the killing of Pat. 
 Waring noted the cowboy's lack of appetite. 
 
 "I looked over your saddle-stock this afternoon," 
 said Waring. "Noticed you had a bay out there, 
 white blaze on his nose. You don't want to sell that 
 pony, do you?" 
 
 "Oh, that's Pete's pony, Baldy," said Mrs. Starr. 
 
 Starr glanced at Waring. The horse Baldy was 
 good enough as cow-ponies went, but Waring had 
 not ridden over to buy horses. 
 
 "I aim to keep that cayuse," said Pete, swallowing 
 hard. 
 
 "But every man has his price," and Waring 
 smiled. "I'll make my offer; a hundred, cash." 
 
 "Not this evenin'," said the cowboy. 
 
 Waring felt in the pocket of his flannel shut. "I'll 
 go you one better. I'll make it a hundred, cash, and 
 this to boot." And his arm straightened. 
 
 Pete started back. Waring's hand was on the table, 
 the fingers closed. His fingers slowly opened, and a 
 crumpled piece of paper lay in his palm. The cow- 
 boy's lips tightened. His eyes shifted from Waring 
 to Starr, and then back again. 
 
 204 
 
A Piece of Paper 
 
 Mrs. Starr, who could not understand the strange 
 silence of the men, breathed hard and wiped her fore- 
 head with her apron. 
 
 "Read it!" said Waring sharply. 
 
 The cowboy took the piece of paper, and, spreading 
 it out, glanced at it hurriedly. 
 
 "This ain't for me," he asserted. 
 
 "Did you ever see it before?" 
 
 "This? No. What have I got to do with the sheriff's 
 office?" 
 
 "Pete," said Waring, drawing back his hand, "you 
 had better read that note again." 
 
 "Why, I Pete can't read," said Mrs. Starr. 
 "He can spell out printed reading some, but not 
 writing." 
 
 "Then how did you know this paper was from the 
 sheriff's office?" queried Waring. 
 
 The cowboy half rose. 
 
 "Sit down!" thundered Waring. "Who sent you 
 with a note to Pat last Wednesday?" 
 
 "Who said anybody sent me?" 
 
 "Don't waste time! I say so. That broken shoe 
 your cayuse cast says so, for I trailed him from my 
 ranch to the line fence. And you have said so your- 
 self. This paper is not from the sheriff's office. It's 
 a tax receipt." 
 
 The cowboy's face went white. 
 
 "Honest, so help me, Mr. Waring, I did n't know 
 the Brewster boys was after Pat. Bob he give me 
 
 205 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 the paper. Said it was from the sheriff, and I was 
 to give it to Pat if you were n't around. 5 * 
 
 "And if I happened to be around?" 
 
 "I was to wait until you was out with the fence 
 gang " 
 
 "How did you know I would be out with them?" 
 
 "Bob Brewster told me you would be." 
 
 Waring folded the piece of paper and tore it across. 
 
 "Starr," he said, turning to the old cattleman, 
 "you have heard and seen what has happened since 
 we sat down." And Waring turned on the cowboy. 
 "How much did Bob Brewster give you for this 
 work?" 
 
 "I was to get fifty dollars if I put it through." 
 
 "And you put it through! You knew it was 
 crooked. And you call yourself a man! And you took 
 a letter to Pat that called him out to be shot down 
 by that coyote! Do you know that Pat's gun was 
 loaded when I found it; that he didn't have a 
 chance? " 
 
 Waring's face grew suddenly old. He leaned back 
 wearily. 
 
 "I wonder just how you feel?" he said presently. 
 "If I had done a trick like that I'd take a gun and 
 blow my brains out. God, I'd rather be where Pat 
 is than have to carry your load the rest of my life! 
 But you're yellow clean through, and Bob Brewster 
 knew it and hired you. Now you will take that lame 
 cayuse and ride north just as quick as you can throw 
 
 206 
 
A Piece of Paper 
 
 a saddle on him. And when you go," and Waring 
 rose and pointed toward the doorway, "forget the 
 way back to this country/' 
 
 The cowboy shuffled his feet and picked up his hat. 
 Starr got up stiffly and limped to his room. He came 
 out with a check, which he gave to the cowboy. 
 
 Waring pushed back his chair as though to step 
 round the table and follow the cowboy, but he hesi- 
 tated, and finally sat down. 
 
 "I'm sorry it happened this way, Mrs. Starr," he 
 said. 
 
 " It 's awful ! And one of our men ! " 
 
 "That's not your fault, Mrs. Starr." 
 
 Starr fumbled along the clock shelf, found his pipe, 
 and lighted it. He sat down near Waring as Mrs. 
 Starr began to clear away the dishes. 
 
 "If I can do anything to help run down that white- 
 livered skunk " 
 
 "You can, Jasper. Just keep it to yourself that I 
 have been here. Pete left of his own accord. I don't 
 want the Brewster boys to know I'm out on their 
 trail." 
 
 Starr nodded and glanced at his wife. "I looked to 
 see you kill him," he said, gesturing toward the door- 
 way. 
 
 "What ! That poor fool? I thought you knew me 
 better, Jasper." 
 
Chapter XIX 
 
 The Fight in the Open 
 
 STARR was awakened at midnight by the sound 
 of boot-heels on the ranch-house veranda. He 
 lighted a lamp and limped to the door. The 
 lamplight shone on the smooth, young face of a Mexi- 
 can, whose black sombrero was powdered with dust. 
 
 "What do you want?" queried Starr. 
 
 "I am look for the Senor Jim. I am Ramon, of his 
 place. From the rancho I ride to Stacey. He is not 
 there. Then I come here." 
 
 "And you ain't particular about wakin' folks up to 
 tell 'em, either." 
 
 "I would find him," said Ramon simply. 
 
 "What's your business with Jim Waring?" 
 
 "It is that I am his friend. I know that he is ride 
 looking for the men who killed my patron the Senor 
 Pat. I am Ramon." 
 
 "Uh-uh. Well, suppose you are?" 
 
 "It is not the suppose. I am. I would find Senor 
 Jim." 
 
 "Who said he was here?" 
 
 "The senora at the hotel would think that he was 
 here/' 
 
 Starr scratched his grizzled head. Waring had said 
 nothing about the Mexican. And Starr did not like 
 
 208 
 
The Fight in the Open 
 
 Mexicans. Moreover, Waring had said to tell no one 
 that he had been at the Starr Ranch. 
 
 "I don't know where Jim Waring is," said Starr, 
 and, stepping back, he closed the door. 
 
 Ramon strode to his horse and mounted. All 
 gringos were not like the Senor Jim. Many of them 
 hated Mexicans. Ah, well, he would ride back to 
 Stacey. The senora at the cantina was a pleasant 
 woman. She would not shut the door in his face, for 
 she knew who he was. He would ask for a room for 
 the night. In the morning he would search for Senor 
 Jim. He must find him. 
 
 Mrs. Adams answered his knock at the hotel door 
 by coming down and letting him in. Ramon saw by 
 the office clock that it was past three. She showed 
 him to a room. 
 
 No, the senor had not been at the Starr Rancho. 
 But he would find him. 
 
 Ramon tiptoed to the open window, and knelt 
 with his arms on the sill. A falling star streaked the 
 night. 
 
 "And I shall as soon find him as I would find that 
 star," he murmured. "Yet to-morrow there will be 
 the sun. And I will ask the Holy Mother to help me. 
 She will not refuse, knowing my heart." 
 
 Without undressing, he flung himself on the bed. 
 As he slept he dreamed; a strange, vivid dream of the 
 setting sun and a tiny horseman limned against the 
 gold. The horseman vanished as he rose to follow. If 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 he were only sure that it was the Senor Jim! The 
 dream had said that the senor had ridden into the 
 west. In the morning 
 
 With the dawn Ramon was up. Some one was 
 moving about in the kitchen below. Ramon washed 
 and smoothed his long black hair with his hands. He 
 stepped quietly downstairs. Breakfast was not ready, 
 so he walked to the kitchen and talked with Anita. 
 
 To her, who understood him as no gringo could, 
 he told of his quest. She knew nothing of the Senor 
 Jim's whereabouts, save that he had come yesterday 
 and talked with the senora. Anita admired the hand- 
 some young Mexican, whose face was so sad save 
 when his quick smile lightened the shadow. And she 
 told him to go back to the ranch and not become 
 entangled in the affairs of the Americanos. It would 
 be much better for him so. 
 
 Ramon listened patiently, but shook his head. The 
 Senor Jim had been kind to him; had given him his 
 life down in the Sonora desert. Was Ramon Ortego 
 to forget that? 
 
 Mrs. Adams declined to take any money for 
 Ramon's room. He worked for her husband, and it 
 was at Ramon's own expense that he would make the 
 journey in search for him. Instead she had Anita 
 put up a lunch for Ramon. 
 
 He thanked her and rode away, taking the western 
 trail across the morning desert. 
 
 Thirty miles beyond Stacey, he had news of 
 
 210 
 
The Fight in the Open 
 
 Waring. A Mexican rancher bad seen the gringo pass 
 late in the evening. He rode a big buckskin horse. 
 He was sure it must be the man Ramon sought. 
 There was not another such horse in Arizona. 
 
 Ramon rode on next day, inquiring occasionally at 
 a ranch or crossroad store. Once or twice he was told 
 that such a horse and rider had passed many hours 
 ago. At noon he rested and fed his pony. All that 
 afternoon he rode west. Night found him in the vil- 
 lage of Downey, where he made further inquiry, but 
 without success. 
 
 Next morning he was on the road early, still riding 
 west. No dream had come to guide him, yet the 
 memory of the former dream was keen. If that dream 
 were not true, all dreams were lies and prayer a use- 
 less ceremony. 
 
 For three days he rode, tracing the Senor Jim from 
 town to town, but never catching up with him. Once 
 he learned that Waring had slept in the same town, 
 but had departed before daybreak. Ramon wondered 
 why no dream had come to tell him of this. 
 
 That day he rode hard. There were few towns on 
 his way. He reined in when he came to the fork where 
 the southern highway branches from the Overland 
 Road. The western road led on across the mountains 
 past the great canon. The other swept south through 
 cattle land and into the rough hills beyond which lay 
 Phoenix and the old Apache Trail. He hailed a buck- 
 board coming down the southern road. The driver 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 had seen nothing of a buckskin horse. Ramon hesi- 
 tated, closing his eyes. Suddenly in the darkness 
 glared a golden sun, and against it the tiny, black 
 silhouette of a horseman. His dream could not lie. 
 
 Day by day the oval of his face grew narrower, 
 until his cheek-bones showed prominently. His lips 
 lost their youthful fullness. Only his eyes were the 
 same; great, velvet-soft black eyes, gently question- 
 ing, veiled by no subtlety, and brighter for the deep- 
 ening black circles beneath them. 
 
 The fifth day found him patiently riding west, 
 despite the fact that all trace of Waring had been 
 lost. Questioned, men shook their heads and watched 
 him ride away, his lithe figure upright, but his head 
 bowed as though some blind fate drew him on while 
 his spirit drowsed in stagnant hopelessness. 
 
 To all his inquiries that day he received the same 
 answer. Finally, in the high country, he turned and 
 retraced his way. 
 
 A week after he had left Stacey he was again at 
 the fork of the highway. The southern road ran, 
 winding, toward a shallow valley. He took this road, 
 peering ahead for a ranch, or habitation of any kind. 
 That afternoon he stopped at a wayside store and 
 bought crackers and canned meat. He questioned 
 the storekeeper. Yes, the storekeeper had seen such 
 a man pass on a big buckskin cayuse several days ago. 
 Ramon thanked him and rode on. He camped just 
 off the road that evening. In the morning he set out 
 
The Fight in the Open 
 
 again, cheered by a new hope. His dream had not 
 lied; only there should have been another dream to 
 show him the way before he had come to the fork in 
 the road. 
 
 That afternoon three men passed him, riding hard. 
 They were in their shirt-sleeves and were heavily 
 armed. Their evident haste caused Ramon to note 
 their passing with some interest. Yet they had thun- 
 dered past him so fast, and in such a cloud of dust, 
 that he could not see them clearly. 
 
 Waring, gaunt as a wolf, unshaven, his hat rimmed 
 with white dust, pulled up in front of the weathered 
 ScJoon in the town of Criswell on the edge of the 
 desert. 
 
 He dismounted and stepped round the hitching- 
 rail. His face was lined and gray. His eyes were red- 
 rimmed and heavy. As he strode toward the saloon 
 door, he staggered and caught himself. Dex shuffled 
 uneasily, knowing that something was wrong with his 
 master. 
 
 Waring drew his hand across his eyes, and, entering 
 the saloon, asked for whiskey. As in a dream, he saw 
 men sitting in the back of the place. They leaned on 
 their elbows and talked. He drank and called for 
 more. The loafers in the saloon glanced at each other. 
 Three men had just ridden through town and down 
 into the desert, going over-light for such a journey. 
 And here was the fourth. They glanced at Waring's 
 
 213 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 boots, his belt, his strong shoulders, and his dusty 
 sombrero. Whoever he was, he fitted his clothes. But 
 a man "going in" was a fool to take more than one 
 drink. The three men ahead had not stopped at the 
 saloon. One of them had filled a canteen at the tank 
 near the edge of the town. They had seemed in a 
 great hurry for men of their kind. 
 
 Waring wiped his lips and turned. His eyes had 
 grown bright. For an instant he glanced at the men, 
 the brown walls spotted with "Police Gazette" pic- 
 tures, the barred window at the rear of the room. He 
 drew out his gun, spun the cylinder, and dropped it 
 back into the holster. 
 
 The stranger, whoever he was, seemed to be handy 
 with that kind of tool. Well, it was no affair of theirs. 
 The aesert had taken care of such affairs in the past, 
 and there was plenty of room for more. 
 
 From the saloon doorway they saw Waring ride 
 to the edge of town, dismount, and walk out in the 
 desert in a wide circle. He returned to his horse, and, 
 mounting, rode at right angles to the course the three 
 riders had taken. 
 
 One of the men in the doorway spoke. "Thought 
 so," he said with finality. 
 
 The others nodded. It was not their affair. The 
 desert would take care of that. 
 
 About the middle of the afternoon, Waring rode 
 down a sandy draw that deepened to an arroyo. Near 
 the mouth of the arroyo, where it broke off abruptly 
 
 214 
 
The Fight in the Open 
 
 to the desert level, he reined up. His horse stood 
 with head lowered, his gaunt sides heaving. Waring 
 patted him. 
 
 "Not much longer, old boy," he said affectionately. 
 
 With his last burst of strength, the big buckskin 
 had circled the course taken by the three men, urged 
 by Waring's spur and voice. They were heading in a 
 direct line across the level just beyond the end of the 
 arroyo where Waring was concealed. He could not 
 see them, but as usual he watched Dex's ears. The 
 horse would be aware of their nearness without seeing 
 them. And Waring dared not risk the chance of dis- 
 covery. They must have learned that he was follow- 
 ing them, for they had ridden hard these past few 
 days. Evidently they had been unwilling to chance a 
 fight in any of the towns. And, in fact, Waring had 
 once been ahead of them, knowing that they would 
 make for the desert. But that night he had over- 
 slept, and they had passed him in the early hours of 
 morning. 
 
 Slowly Dex raised his head and sniffed. Waring 
 patted him, afraid that he would nicker. He had 
 dismounted to tighten the cinches when he thought 
 he heard voices in argument. He mounted again. 
 The men must have ridden hard to have made such 
 good time. Again he heard voices. The men were 
 near the mouth of the arroyo. Waring tossed his 
 hat to the ground and dropped his gauntlets beside 
 his hat. Carefully he wiped his sweating hands on 
 
 215 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 his bandanna. Dex threw up his head. His nostrils 
 worked. Waring spoke to him. 
 
 A shadow touched the sand at the mouth of the 
 arroyo. Waring leaned forward and drove in the 
 spurs. The big buckskin leaped to a run as he rounded 
 the shoulder of the arroyo. 
 
 The three horsemen, who had been riding close 
 together, spread out on the instant. Waring threw 
 a shot at the foremost figure even as High Chin's first 
 shot tore away the front of his shirt. Waring fired 
 again. Tony Brewster, on the ground, emptied his 
 gun as Waring spurred over him. Turning in the 
 saddle as he flashed past High Chin, Waring fired at 
 close range at the other's belt buckle. Out on the 
 levels, Andy Brewster's horse was running with tail 
 tucked down. Waring threw his remaining shot at 
 High Chin, and, spurring Dex, stood in his stirrups 
 as he reloaded his gun. 
 
 The rider ahead was rocking in the saddle. He 
 had been hit, although Waring could not recall having 
 shot at him. Suddenly the horse went down, and 
 Andy Brewster pitched to the sand. Waring laughed 
 and reined round on the run, expecting each instant 
 to feel the blunt shock of a bullet. High Chin was still 
 sitting his horse, his gun held muzzle up. Evidently he 
 was not hard hit, or, if he were, he was holding himself 
 for a final shot at Waring. Behind him, almost beneath 
 his horse, his brother Tony had raised himself on his 
 elbow and was fumbling with his empty gun. 
 
 216 
 
The Fight in the Open 
 
 Waring rode slowly toward High Chin. High 
 Chin's hand jerked down. Waring's wrist moved in 
 answer. The two reports blended in a blunt, echoless 
 roar. Waring felt a shock that numbed his thigh. 
 High Chin sat stiffly in the saddle, his hand clasp- 
 ing the horn. He turned and gazed down at his 
 brother. 
 
 "Thought you got him," said Tony Brewster 
 from the ground. "Sit still and I'll get him from 
 under your horse." 
 
 Waring knew now that High Chin was hit hard. 
 The foreman had let his gun slip from his fingers. 
 Waring saw a slight movement just beneath High 
 Chin's horse. A shock lifted him from the saddle, 
 and he dropped to the ground as Tony Brewster 
 fired. But there was no such thing as quit just so 
 long as Waring could see to shoot. Dragging him- 
 self to his gun, he shook the sand from its muzzle. 
 He knew that he could not last long. Already flecks 
 of fire danced before his eyes. He bit his lip as he 
 raised himself and drew fine on that black figure 
 beneath High Chin's horse. The gun jumped in his 
 hand. Waring saw the black figure twitch and roll 
 over. Then his sight grew clouded. He tried to brush 
 away the blur that grew and spread. For an instant 
 his eyes cleared. High Chin still sat upright hi the 
 saddle. Waring raised his gun and fired quickly. As 
 his hand dropped to the sand, High Chin pitched 
 headlong and lay still. 
 
 217 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Then came a soft black veil that hid the glimmer- 
 ing sun and the wide desert reaches. 
 
 High Chin, his legs paralyzed by a slug that had 
 torn through his abdomen and lodged in his spine, 
 knew that he had made his last fight. He braced him- 
 self on his hands and called to his brother Tony. But 
 his brother did not answer. High Chin's horse had 
 strayed, and was grazing up the arroyo. The stricken 
 man writhed round, feeling no pain, but conscious of 
 a horrible numbness across his back and abdomen. 
 
 "When it hits my heart I'm done," he muttered. 
 "Guess I'll go over and keep Tony company." 
 
 Inch by inch he dragged himself across the sand. 
 Tony Brewster lay on his back. High Chin touched 
 him; felt of the limp arm, and gazed curiously at the 
 blue-e^ged hole in his brother's chest. With awful 
 labor that brought a clammy moisture to his face, 
 he managed to drag himself close to his brother and 
 writhe round to a position where he could sit up, 
 braced against the other's body. He gazed out across 
 the desert. It had been a fast fight. Waring was done 
 for. High Chin wondered how long he would last. 
 The sun was near the horizon. It seemed only a few 
 minutes ago that the sun had been directly overhead 
 and he and his brothers had been cursing the heat. 
 It was growing cold. He shivered. A long shadow 
 reached out toward him from the bank of the arroyo. 
 In a few minutes it would touch him. Then would 
 come night and the stars. The numbness was creep- 
 
 218 
 
The Fight in the Open 
 
 ing toward his chest. He could not breathe freely. 
 He moved his arms. They were alive yet. He opened 
 and closed his fingers, gazing at them curiously. It 
 was a strange thing that a man should die like this; a 
 little at a time, and not suffer much pain. The fad- 
 ing flame of his old recklessness flared up. 
 
 "I'm goin' across," he said. "But, by God, I'm 
 takin' Jim Waring with me!" 
 
 He glanced toward the buckskin horse that stood 
 so patiently beside that silent figure out there. War- 
 ing was done for. High Chin blinked. A long shaft 
 of sunlight spread across the sand, and in the glow 
 High Chin saw that the horse was moving toward 
 him. He stared for a few seconds. Then he screamed 
 horribly. 
 
 Waring, his hand gripping the stirrup, was drag- 
 ging across the sand beside the horse that stepped 
 sideways and carefully as Waring urged him on. Dex 
 worked nearer to High Chin, but so slowly that High 
 Chin thought it was some horrible phantasy sent to 
 awaken fear in his dulled brain. But that dragging 
 figure, white-faced and terrible that was real! 
 Within a few paces of High Chin, Dex stopped and 
 turned his head to look down at Waring. And War- 
 ing, swaying up on his hands, laughed wildly. 
 
 "I came over to tell you that it was Pat's 
 gun " He collapsed and lay still. 
 
 High Chin sat staring dully at the gunman's un- 
 covered head. The horse sniffed at Waring. High 
 
 219 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Chin's jaw sagged. He slumped down, and lay back 
 across the body of his brother. 
 
 A pathway of lamplight floated out and across the 
 main street of Criswell. A solitary figure lounged at 
 the saloon bar. The sharp barking of a dog broke the 
 desert silence. The lounger gazed at the path of lamp- 
 light which framed the bare hitching-rail. His com- 
 panions of the afternoon had departed to their homes. 
 Again the dog barked shrilly. The saloon-keeper 
 moved to a chair and picked up a rumpled paper. 
 
 The lounger, leaning on his elbow, suddenly 
 straightened. He pointed toward the doorway. The 
 saloon-keeper saw the motion from the corner of 
 his eye. He lowered his paper and rose. In the soft 
 radiance a riderless horse stood at the hitching-rail, 
 his big eyes glowing, his ears pricked forward. 
 Across the horse's shoulder was a ragged tear, black 
 against the tawny gold of his coat. The men glanced 
 at each other. It was the horse of the fourth man; 
 the man who had staggered in that afternoon, asked 
 for whiskey, and who had left as buoyantly as 
 though he went to meet a friend. 
 
 "They got him," said the saloon-keeper. 
 
 "They got him," echoed the other. 
 
 Together they moved to the doorway and peered 
 out. The man who had first seen the horse stepped 
 down and tied the reins to the rail. He ran his hand 
 down the horse's shoulder over muscles that quiv- 
 
 220 
 
The Fight in the Open 
 
 ered as he examined the wound. He glanced at the 
 saddle, the coiled rope, the slackened cinches, and 
 pointed to a black stain on the stirrup leather. 
 
 "From the south," he said. "Maguey rope, and 
 that saddle was made in Mexico." 
 
 "Mebby he wants water," suggested the saloon- 
 keeper. 
 
 "He's had it. Reins are wet where he drug 'em in 
 the tank." 
 
 "Wonder who them three fellas was?" 
 
 "Don' know. From up north, by their rig. I'm 
 wonderin' who the fourth fella was and where he 
 
 is." 
 
 "Why, he's out there, stiff 'nin' on the sand. 
 They's been a fight. And, believe me, if the others 
 was like him she was a dandy!" 
 
 "I guess it's up to us to do somethin'," suggested 
 the lounger. 
 
 "Not to-night, Bill. You don't ketch me ridin' 
 into a flash in the dark before I got time to tell my- 
 self I'm a dam' fool. In the mornin', mebby " 
 
 Their heads came up as they heard a horse pound- 
 ing down the road. A lean pony, black with sweat, 
 jumped to a trembling stop. 
 
 A young Mexican swung down and walked stiffly 
 up to Dex. 
 
 "Where is Senor Jim?" he queried, breathing hard. 
 
 "Don' know, hombre. This his hoss?" 
 
 "Si! It is Dex." 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 'Well, the boss came in, recent, draggin* the 
 
 reins." 
 
 "Then you have seen him?" 
 
 "Seen who? Who are you, anyway?" 
 
 "Me, I am Ramon Ortego, of Sonora. The Senor 
 Jim is my friend. I would find him." 
 
 "Well, if your friend sports a black Stetson and a 
 dam' bad eye and performs with a short-barreled 
 .45, he rode in this afternoon just about a hour be- 
 hind three other fellas. They lit out into the dry spot. 
 Reckon you '11 find your friend out there, if the, coy- 
 otes ain't got to him." 
 
 Ramon limped to the rail and untied Dex. Then he 
 mounted his own horse. 
 
 "Dex," he said softly, riding alongside, "where is 
 the Senor Jim?" 
 
 The big buckskin swung his head round and sniffed 
 Ramon's hand. Then he plodded down the street 
 toward the desert. At the tank Ramon let his horse 
 drink. Dex, like a great dog, sniffed the back trail on 
 which he had come, plodding through the night to- 
 ward the spot where he knew his master to be. 
 
 Ramon, burdened with dread and weariness, rode 
 with his hands clasped round the saddle-horn. The 
 Senor Jim, his Senor Jim, had found those whom he 
 sought. He had not come back. Ramon was glad 
 that he had filled the canteen. If the man who had 
 killed his Senor Jim had escaped, he would follow him 
 even as he had followed Waring. And he would find 
 
 222 
 
The Fight in the Open 
 
 him. "And then I shall kill him," said Ramon sim- 
 ply. "He does not know my face. As I speak to him 
 the Sefior Jim's name I shall kill him, and the Senor 
 Jim will know then that I have been faithful." 
 
 The big buckskin plodded on across the sand, the 
 empty stirrups swinging. Ramon's gaze lifted to the 
 stars. He smiled wanly. 
 
 " I follow him. Wherever he has gone, I follow him, 
 and he will not lose the way." 
 
 His bowed head, nodding to the pace of the pony, 
 seemed to reiterate in grotesque assertion his spoken 
 word. Ramon's tired body tingled as Dex strode 
 faster. The horse nickered, and an answering nicker 
 came from the night. His own tired pony struck into 
 a trot. Dex stopped. Ramon slid down, and, stum- 
 bling forward, he touched a black bulk that lay on 
 the sand. 
 
 Waring, despite his trim build, was a heavy man. 
 Ramon was just able to lift him and lay him across the 
 saddle. A coyote yipped from the brush of the ar- 
 royo. As Ramon started back toward town his horse 
 shied at something near the arroyo's entrance. Ra- 
 mon did not know that the bodies of Tony and Bob 
 Brewster formed that low mound half -hidden by the 
 darkness. 
 
 A yellow star, close to the eastern horizon, twinkled 
 faintly and then disappeared. The saloon at Criswell 
 had been closed for the night. 
 
 Next morning the marshal of Criswell sent a mes- 
 
 223 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 senger to the telegraph office at the junction. There 
 was no railroad entering the Criswell Valley. The 
 messenger bore three telegraph messages; one to 
 Sheriff Hardy, one to Bud Shoop, and one to Mrs. 
 Adams. 
 
 Ramon, outside Waring's room in the marshal's 
 house, listened as the local doctor moved about. 
 Presently he heard the doctor ask a question. War- 
 ing's voice answered faintly. Ramon stepped from 
 the door and found his way to the stable. Dex, plac- 
 idly munching alfalfa, turned his head as Ramon 
 came in. 
 
 "The Senor Jim is not dead," he told the horse. 
 
 And, leaning against Dex, he wept softly, as women 
 weep, with a happiness too great to bear. The big 
 horse nuzzled his shoulder with his velvet-smooth 
 nose, as though he would sympathize. Then he turned 
 to munching alfalfa again in huge content. He had 
 had a weary journey. And though his master had not 
 come to feed him, here was the gentle, low-voiced 
 Ramon, whom he knew as a friend. 
 
Chapter XX 
 
 City Folks 
 
 BUD SHOOPS new duties kept him exceed- 
 ingly busy. As the days went by he found 
 himself more and more tied to office detail. 
 Fortunately Torrance had left a well-organized corps 
 of rangers, each with his own special work mapped out, 
 work that Shoop understood, with the exception of 
 seeding and planting experiments, which Lundy, the 
 expert, attended to as though the reserve were his 
 own and his life depended upon successful results 
 along his special line. 
 
 Shoop had long since given up trying to dictate 
 letters. Instead he wrote what he wished to say on 
 slips of paper which his clerk cast into conventional 
 form. The genial Bud's written directions were brief 
 and to the point. 
 
 Among the many letters received was one from a 
 writer of Western stories, applying for a lease upon 
 which to build a summer camp. His daughter's health 
 was none too good, and he wanted to be in the moun- 
 tains. Shoop studied the letter. He had a vague 
 recollection of having heard of the writer. The request 
 was legitimate. There was no reason for not grant- 
 ing it. 
 
 225 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Shoop called in his stenographer. "Ever read any 
 of that fella's books?" 
 
 "Who? Bronson? Yes. He writes bang-up West- 
 ern stories." 
 
 "He does, eh? Well, you get hold of one of them 
 stories. I want to read it. I've lived in the West a 
 few minutes myself." 
 
 A week later Shoop had made his decision. He 
 returned a shiny, new volume to the clerk. 
 
 "I never took to writin' folks reg'lar," he told the 
 clerk. "Mebby I got the wrong idee of 'em. Now I 
 reckon some of them is human, same as you and me. 
 Why, do you know I been through lots of them things 
 he writes about. And, by gollies, when I read that 
 there gun-fight down in Texas, I ketched myself 
 feelin' along my hip, like I was packin' a gun. And 
 when I read about that cowboy's hoss, the one 
 with the sarko eye and the white legs, why, I 
 ketched myself feelin' for my ole bandanna to blow 
 my nose. An' I seen dead hosses a-plenty. But you 
 need n't to say nothin' about that in the letter. Just 
 tell him to mosey over and we'll talk it out. If a man 
 what knows hosses and folks like he does wa'n't 
 raised in the West, he ought to been. Heard anything 
 from Adams?" 
 
 "He was in last week. He's up on Baldy. Packed 
 some stuff up to the lookout." 
 
 "Uh-uh. Now, the land next to my shack on the 
 Blue ain't a bad place for this here writer. I got the 
 
 226 
 
City Folks 
 
 plat, and we can line out the five acres this fella wants 
 from my corner post. But he's comin' in kind of late 
 to build a camp." 
 
 "It will be good weather till December," said the 
 clerk. 
 
 "Well, you write and tell him to come over. Seen 
 anything of Hardy and his men lately?" 
 
 "Not since last Tuesday." 
 
 "TJh-uh. They're millin' around like a lot of 
 burros and gettin' nowhere. But Jim Waring 's 
 out after that bunch that got Pat. If I was n't so 
 hefty, I 'd 'a' gone with him. I tell you the man that 
 got Pat ain't goin' to live long to brag on it." 
 
 " They say it was the Brewster boys," ventured the 
 stenographer. 
 
 "They say lots of things, son. But Jim Waring 
 knows. God help the man that shot Pat when Jim 
 Waring meets up with him. And I want to tell you 
 somethin'. Be kind of careful about repeatin' what 
 'they say' to anybody. You got nothin' to back you 
 up if somebody calls your hand. 'They' ain't goin' 
 to see you through. And you named the Brewster 
 boys. Now, just suppose one of the Brewster boys 
 heard of it and come over askin' you what you meant? 
 I bet you a new hat Jim Waring ain't said Brewster's 
 name to a soul and he knows. I 'm goin' over to 
 Stacey. Any mail the stage did n't get?" 
 
 "Letter for Mrs. Adams." 
 
 "Uh-uh. Lorry writes to his ma like he was her 
 
 227 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 beau reg'lar and plenty. Funny thing, you can't 
 get a word out of him about wimmin-folk, neither. 
 He ain't that kind of a colt. But I reckon when he 
 sees the gal he wants he '11 saddle up and ride out and 
 take her." And Bud chuckled. 
 
 Bondsman rapped the floor with his tail. Bonds- 
 man never failed to express a sympathetic mood when 
 his master chuckled. 
 
 "Now, look at that," said Shoop, grinning. "He 
 knows I 'm goin' over to Stacey . He heard me say it. 
 And he says I got to take him along, 'cause he knows 
 I ain't goin' on a hoss. That there dog bosses me 
 around somethin' scandalous." 
 
 The stenographer smiled as Shoop waddled from 
 the office with Bondsman at his heels. There was 
 something humorous, almost pathetic, in the gaunt 
 and grizzled Airedale's affection for his rotund master. 
 And Shoop's broad back, with the shoulders stooped 
 slightly and the set stride as he plodded here and 
 there, often made the clerk smile. Yet there was 
 nothing humorous about Shoop's face when he 
 flashed to anger or studied some one who tried to 
 mask a lie, or when he reprimanded his clerk for 
 naming folk that it was hazardous to name. 
 
 The typewriter clicked; a fly buzzed on the screen 
 door; a beam of sunlight flickered through the win- 
 dow. The letter ran: 
 
 Yours of the 4th inst. received and contents noted. In 
 answer would state that Supervisor Shoop would be glad 
 
 28 
 
City Folks 
 
 to have you call at your earliest convenience in regard to 
 leasing a camp-site on the White Mountain Reserve. 
 
 Essentially a business letter of the correspondence- 
 school type. 
 
 But the stenographer was not thinking of style. 
 He was wondering what the girl would be like. There 
 was to be a girl. The writer had said that he wished 
 to build a camp to which he could bring his daugh- 
 ter, who was not strong. The clerk thought that a 
 writer's daughter might be an interesting sort of 
 person. Possibly she was like some of the heroines 
 in the writer's stories. It would be interesting to 
 meet her. He had written a poem once himself. It 
 was about spring, and had been published in the 
 local paper. He wondered if the writer's daughter 
 liked poetry. 
 
 In the meantime, Lorry, with two pack-animals 
 and Gray Leg, rode the hills and canons, attending 
 to the many duties of a ranger. 
 
 And as he caught his stride in the work he began 
 to feel that he was his own man. Miles from head- 
 quarters, he was often called upon to make a quick 
 decision that required instant and individual judg- 
 ment. He made mistakes, but never failed to report 
 such mistakes to Shoop. Lorry preferred to give his 
 own version of an affair that he had mishandled 
 rather than to have to explain some other version 
 later. He was no epitome of perfection. He was in- 
 clined to be arbitrary when he knew he was in the 
 
 229 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 right. Argument irritated him. He considered his 
 "Yes" or "No" sufficient, without explanation. 
 
 He made Shoop's cabin his headquarters, and 
 spent his spare time cording wood. He liked his 
 occupation, and felt rather independent with the 
 comfortable cabin, a good supply of food, a corral 
 and pasture for the ponies, plenty of clear, cold water, 
 and a hundred trails to ride each day from dawn to 
 dark as he should choose. Once unfamiliar with the 
 timber country, he grew to love the twinkling gold 
 of the aspens, the twilight vistas of the spruce and 
 pines, and the mighty sweep of the great purple 
 tides of forest that rolled down from the ranges into 
 a sheer of space that had no boundary save the sky. 
 
 He grew a trifle thinner in the high country. The 
 desert tan of his cheeks and throat deepened to a 
 ruddy bronze. 
 
 Aside from pride in his work, he took special pride 
 in his equipment, keeping his bits and conchas pol- 
 ished and his leather gear oiled. Reluctantly he dis- 
 carded his chaps. He found that they hindered him 
 when working on foot. Only when he rode into Jason 
 for supplies did he wear his chaps, a bit of cowboy 
 vanity quite pardonable in his years. 
 
 If he ever thought of women at all, it was when 
 he lounged and smoked by the evening fire in the 
 cabin, sometimes recalling "that Eastern girl with 
 the jim-dandy mother." He wondered if they ever 
 thought of him, and he wished that they might know 
 
 230 
 
City Folks 
 
 he was now a full-fledged ranger with man-size re- 
 sponsibilities. "And mebby they think I'm ridin' 
 south yet," he would say to himself. "I must have 
 looked like I did n't aim to pull up this side of Texas, 
 from the way I lit out." But, then, women did n't 
 understand such things. 
 
 Occasionally he confided something of the kind to 
 the spluttering fire, laughing as he recalled the leg of 
 lamb with which he had waved his hasty farewell. 
 " And I was scared, all right. But I was n't so scared 
 I forgot I'd get hungry." Which conclusion seemed 
 to satisfy him. 
 
 When he learned that a writer had leased five acres 
 next to Bud's cabin, he was skeptical as to how he 
 would get along with "strangers." He liked elbow- 
 room. Yet, on second thought, it would make no 
 difference to him. He would not be at the cabin often 
 nor long at a time. The evenings were lonely some- 
 times. 
 
 But when camped at the edge of the timber on some 
 mountain meadow, with his ponies grazing in the 
 starlit dusk, when the little, leaping flame of his night 
 fire flung ruddy shadows that danced in giant mimi- 
 cry in the cavernous arches of the pines; when the 
 faint tinkle of the belled pack-horse rang a faery 
 cadence in the distance; then there was no such thing 
 as loneliness in his big, outdoor world. Rather, he 
 was content in a solid way. An inner glow of satisfac- 
 tion because of work well done, a sense of well-being, 
 
 231 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 founded upon perfect physical health and ease, kept 
 him from feeling the need of companionship other than 
 that of his horses. Sometimes he sat late into the 
 night watching the pine gum ooze from a burning 
 log and swell to golden bubbles that puffed into tiny 
 flames and vanished in smoky whisperings. At such 
 times a companion would not have been unwelcome, 
 yet he was content to be alone. 
 
 Later, when Lorry heard that the writer was to 
 bring his daughter into the high country, he expressed 
 himself to Shoop's stenographer briefly: "Oh, hell!" 
 Yet the expletive was not offensive, spoken gently 
 and merely emphasizing Lorry's attitude toward 
 things feminine. 
 
 While Lorry was away with the pack-horses and 
 a week's riding ahead of him, the writer arrived 
 in Jason, introduced himself and his daughter, a 
 rather slender girl of perhaps sixteen or eighteen, 
 and later, accompanied by the genial Bud, rode up to 
 the Blue Mesa and inspected the proposed camp- 
 site. As they rode, Bud discoursed upon the climate, 
 ways of building a log cabin, wild turkeys, cattle, 
 sheep, grazing, fuel, and water, and concluded his 
 discourse with a dissertation upon dogs in general 
 and Airedales in particular. The writer was fond of 
 dogs and knew something about Airedales. This 
 appealed to Shoop even more than had the writer's 
 story of the West. 
 
 Arrived at the mesa, tentative lines were run and 
 
 232 
 
City Folks 
 
 corners marked. The next day two Mormon youths 
 from Jason started out with a load of lumber and 
 hardware. The evening of the second day following 
 they arrived at the homestead, pitched a tent, and 
 set to work. That night they unloaded the lumber. 
 Next morning they cleared a space for the cabin. By 
 the end of August the camp was finished. The Mor- 
 mon boys, to whom freighting over the rugged hills 
 was more of a pastime than real work, brought in a 
 few pieces of furniture iron beds, a stove, cooking- 
 utensils, and the hardware and provisions incidental 
 to the maintenance of a home in the wilderness. 
 
 The writer and his daughter rode up from Jason 
 with the final load of supplies. Excitement and 
 fatigue had so overtaxed the girl's slender store of 
 strength that she had to stay in bed for several days. 
 Meanwhile, her father put things in order. The two 
 saddle-horses, purchased under the critical eye of 
 Bud Shoop, showed an inclination to stray back to 
 Jason, so the writer turned them into Lorry's cor- 
 ral each evening, as his own lease was not entirely 
 fenced. 
 
 Riding in from his long journey one night, Lorry 
 passed close to the new cabin. It loomed strangely 
 raw and white in the moonlight. He had forgotten 
 that there was to be a camp near his. The surprise 
 rather irritated him. Heretofore he had considered 
 the Blue Mesa was his by a kind of natural right. He 
 wondered how he would like the city folks. They 
 
 233 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 had evidently made themselves at home. Their horses 
 were in his corral. 
 
 As he unsaddled Gray Leg, a light flared up in the 
 strange camp. The door opened, and a man came 
 toward him. 
 
 "Good-evening," said the writer. "I hope my 
 horses are not in your way." 
 
 "Sure not," said Lorry as he loosened a pack-rope. 
 
 He took off the packs and lugged them to the 
 veranda. The tired horses rolled, shook themselves, 
 and meandered toward the spring. 
 
 "I'm Bronson. My daughter is with me. We are 
 up here for the summer." 
 
 "My name is Adams," said Lorry, shaking hands. 
 
 "The ranger up here. Yes. Well, I'm glad to meet 
 you, Adams. My daughter and I get along wonder- 
 fully, but it will be rather nice to have a neighbor. 
 I heard you ride by, and wanted to explain about my 
 horses." 
 
 "That's all right, Mr. Bronson. Just help your- 
 self." 
 
 "Thank you. Dorothy my daughter has been 
 under the weather for a few days. She'll be up to- 
 morrow, I think. She has been worrying about our 
 using your corral. I told her you would not mind." 
 
 "Sure not. She's sick, did you say?" 
 
 "Well, overtired. She is not very strong." 
 
 "Lungs?" queried Lorry, and immediately he 
 could have kicked himself for saying it. 
 
City Folks 
 
 "I'm afraid so, Adams. I thought this high coun- 
 try might do her good." 
 
 "It's right high for some. Folks got to take it easy 
 at first; 'specially wimmin-folk. I 'm right sorry your 
 girl ain't well." 
 
 "Thank you. I should n't have mentioned it. She 
 is really curious to know how you live, what you do, 
 and, in fact, what a real live ranger looks like. Mr. 
 Shoop told her something about you while we were in 
 Jason. They became great friends while the camp 
 was building. She says she knows all about you, and 
 tries to tease me by keeping it to herself." 
 
 "Bud my boss is some josher," was all that 
 Lorry could think of to say at the time. 
 
 Bronson went back to his cabin. Lorry, entering 
 his camp, lighted the lamp and built a fire. The 
 camp looked cozy and cheerful after a week on the 
 trail. 
 
 When he had eaten he sat down to write to his 
 mother. He would tell her all about the new cabin 
 and the city folks. But before he had written more 
 than to express himself "that it was too darned bad 
 a girl had to stay up in the woods without no other 
 wimmin-folks around," he became drowsy. The 
 letter remained unfinished. He would finish it to- 
 morrow. He would smoke awhile and then go to 
 bed. 
 
 A healthy young animal himself, he could not 
 understand what sickness meant. And as for lungs 
 
 235 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 he had forgotten there were such things in a per- 
 son's make-up. And sick folks could n't eat "regu- 
 lar grub." It must be pretty tough not to be able 
 to eat heartily. Now, there was that wild turkey 
 he had shot near the Big Spring. He tiptoed to the 
 door. The lights were out in the other cabin. It was 
 closed season for turkey, but then a fellow needed a 
 change from bacon and beans once in a while. 
 
 He had hidden the turkey in a gunny-sack which 
 hung from a kitchen rafter. Should he leave it in 
 the sack, hang it from a rafter of their veranda, out 
 of reach of a chance bobcat or coyote, or it would 
 be much more of a real surprise to hang the big bird 
 in front of their door in all his feathered glory. The 
 sack would spoil the effect. 
 
 He took off his boots and walked cautiously to 
 the other cabin. The first person to come out of that 
 cabin next morning would actually bump into the 
 turkey. It would be a good joke. 
 
 "And if he's the right kind of a hombre he won't 
 talk about it," thought Lorry as he returned to his 
 camp. "And if he ain't, I am out one fine bird, and 
 I'll know to watch out for him." 
 
Chapter XXI 
 
 A Slim Whip of a Girl 
 
 WHEN Bronson opened his door to the 
 thin sunlight and the crisp chill of the 
 morning, he chuckled. He had made 
 too many camps in the outlands to be surprised by 
 an unexpected gift of game out of season. His neigh- 
 bor was a ranger, and all rangers were incidentally 
 game wardens. Bronson believed heartily in the 
 conservation of game, and in this instance he did 
 not intend to let that turkey spoil. 
 
 He called to his daughter. 
 
 Her brown eyes grew big. "Why, it's a turkey!" 
 
 Bronson laughed. "And to-day is Sunday. We'll 
 have a housewarming and invite the ranger to dinner." 
 
 "Did he give it to you? Is n't it beautiful! What 
 big wings and the breast feathers are like little 
 bronze flames! Do wild turkeys really fly?" 
 
 "Well, rather. It's a fine sight to see them run 
 to a rim rock and float off across a canon." 
 
 "Did you tell him about our horses? Is he nice? 
 What did he say? But I could never imagine a tur- 
 key like that flying. I always think of turkeys as 
 strutting around a farmyard with their heads held 
 back and all puffed out in front. This one is heavy! 
 I can't see how he could even begin to fly." 
 
 237 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "They have to get a running start. Then they 
 usually flop along and sail up into a tree. Once 
 they are in a tree, they can float off into space 
 easily. They seem to fly slowly, but they can dis- 
 appear fast enough. The ranger seems to be a nice 
 chap." 
 
 "Did he really give the turkey to us?" 
 
 "It was hanging right here when I came out. I 
 can't say that he gave it to us. You see, it is closed 
 season for turkey." 
 
 "But we must thank him." 
 
 "We will. Let's ask him to dinner. He seems to 
 be a pleasant chap; quite natural. He said we were 
 welcome to keep our horses in his corral. But if 
 you want to have him for a real friendly neighbor, 
 Dorothy, don't mention the word 'turkey.' We'll 
 just roast it, make biscuits and gravy, and ask him 
 to dinner. He will understand." 
 
 "Then I am going to keep the wings and tail to 
 put on the wall of my room. How funny, not to 
 thank a person for such a present." 
 
 "The supervisor would reprimand him for kill- 
 ing game out of season, if he heard about it." 
 
 "But just one turkey?" 
 
 "That is n't the idea. If it came to Mr. Shoop 
 that one of his men was breaking the game laws, 
 Mr. Shoop would have to take notice of it. Not that 
 Shoop would care about one of his men killing a 
 turkey to eat, but it would hurt the prestige of the 
 
A Slim Whip of a Girl 
 
 Service. The natives would take advantage of it 
 and help themselves to game." 
 
 "Of course, you know all about those matters. 
 But can't I even say 'turkey* when I ask him to 
 have some?" 
 
 "Oh," laughed Bronson, "call it chicken. He'll 
 eat just as heartily." 
 
 "The ranger is up," said Dorothy. "I can hear 
 him whistling." 
 
 "Then let's have breakfast and get this big fel- 
 low ready to roast. It will take some time." 
 
 An hour later, Lorry, fresh-faced and smiling, 
 knocked on the lintel of their open doorway. 
 
 Bronson, in his shirt-sleeves and wearing a diminu- 
 tive apron to which clung a fluff of turkey feathers, 
 came from the kitchen. 
 
 "Good-morning. You'll excuse my daughter. 
 She is busy." 
 
 "I just came over to ask how she was." 
 
 "Thank you. She is much better. We want you 
 to have dinner with us." 
 
 "Thanks. But I got some beans going " 
 
 "But this is chicken, man! And it is Sunday." 
 
 Lorry's gray eyes twinkled. "Chickens are right 
 scarce up here. And chicken sure tastes better on 
 Sunday. Was you goin' to turn your stock out with 
 mine? " 
 
 "That's so!" 
 
 They turned Bronson 's horses out, and watched 
 
 239 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 them charge down the mesa toward the three ani- 
 mals grazing lazily in the morning sunshine. 
 
 "Your horses will stick with mine," said Lorry. 
 "They won't stray now." 
 
 "Did I hear a piano this morning, or did I dream 
 that I heard some one playing?" 
 
 "Oh, it was me, foolin' with Bud's piano in there. 
 Bud's got an amazin' music-box. Ever see it?" 
 
 "No. I have n't been in your cabin." 
 
 "Well, come right along over. This was Bud's 
 camp when he was homesteadin'. Ever see a piano 
 like that?" 
 
 Bronson gazed at the carved and battered piano, 
 stepping close to it to inspect the various brands. 
 "It is rather amazing. I did n't know Mr. Shoop 
 was fond of music." 
 
 "Well, he can't play reg'lar. But he sure likes to 
 try. You ought to hear him and Bondsman workin* 
 out that 'Annie Laurie' duet. First off, you feel 
 like laughin'. But Bud gets so darned serious you 
 kind of forget he ain't a professional. 'Annie Laurie* 
 ain't no dance tune and when Bud and the dog 
 get at it, it is right mournful." 
 
 "I have seen a few queer things," and Bron- 
 son laughed, "but this beats them all." 
 
 "You'd be steppin' square on Bud's soul if you 
 was to josh him about that piano," said Lorry. 
 
 "I would n't. But thank you just the same. You 
 have a neat place here, Adams." 
 
 240 
 
A Slim Whip of a Girl 
 
 "When you say 'neat' you say it all." 
 
 "I detest a fussy camp. One gets enough of that 
 sort of thing in town. Is that a Gallup saddle or a 
 Frazier?" 
 
 "Frazier." 
 
 "I used a Heiser when I was in Mexico. They're 
 all good." 
 
 "That's what I say. But there's a hundred 
 cranks to every make of saddle and every rig. You 
 said you were in Mexico?" 
 
 "Before I was married. As a young man I worked 
 for some of the mines. I went there from college." 
 
 "I reckon you've rambled some." And a new 
 interest lightened Lorry's eyes. Perhaps this man 
 was n't a "plumb tenderfoot," after all. 
 
 "Oh, not so much. I punched cattle down on the 
 Hassayampa and in the Mogollons. Then I drifted 
 up to Alaska. But I always came back to Arizona. 
 New Mexico is mighty interesting, and so is Colorado. 
 California is really the most wonderful State of all, 
 but somehow I can't keep away from Arizona." 
 
 "Shake! I never been out of Arizona, except when 
 I was a kid, but she's the State for me." 
 
 A shadow flickered in the doorway. Lorry turned 
 to gaze at a delicate slip of a girl, whose big brown 
 eyes expressed both humor and trepidation. 
 
 "My daughter Dorothy, Mr. Adams. This is our 
 neighbor, Dorothy." 
 
 "I'm right glad to meet you, miss/' 
 
 241 
 
Tang of Life ' 
 
 And Lorry's strong fingers closed on her slender 
 hand. To his robust sense of the physical she ap- 
 pealed as something exceedingly fragile and beau- 
 tiful, with her delicate, clear coloring and her softly 
 glowing eyes. What a little hand! And what a 
 slender arm! And yet Lorry thought her arm pretty 
 in its rounded slenderness. He smiled as he saw a 
 turkey feather fluttering on her shoulder. 
 
 "Looks like that chicken was gettin' the best of 
 you," he said, smiling. 
 
 "That's just it," she agreed, nothing abashed. 
 "Father, you'll have to help." 
 
 "You'll excuse us, won't you? We'll finish our 
 visit at dinner." 
 
 Lorry had reports to make out. He dragged a 
 chair to the table. That man Bronson was all right. 
 Let 's see the thirtieth looked stockier in day- 
 light. Had a good grip, too, and a clear, level eye. 
 One mattock missing in the lookout cabin and 
 the girl; such a slender whip of a girl! Just like a 
 young willow, but not a bit like an invalid. Buckley 
 reports that his man will have the sheep across the 
 reservation by the fourth of the month. Her father 
 had said she was not over-strong. And her eyes! 
 Lorry had seen little fawns with eyes like that 
 big, questioning eyes, startled rather than afraid. 
 
 "Reckon everything she sees up here is just amaz- 
 in'' her at every jump. I'll bet she's happy, even if 
 she has got lungs. Now, a fella could n't help but 
 
 242 
 
A Slim Whip of a Girl 
 
 to like a girl like that. She would made a dandy 
 sister, and a fella would just about do anything in 
 the world for such a sister. And she would n't have 
 to ask, at that. He would just naturally want to do 
 things for her, because well, because he could n't 
 help feeling that way. Funny how some wimmin 
 made a man feel like he wanted to just about wor- 
 ship them, and not because they did anything ex- 
 cept be just themselves. Now, there was that Mrs. 
 Weston. She was a jim-dandy woman but she 
 was different. She always seemed to know just what 
 she was going to say and do. And Mrs. Weston's 
 girl, Alice. Reckon I 'd scrap with her right frequent. 
 She was still " 
 
 Dog-gone it! Where was he drifting to? Sylves- 
 tre's sheep were five days crossing the reserve. 
 Smith reported a small fire north of the lookout. 
 The Ainslee boys put the fire out. It had n't done 
 any great damage. 
 
 Lorry sat back and chewed the lead pencil. As 
 he gazed out of the window across the noon mesa a 
 faint fragrance was wafted through the doorway. 
 He sniffed and grinned. It was the warm flavor of 
 wild turkey, a flavor that suggested crispness, with 
 juicy white meat beneath. Lorry jumped up and 
 grabbed a pail as he left the cabin. On his way back 
 from the spring, Bronson waved to him. Lorry 
 nodded. And presently he presented himself at 
 Bronson's cabin, his face glowing, his flannel shirt 
 
 243 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 neatly brushed, and a dark-blue silk bandanna 
 knotted gracefully at his throat. 
 
 "This is the princess," said Bronson, gesturing 
 toward his daughter. "And here is the feast." 
 
 "And it was a piano," continued Bronson as they 
 sat down. 
 
 "Really? 'Way up here?" 
 
 "My daughter plays a little," explained Bronson. 
 
 "Well, you're sure welcome to use that piano any 
 time. If I 'm gone, the door is unlocked just the same." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Adams, I only play to amuse 
 myself now." 
 
 Lorry fancied there was a note of regret in her last 
 word. He glanced at her. She was gazing wistfully 
 out of the window. It hurt him to see that tinge of 
 hopelessness on her young face. 
 
 "This here chicken is fine!" he asserted. 
 
 The girl's eyes were turned to him. She smiled 
 and glanced roguishly at her father. Lorry laughed 
 outright. 
 
 "What is the joke?" she demanded. 
 
 "Nothin'; only my plate is empty, Miss Bronson." 
 
 Bronson grabbed up carving-knife and fork. 
 "Great Caesar! I must have been dreaming. I was 
 dreaming. I was recalling a turkey hunt down in 
 Virginia with Colonel Stillwell and his man Plato. 
 Plato was a good caller but we did n't get a tur- 
 key. Now, this is as tender as as it ought to be. 
 A little more gravy? And as we came home, the 
 
 244 
 
A Slim Whip of a Girl 
 
 colonel, who was of the real mint-julep type, pro- 
 posed as a joke that Plato see what he could do to- 
 ward getting some kind of bird for dinner that night. 
 And when Plato lifted the covers, sure enough there 
 was a fine, fat roast chicken. The colonel, who lived 
 in town and did not keep chickens, asked Plato how 
 much he had paid for it. Plato almost dropped the 
 cover. 'Mars' George,' he said with real solicitude in 
 his voice, * is you sick?' And speaking of turkeys " 
 
 "Who was speaking of turkeys?" asked Dorothy. 
 
 "Why, I think this chicken is superior to any 
 domestic turkey I ever tasted," concluded Bronson. 
 
 "Was you ever in politics?" queried Lorry. And 
 they all laughed heartily. 
 
 After dinner Lorry asked for an apron. 
 
 Dorothy shook her finger at him. "It's nice of 
 you but you don't mean it." 
 
 "Now, ma would n't 'a' said that, miss. She'd 
 'a' just tied one of her aprons on me and turned me 
 loose on the dishes. I used to help her like that when 
 I was a kid. Ma runs the hotel at Stacey." 
 
 "Why, didn't we stop there for dinner?" asked 
 Dorothy. 
 
 "Yes, indeed. All right, Adams, I'll wash 'em and 
 you can dry 'em, and Dorothy can rest." 
 
 "It's a right smilin' little apron," commented 
 Lorry as Dorothy handed it to him. 
 
 "And you do look funny! My, I did n't know you 
 were so big! I'll have to get a pin." 
 
 245 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "I reckon it's the apron looks funny," said Lorry. 
 
 "I made it," she said, teasing him. 
 
 "Then that's why it is so pretty," said Lorry 
 gravely. 
 
 Dorothy decided to change the subject. "I think 
 you should let me wash the dishes, father." 
 
 "You cooked the dinner, Peter Pan." 
 
 "Then I'll go over and try the piano. May I?" 
 
 "If you'll play for us when we come over, Miss 
 Bronson." 
 
 Bronson and Lorry sat on the veranda and smoked. 
 Dorothy was playing a sprightly melody. She ceased 
 to play, and presently the sweet old tune "Annie 
 Laurie" came to them. Lorry, with cigarette poised 
 in his fingers, hummed the words to himself. Bron- 
 son was watching him curiously. The melody came 
 to an end. Lorry sighed. 
 
 "Sounds like that ole piano was just singin' its 
 heart out all by itself," he said. "I wish Bud could 
 hear that." 
 
 Almost immediately came the sprightly notes of 
 "Anitra's Dance." 
 
 "And that's these here woods and the water 
 prancin' down the rocks, and a slim kind of a girl 
 dancin' in the sunshine and then runnin' away to 
 hide in the woods again." And Lorry laughed softly 
 at his own conceit. 
 
 "Do you know the tune?" queried Bronson. 
 
 "Nope. I was just makin' that up." 
 
 246 
 
A Slim Whip of a Girl 
 
 "That's just Dorothy," said Bronson. 
 
 Lorry turned and gazed at him. And without 
 knowing how it came about, Lorry understood that 
 there had been another Dorothy who had played and 
 sung and danced in the sunshine. And that this 
 sprightly, slender girl was a bud of that vanished 
 flower, a bud whose unfolding Bronson watched with 
 such deep solicitude. 
 
Chapter XXII 
 A Tune for Uncle Bud 
 
 LORRY had ridden to Jason, delivered his re- 
 ports to the office, and received instructions 
 to ride to the southern line of the reserva- 
 tion. He would be out many days. He had brought 
 down a pack-horse, and he returned to camp late 
 that night with provisions and some mail for the 
 Bronsons. 
 
 The next day he delayed starting until Dorothy 
 had appeared. Bronson told him frankly that he was 
 sorry to see him go, especially for such a length of 
 time. 
 
 "But I'm glad," said Dorothy. 
 
 Lorry stared at her. Her face was grave, but there 
 was a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. She laughed. 
 
 "Because it will be such fun welcoming you home 
 again." 
 
 "Oh, I thought it might be that piano " 
 
 "Now I shan't touch it!" she pouted, making a 
 deliberate face at him. 
 
 He laughed. She did such unexpected things, 
 did them so unaffectedly. Bronson put his arms 
 about her shoulders. 
 
 "We're keeping Mr. Adams, Peter Pan. He is 
 anxious to be off. He has been ready for quite a 
 
 248 
 
A Tune for Uncle Bud 
 
 while and I think he has been waiting till you ap- 
 peared so that he could say good-bye." 
 
 "Are you anxious to be off?" she queried. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am. It's twenty miles over the ridge to 
 good grass and water." 
 
 "Why, twenty miles isn't so far!" 
 
 "They 's considerable up and down in them twenty 
 miles, Miss Bronson. Now, it would n't be so far for 
 a turkey. He could fly most of the way. But a horse 
 is different, and I'm packin' a right fair jag of stuff." 
 
 "Well, good-bye, ranger man. Good-bye, Gray 
 Leg, and you two poor horses that have to carry 
 the packs. Don't stay away all winter." 
 
 Lorry swung up and started the pack-horses. At 
 the edge of the timber he turned and waved his hat. 
 Dorothy and her father answered with a hearty Good- 
 bye that echoed through the slumbering wood lands. 
 
 One of Bronson's horses raised his head and nick- 
 ered. "Chinook is saying 'Adios,' too. Isn't the air 
 good? And we're right on top of the world. There 
 is Jason, and there is St. Johns, and 'way over there 
 ought to be the railroad, but I can't see it." 
 
 Bronson smiled down at her. 
 
 She reached up and pinched his cheek. "Let's 
 stay here forever, daddy." 
 
 "We'll see how my girl is by September. And 
 next year, if you want to come back " 
 
 "Come back! Why, I don't want to go away 
 ever!" 
 
 249 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "But the snow, Peter Pan." 
 
 "I forgot that. We'd be frozen in tight, should n't 
 we?" 
 
 "I'm afraid we should. Shall we look at the mail? 
 Then I'll have to go to work." 
 
 "Mr. Adams thinks quite a lot of his horses, 
 does n't he?" she queried. 
 
 "He has to. He depends on them, and they de- 
 pend on him. He has to take good care of them." 
 
 "I should n't like it a bit if I thought he took care 
 of them just because he had to." 
 
 "Oh, Adams is all right, Peter. I have noticed one 
 or two things about him." 
 
 "Well, I have noticed that he has a tremendous 
 appetite," laughed Dorothy. 
 
 "And you're going to have, before we leave here, 
 Peter Pan." 
 
 "Then you'd better hurry and get that story 
 written. I want a new saddle and, oh, lots of 
 things!" 
 
 Bronson patted her hand as she walked with him 
 to the cabin. He sat down to his typewriter, and she 
 came out with a book. 
 
 She glanced up occasionally to watch the ponies 
 grazing on the mesa. She was deeply absorbed in 
 her story when some one called to her. She jumped 
 up, dropping her book. 
 
 Bud Shoop was sitting his horse a few paces away, 
 smiling. He had ridden up quietly to surprise her. 
 
 250 
 
A Tune for Uncle Bud 
 
 "A right lovely mornin', Miss Bronson. I reckon 
 your daddy is busy." 
 
 "Here I am," said Bronson, striding out and shak 
 ing hands with the supervisor. "Won't you come 
 in?" 
 
 "About that lease," said Shoop, dismounting. 
 "If you got time to talk business." 
 
 "Most certainly. Dorothy will excuse us." 
 
 "Is Adams gone?" 
 
 "He left this morning." 
 
 "Uh-uh. Here, Bondsman, quit botherin' the 
 young lady." 
 
 "He isn't bothering. I know what he wants." 
 And she ran to the kitchen. 
 
 Shoop's face grew grave. "I did n't want to scare 
 the little lady, Bronson, but Lorry's father Jim 
 Waring has been shot up bad over to Criswell. 
 He went in after that Brewster outfit that killed Pat. 
 I reckon he got 'em but I ain't heard." 
 
 "Adams's father!" 
 
 "Yes, Jim Waring. Here comes the little missy. 
 I'll tell you later. Now Bondsman is sure happy." 
 
 And Bud forced a smile as Dorothy gave the dog a 
 pan of something that looked suspiciously like bones 
 and shreds of turkey meat. 
 
 A little later Bud found excuse to call Bronson 
 aside to show him a good place to fence-in the corral. 
 Dorothy was playing with Bondsman. 
 
 "Jim's been shot up bad. I was goin' to tell you 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 that Annie Adams, over to Stacey, is his wife. She 
 left him when they was livin' down in Mexico. Lorry 
 is their boy. Now, Jim is as straight as a ruler; I 
 don't know just why she left him. But let that rest. 
 I got a telegram from the marshal of Criswell. Reads 
 like Jim was livin', but livin' mighty clost to the edge. 
 Now, if I was to send word to Lorry he'd just nacher- 
 ally buckle on a gun and go after them Brewster boys, 
 if they's any of 'em left. He might listen to me if I 
 could talk to him. Writin* is no good. And I ain't 
 rigged up to follow him across the ridge. It's bad 
 country over there. I reckon I better leave word with 
 you. If he gets word of the shootin* while he's out 
 there, he'll just up and cut across the hills to Cris- 
 well a-smokin'. But if he gets this far back he's like 
 to come through Jason and I can cool him down, 
 mebby." 
 
 "He ought to know; if his father is " 
 "That's just it. But I 'm thinkin' of the boy . Jim 
 Waring 's lived a big chunk of his life. But they ain't 
 no use of the kid gettin' shot up. It figures fifty that 
 I ought to get word to him, and fifty that I ought to 
 keep him out of trouble " 
 
 "I did n't know he was that kind of a chap: that 
 is, that he would go out after those men " 
 "He's Jim Waring's boy," said Bud. 
 "It's too bad. I heard of that other killing." 
 "Yes. And I've a darned good mind to fly over 
 to Criswell myself. I knowed Pat better than I did 
 
 252 
 
A Tune for Uncle Bud 
 
 Jim. But I can't ride like I used to. But" and 
 the supervisor sighed heavily "I reckon I'll go 
 just the same." 
 
 "I'll give your message to Adams, Mr. Shoop." 
 
 "All right. And tell him I want to see him. How's 
 the little lady these days?" 
 
 "She seems to be much stronger, and she is in love 
 with the hills and canons." 
 
 "I'm right glad of that. Kind of wish I was up 
 here myself. Why, already they're houndin' me 
 down there to go into politics. I guess they want to 
 get me out of this job, 'cause I can't hear crooked 
 money jingle. My hands feels sticky ever' time I 
 think of politics. And even if a fella's hands ain't 
 sticky politics money is. Why, it's like to stick 
 to his feet if he ain't right careful where he walks!" 
 
 "I wish you would stay to dinner, Mr. Shoop." 
 
 "So I'll set and talk my fool notions and you 
 with a writin' machine handy? Thanks, but I reckon 
 I'll light a shuck for Jason. See my piano?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed. Dorothy was trying it a few nights 
 ago." 
 
 "Then she can play. Missy," and he called to 
 Dorothy, who was having an extravagant romp with 
 Bondsman, "could you play a tune for your Uncle 
 Bud?" 
 
 "Of course." And she came to them. 
 
 They walked to the cabin. Bondsman did not fol- 
 low. He had had a hard play, and was willing to rest. 
 
 253 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Dorothy drew up the piano stool and touched the 
 keys. Bud sank into his big chair. Bronson stood in 
 the doorway. By some happy chance Dorothy played 
 Bud's beloved "Annie Laurie." 
 
 When she had finished, Bud blew his nose sono- 
 rously. "I know that tune," he said, gazing at Dor- 
 othy in a sort of huge wonderment. "But I never 
 knowed all that you made it say." 
 
 He rose and shuffled to the doorway, stopping 
 abruptly as he saw Bondsman. Could it be possible 
 that Bondsman had not recognized his own tune? 
 Bud shook his head. There was something wrong 
 somewhere. Bondsman had not offered to come in 
 and accompany the pianist. He must have been 
 asleep. But Bondsman had not been asleep. He rose 
 and padded to Shoop's horse, where he stood, a statue 
 of rugged patience, waiting for Shoop to start back 
 toward home. 
 
 "Now, look at that!" exclaimed Bud. "He's 
 tellin' me if I want to get back to Jason in time to 
 catch the stage to-morrow mornin' I got to hustle. 
 That there dog bosses me around somethin' scanda- 
 lous." 
 
 When Shoop had gone, Dorothy turned to her 
 father. "Mr. Shoop did n't ask me to play very much, 
 He seemed in a hurry." 
 
 "That's all right, Peter Pan. He liked your play- 
 ing. But he has a very important matter to attend 
 to." 
 
 254 
 
A Tune for Uncle Bud 
 
 "He's really just delicious, is n't he?" 
 "If you like that word, Peter. He is big and sin- 
 cere and kind." 
 
 "Oh, so were some of the saints for that matter," 
 said Dorothy, making a humorous mouth at her 
 father. 
 
Chapter XXII! 
 
 Like One Who Sleeps 
 
 BONDSMAN sat in the doorway of the super* 
 visor's office, gazing dejectedly at the store 
 across the street. He knew that his master 
 had gone to St. Johns and would go to Stacey. He 
 had been told all about that, and had followed Shoop 
 to the automobile stage, where it stood, sand-scarred, 
 muddy, and ragged as to tires, in front of the post- 
 office. Bondsman had watched the driver rope the 
 lean mail bags to the running-board, crank up the 
 sturdy old road warrior of the desert, and step in be- 
 side the supervisor. There had been no other passen- 
 gers. And while Shoop had told Bondsman that he 
 would be away some little time, Bondsman would have 
 known it without the telling. His master had worn 
 a coat a black coat and a new black Stetson. 
 Moreover, he had donned a white shirt and a nar- 
 row hint of a collar with a black " shoe-string " necktie. 
 If Bondsman had lacked any further proof of his 
 master's intention to journey far, the canvas tele- 
 scope suitcase would have been conclusive evidence. 
 The dog sat in the doorway of the office, oblivious 
 to the clerk's friendly assurances that his master 
 would return poco tiempo. Bondsman was not de- 
 ceived by this kindly attempt to soothe his loneliness. 
 
 256 
 
Like One Who Sleeps 
 
 Toward evening the up-stage buzzed into town. 
 Bondsman trotted over to it, watched a rancher and 
 his wife alight, sniffed at them incuriously, and trotted 
 back to the office. That settled it. His master would 
 be away indefinitely. 
 
 When the clerk locked up that evening, Bondsman 
 had disappeared. 
 
 As Bronson stepped from his cabin the following 
 morning he was startled to see the big Airedale leap 
 from the veranda of Snoop's cabin and bound toward 
 him. Then he understood. The camp had been 
 Bondsman's home. The supervisor had gone to Cris- 
 well. Evidently the dog preferred the lonely free- 
 dom of the Blue Mesa to the monotonous confines 
 of town. 
 
 Bronson called to his daughter. "We have a visitor 
 this morning, Dorothy." 
 
 "Why, it's Bondsman! Where is Mr. Shoop?" 
 
 "Most natural question. Mr. Shoop had to leave 
 Jason on business. Bondsman could n't go, so he 
 trotted up here to pay us a visit." 
 
 "He's hungry. I know it. Come, Bondsman." 
 
 From that moment he attached himself to Dorothy, 
 following her about that day and the next and the 
 next. But when night came he invariably trotted 
 over to Shoop's cabin and slept on the veranda. 
 Dorothy wondered why he would not sleep at their 
 camp. 
 
 "He ? p very friendly," she told her father. "He 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 will play and chase sticks and growl, and pretend to 
 bite when I tickle him, but he does it all with a kind 
 of mental reservation. Yesterday, when we were 
 having our regular frolic after breakfast, he stopped 
 suddenly and stood looking out across the mesa, and 
 it was only my pony, just coming from the edge of 
 the woods. Bondsman tries to be polite, but he is 
 really just passing the time while he is waiting for 
 Mr. Shoop." 
 
 "You don't feel flattered, perhaps. But don't you 
 admire him all the more for it?" 
 
 "I believe I do. Poor Bondsman! It's just like 
 being a social pet, is n't it? Have to appear happy 
 whether you are or not." 
 
 Bondsman knew that she proffered sympathy, an<J 
 he licked her hand lazily, gazing up at her with 
 bright, unreadable eyes. 
 
 Bud Shoop wasted no time in Stacey. He puffed 
 into the hotel, indecision behind him and a definite 
 object in view. 
 
 "No use talkin'," he said to Mrs. Adams. "We 
 got to go and take care of Jim. I could n't get word 
 to Lorry. No tellin' where to locate him just now. 
 Mebby it's just as well. They's a train west along 
 about midnight. Now, you get somebody to stay here 
 till we get back " 
 
 "But, Mr. Shoop ! I can't leave like this. I have n't 
 a thing ready. Anita can't manage alone." 
 
 258 
 
Like One Who Sleeps 
 
 ."Well, if that's all, I admire to say that I'll set 
 right down and run this here hotel myself till you get 
 back. But it ain't right, your travelin' down there 
 alone. We used to be right good friends, Annie. Do 
 you reckon I'd tell you to go see Jim if it wa'n't 
 right? If he ever needed you, it's right now. If he's 
 goin' to get well, your bein' there'll help him a pow'ful 
 sight. And if he ain't, you ought to be there, any- 
 how." 
 
 "I know it, Bud. I wish Lorry was here." 
 
 "I don't. I'm mighty glad he's out there where he 
 is. What do you think he'd do if he knowed Jim was 
 shot up?" 
 
 "He would go to his father " 
 
 "Uh-uh?" 
 
 "And" 
 
 "Go ahead. You wa'n't born yesterday." 
 
 "He would listen to me," she concluded weakly. 
 
 "Yep. But only while you was talkin'. That boy 
 is your boy all right, but he's got a lot of Jim Waring 
 under his hide. And if you want to keep that there 
 hide from gettin' shot full of holes by a no-account 
 outlaw, you'll just pack up and come along." 
 
 Bud wiped his forehead, and puffed. This sort of 
 thing was not exactly in his line. 
 
 "Here's the point, Annie," he continued. "If I 
 get there afore Lorry, and you 're there, he won't get 
 into trouble. Mebby you could hold him with your 
 hand on the bridle, but he's runnin' loose right where 
 
 t 259 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 he is. Can't you get some lady in town to run the 
 place?" 
 
 "I don't know. I '11 see." 
 
 Bud heaved a sigh. It was noticeably warmer in 
 Stacey than at Jason. 
 
 Bud's reasoning, while rough, had appealed to 
 Mrs. Adams. She felt that she ought to go. She had 
 only needed some such impetus to send her straight 
 to Waring. The town marshal's telegram had stunned 
 her. She knew that her husband had followed the 
 Brewsters, but she had not anticipated the awful 
 result of his quest. In former times he had always 
 come back to her, taking up the routine of their home 
 life quietly. But this time he had not come back. If 
 only he had listened to her! And deep in her heart 
 she felt that old jealousy for the lure which had so 
 often called him from her to ride the grim trails of 
 his profession. But this time he had not come back. 
 She would go to him, and never leave him again. 
 
 Anita thought she knew of a woman who would 
 take charge of the hotel during Mrs. Adams's absence. 
 Without waiting for an assurance of this, Bud pur- 
 chased tickets, sent a letter to his clerk, and spent 
 half an hour in the barber shop. 
 
 "Somebody dead?" queried the barber as Bud 
 settled himself in the chair. 
 
 "Not that I heard of. Why?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing, Mr. Shoop. I seen that you was 
 dressed in black and had on a black tie " 
 
 260 
 
Like One Who Sleeps 
 
 Later, as Bud surveyed himself in the glass, trying 
 ineffectually to dodge the barber's persistent whisk- 
 broom, he decided that he did look a bit funereal. And 
 when he appeared at the supper table that evening he 
 wore an ambitious four-in-hand tie of red and yellow. 
 There was going to be no funeral or anything that 
 looked like it, if he knew it. 
 
 Aboard the midnight train he made Mrs. Adams 
 comfortable in the chair car. It was but a few hours' 
 rim to The Junction. He went to the smoker, took 
 off his coat, and lit a cigar. Around him men sprawled 
 in all sorts of awkward attitudes, sleeping or trying 
 to sleep. He had heard nothing further about War- 
 ing's fight with the Brewsters. They might still be 
 at large. But he doubted it. If they were Shoop 
 recalled the friendly shooting contest with High-Chin 
 Bob. If High Chin were riding the country, doubtless 
 he would be headed south. But if he should happen 
 to cross Snoop's trail by accident Bud shook his 
 head. He would not look for trouble, but if it came 
 his way it would bump into something solid. 
 
 Shoop had buckled on his gun before leaving Jason. 
 His position as supervisor made him automatically 
 a deputy sheriff. But had he been nothing more than 
 a citizen homesteader, his aim would have been quite 
 as sincere. 
 
 It was nearly daylight when they arrived at The 
 Junction. Shoop accompanied Mrs. Adams to a 
 hotel. After breakfast he went out to get a buck- 
 
 261 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 board and team. Criswell was not on the line of the 
 railroad. 
 
 They arrived in Criswell that evening, and were 
 directed to the marshal's house, where Ramon met 
 them. 
 
 "How's Jim?" was Shoop's immediate query. 
 
 "The Senor Jim is like one who sleeps," said 
 Ramon. 
 
 Mrs. Adams grasped Shoop's arm. 
 
 "He wakens only when the doctor is come. He 
 has spoken your name, senora." 
 
 The marshal's wife, a thin, worried-looking woman, 
 apologized for the untidy condition of her home, the 
 reason for which she wished to make obvious. She 
 was of the type which Shoop designated to himself as 
 "vinegar and salt." 
 
 "Reckon I better go in first, Annie?" 
 
 "No." And Mrs. Adams opened the door indicated 
 by the other woman. 
 
 Shoop caught a glimpse of a white face. The door 
 closed softly. Shoop turned to Ramon. 
 
 "Let's go take a smoke, eh?" 
 
 Ramon led the way down the street and on out 
 toward the desert. At the edge of town, he paused 
 and pointed across the spaces. 
 
 "It was out there, senor. I found him. The others 
 were not found until the morning. I did not know 
 that they were there." 
 
 "The others? How many?" 
 
 262 
 
Like One Who Sleeps 
 
 "Three. One will live, but he will never ride again. 
 The others, High of the Chin and his brother, were 
 buried by the marshal. None came to claim them." 
 
 "Were you in it?" 
 
 "No, senor. It was alone that Senor Jim fought 
 them. He followed them out there alone. I come 
 and I ask where he is gone. I find him that night. 
 I do not know that he is alive." 
 
 "What became of his horse?" 
 
 "Dex he come back with no one on him. It is then 
 that I tell Dex to find for me the Senor Jim." 
 
 "And he trailed back to where Jim went down, eh? 
 Uh-uh! I got a dog myself." 
 
 "Will the Senor Jim ride again?" queried Ramon. 
 
 "I dunno, boy, I dunno. But if you and me and 
 the doc and the senora and mebby God get 
 busy, why, mebby he'll stand a chance. How many 
 times was he hit?" 
 
 "Two times they shot him." 
 
 "Two, eh? Well, speakin' from experience, they 
 was three mighty fast guns ag'in' him. Say five shots 
 in each gun, which is fifteen. And he had to reload, 
 most-like, for he can empty a gun quicker than you 
 can think. Fifteen to five for a starter, and comin* 
 at him from three ways to once. And he got the whole 
 three of 'em! Do you know what that means, boy? 
 But shucks! I'm forgettin' times has changed. How 
 they been usin' you down here?" 
 
 "I am sleep in the hay by Dex." 
 
 263 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "Uh-uh. Let that rest. Mebby it's a good thing, 
 anyhow. Got any money?" 
 
 "No, senor. I have use all." 
 
 " Where d' you eat?" 
 
 "I have buy the can and the crackers at the store." 
 
 "Can and crackers, eh? Bet you ain't had a square 
 meal for a week. But we'll fix that. Here, go 'long 
 and buy some chuck till I get organized." 
 
 "Gracias, senor. But I can pray better when I 
 do not eat so much." 
 
 "Good Lord! But, that's some idee! Well, if 
 wishin' and hopin' and such is pray in', I reckon Jim '11 
 pull through. I reckon it's up to the missus now." 
 
 "Lorry is not come?" 
 
 "Nope. Could n't get to him. When does the mail 
 go out of this bone-hill?" 
 
 "I do not know. To-morrow or perhaps the next 
 day." 
 
 "Uh-uh. Well, you get somethin' to eat, and then 
 throw a saddle on Dex and I'll give you a couple of 
 letters to take to The Junction. And, come to think, 
 you might as well keep right on fannin' it for Stacey 
 and home. They can use you over to the ranch. The 
 missus and me '11 take care of Senor Jim." 
 
 "I take the letter," said Ramon, "but I am come 
 back. I am with the Senor Jim where he goes." 
 
 "Oh, very well, amigo. Might as well give a duck 
 a bar of soap and ask him to take a bath as to tell you 
 to leave Jim. Such is wastin' talk." 
 
Chapter XXIV 
 The Genial Bud 
 
 AND just as soon as he can be moved, his 
 wife aims to take him over to Stacey." 
 So Bud told the Marshal of Criswell, 
 who, for want of better accommodations, had his 
 office in the rear of the general store. 
 
 The marshal, a gaunt individual with a watery 
 blue eye and a soiled goatee, shook his head. "The 
 law is the law," he stated sententiously. 
 
 "And a gun's a gun," said Shoop. "But what 
 evidence you got that Jim Waring killed Bob Brew- 
 ster and his brother Tony?" 
 
 "All I need, pardner. When I thought Anc* 
 Brewster was goin' to pass over, I took his anti- 
 mortim. But he's livin'. And he is bound over f^ 
 appear ag'in' Waring. What you say about the kiliur 
 over by Stacey ain't got nothin' to do with this her*? 
 case. I got no orders to hold Andy Brewster, but 
 I 'm holdin' him for evidence. And I 'm holdin' War- 
 ing for premeditated contempt and shootin' to death 
 of said Bob Brewster and his brother Tony. And I 
 got said gun what did it." 
 
 "So you pinched Jim's gun, eh? And when he 
 could n't lift a finger or say a word to stop you. Do 
 you want to know what would happen if you was to 
 
 265 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 try to get a holt of said gun if Jim Waring was on his 
 two feet? Well, Jim Waring would pull said trigger, 
 and Criswell would bury said city marshal." 
 
 "The law is the law. This town's payin' me to do 
 my duty, and I'm goin' to do it." 
 
 "Speakin' in general, how much do you owe the 
 town so far?" 
 
 "Look-a-here! You can't run no whizzer like that 
 on me. I 've heard tell of you, Mr. Shoop. No dinky 
 little ole forest ranger can come cantelopin' round 
 here tellin' me my business!" 
 
 "Mebby I'm dinky, and mebby, I'm old, but your 
 eyesight wants fixin' if you callin' me little, old hoss. 
 An' I ain't tryin' to tell you your business. I 'm tellin' 
 you mine, which is that Jim Waring goes to Stacey 
 just the first minute he can put his foot in a buck- 
 board. And he's goin' peaceful. I got a gun on me 
 that says so." 
 
 "The law is the law. I can run you in for packin' 
 concealed weapons, Mr. Shoop." 
 
 "Run me in!" chuckled Shoop. "Nope. You'd 
 sp'ile the door. But let me tell you. A supervisor is 
 a deputy sheriff and that goes anywhere they 's a 
 American flag. I don't see none here, but I reckon 
 Criswell is in America. What's the use of your actin' 
 like a goat just because you got chin whiskers? I'm 
 tellin' you Jim Waring done a good job when he beefed 
 them coyotes." 
 
 The marshal's pale-blue eyes blinked at the allu- 
 
 266 
 
The Genial Bud 
 
 sion to the goat. "Now, don't you get pussonel, 
 neighbor. The law is the law, and they ain't no use 
 you talkin'." 
 
 Bud's lips tightened. The marshal's reiterated 
 reference to the law was becoming irksome. He 
 would be decidedly impersonal henceforth. 
 
 "I seen a pair of walkin' overalls once, hitched to 
 a two-bit shirt with a chewin'-tobacco tag on it. All 
 that held that there fella together was his suspenders. 
 I don't recollec' whether he just had goat whiskers 
 or chewed tobacco, but somebody who had been 
 liquorin' up told him he looked like the Emperor 
 Maximilian. And you know what happened to 
 Maxy." 
 
 "That's all right, neighbor. But mebby when I 
 put in my bill for board of said prisoner and feed for 
 his hoss and one Mexican, mebby you'll quit talkin' 
 so much, 'less you got friends where you can borrow 
 money." 
 
 "Your bill will be paid. Don't you worry about 
 that. What I want to know is: Does Jim Waring 
 leave town peaceful, or have I got to hang around 
 here till he gets well enough to travel, and then show 
 you? I got somethin' else to do besides set on a cracker 
 barrel and swap lies with my friends." 
 
 "You can stay or you can go, but the law is the 
 law" 
 
 "And a goat is a goat. All right, hombre, I'll 
 stay." 
 
 267 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "As I was sayinY ' continued the marshal, ignoring 
 the deepening color of Shoop's face, "y u can stay. 
 You're too durned fat to move around safe, anyhow. 
 You might bust." 
 
 Shoop smiled. He had stirred the musty marshal 
 to a show of feeling. The marshal, who had keyed 
 himself up to make the thrust, was disappointed. 
 He made that mistake, common to his kind, of im- 
 agining that he could continue that sort of thing with 
 impunity. 
 
 "You come prancin'into this town with a strange 
 woman, sayin' that she is the wife of the defendant. 
 Can you tell me how her name is Adams and his'n 
 is Waring?" 
 
 "I can!" And with a motion so swift that the 
 marshal had no time to help himself, Bud Shoop 
 seized the other's goatee and yanked him from the 
 cracker barrel. "I got a job for you," said Shoop, 
 grinning until his teeth showed. 
 
 And without further argument on his part, he 
 led the marshal through the store and up the street 
 to his own house. The marshal back-paddled and 
 struggled, but he had to follow his chin. 
 
 Mrs. Adams answered Bud's knock. Bud jerked 
 the marshal to his knees. 
 
 "Apologize to this lady quick!" 
 
 "Why, Mr. Shoop!" 
 
 "Yes, it's me, Annie. Talk up, you pizen lizard!'* 
 
 "But, Bud, you're hurting him!" 
 
 268 
 
The Genial Bud 
 
 "Well, I did n't aim to feed him ice-cream. Talk 
 up, you Gila monster and talk quick!" 
 
 "I apologize," mumbled the marshal. 
 
 Bud released him and wiped his hand on his 
 trousers. 
 
 "Sticky!" he muttered. 
 
 The marshal shook his fist at Bud. " You 're under 
 arrest for disturbin' the peace. You 're under arrest ! " 
 
 "What does it mean?" queried Mrs. Adams. 
 
 "Nothin' what he ain't swallowed, Annie. Gosh 
 'mighty, but I wasted a lot of steam on that there 
 walkin' clothes-rack! The blamed horn toad says 
 he's holdin' Jim for shootin' the Brewsters." 
 
 "But he can't," said Mrs. Adams. "Wait a min- 
 ute; I'll be right out. Sit down, Bud. You are tired 
 out and nervous." 
 
 Bud sat down heavily. "Gosh! I never come so 
 clost to pullin' a gun in my life. If he was a man, I 
 reckon I'd 'a' done it. What makes me mad is that 
 I let him get me mad." 
 
 When Mrs. Adams came out to the porch she had 
 a vest in her hand. Inside the vest was pinned the 
 little, round badge of a United States marshal. Bud 
 seized the vest, and without waiting to listen to her 
 he plodded down the street and marched into the gen- 
 eral store, where the town marshal was talking to a 
 group of curious natives. 
 
 "Can you read?" said Bud, and without waiting 
 for an answer shoved the little silver badge under the 
 
 269 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 marshal's nose. "The law is the law," said Bud. "And 
 that there vest belongs to Jim Waring." 
 
 Bud had regained his genial smile. He was too full 
 of the happy discovery to remain silent. 
 
 " Gentlemen," he said, assuming a manner, "did 
 your honorable peace officer here tell you what he 
 said about the wife of the man who is layin' wounded 
 and helpless in his own house? And did your honor- 
 able peace officer tell you-all that it is her money that 
 is payin' for the board and doctorin' of Tony Brew- 
 ster, likewise layin' wounded and helpless in your 
 midst? And did your honorable peace officer tell you 
 that Jim Waring is goin' to leave comfortable and 
 peaceful just as soon as the A'mighty and the doc '11 
 turn him loose? Well, I seen he was talkin' to you, 
 and I figured he might 'a' been tellin' you these 
 things, but I wa'n't sure. Was you-all thinkin* of 
 stoppin' me? Such doin's! Why, when I was a kid I 
 used to ride into towns like this frequent, turn 'em 
 bottom side up, spank 'em, and send 'em bawlin' to 
 their to their city marshal, and I ain't dead yet. 
 Now, I come peaceful and payin' my way, but if 
 they 's any one here got any objections to how I wear 
 my vest or eat my pie, why, he can just oil up his 
 objection, load her, and see that she pulls easy and 
 shoots straight. I ain't no charity organization, but 
 I 'm handin' you some first-class life insurance free." 
 
 That afternoon Buck Hardy arrived, accompanied 
 by a deputy. Andy Brewster again made deposition 
 
 270 
 
The Genial Bud 
 
 that without cause Waring had attacked and killed 
 his brothers. Hardy had a long consultation with 
 Shoop, and later notified Brewster that he was under 
 arrest as an accomplice in the murder of Pat and for 
 aiding the murderer to escape. While circumstantial 
 evidence pointed directly toward the Brewsters, who 
 had threatened openly from time to time to "get" 
 Pat, there was valuable evidence missing in Waco, 
 who, it was almost certain, had been an eye-witness 
 of the tragedy. Waco had been traced to the town of 
 Grant, at which place Hardy and his men had lost 
 the trail. The demolished buckboard had been found 
 by the roadside. Hardy had tracked the automobile 
 to Grant. 
 
 Shoop suggested that Waco might have taken a 
 freight out of town. Despite Hardy's argument that 
 Waco had nothing to fear so far as the murder was 
 concerned, Shoop realized that the tramp had been 
 afraid to face the law and had left that part of the 
 country. 
 
 Such men were born cowards, irresolute, weak, 
 and treacherous even to their own infrequent mo- 
 ments of indecision. There was no question but that 
 W T aring had acted within the law in killing the 
 Brewsters. Bob Brewster had fired at him at sight. 
 But the fact that one of the brothers survived to 
 testify against Waring opened up a question that 
 would have to be answered in court. Shoop offered 
 the opinion that possibly Andy Brewster, the young- 
 
 271 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 est of the brothers, was not directly implicated in 
 the murder, only taking sides with his brother Bob 
 when he learned that he was a fugitive. In such a 
 premise it was not unnatural that his bitterness 
 toward Waring should take the angle that it did. 
 And it would be difficult to prove that Andy Brew- 
 ster was guilty of more than aiding his brother to 
 escape. 
 
 The sheriff and Shoop talked the matter over, 
 with the result that Hardy dispatched a telegram 
 from The Junction to all the Southern cities to keep 
 a sharp watch for Waco. 
 
 Next morning Shoop left for Jason with Hardy 
 and his deputy. 
 
 Several days later Waring was taken to The Junc- 
 tion by Mrs. Adams and Ramon, where Ramon left 
 them waiting for the east-bound. The Mexican rode 
 the big buckskin. He had instructions to return to 
 the ranch. 
 
 Late that evening, Waring was assisted from the 
 train to the hotel at Stacey. He was given Lorry's 
 old room. It would be many weeks before he would 
 be strong enough to walk again. 
 
 For the first time in his life Waring relinquished 
 the initiative. His wife planned for the future, and 
 Waring only asserted himself when she took it for 
 granted that the hotel would be his permanent home. 
 
 "There's the ranch, Annie," he told her. "I can't 
 give that up." 
 
 272 
 
The Genial Bud 
 
 "And you can't go back there till I let you," she 
 asserted, smiling. 
 
 "I'll get Lorry to talk to you about that. I'm 
 thinking of making him an offer of partnership. He 
 may want to set up for himself some day. I married 
 young." 
 
 "I'd like to see the girl that's good enough for my 
 Lorry." 
 
 Waring smiled. "Or good enough to call you 
 'mother.' " 
 
 "Jim, you're trying to plague me." 
 
 "But you will some day. There's always some 
 girl. And Lorry is a pretty live boy. He is n't going 
 to ride a lone trail forever." 
 
 Mrs. Adams affected an indifference that she by 
 no means felt. 
 
 "You're a lot better to-day, Jim." 
 
 "And that's all your fault, Annie." 
 
 She left the room, closing the door slowly. In her 
 own room at the end of the hall, she glanced at her- 
 self in the glass. A rosy face and dark-brown eyes 
 smiled back at her. 
 
 But there were many things to attend to down- 
 stairs. She had been away more than a week. And 
 there was evidence of her absence in every room in 
 the place. 
 
Chapter XXV 
 
 The Little Fires 
 
 WITH the coming of winter the Blue 
 Mesa reclaimed its primordial solitude. 
 Mount Baldy's smooth, glittering round- 
 ness topped a world that swept down in long waves 
 of dark blue frosted with silver; the serried minarets 
 of spruce and pine bulked close and sprinkled with 
 snow. Blanketed in white, the upland mesas lay 
 like great, tideless lakes, silent and desolate from 
 green-edged shore to shore. The shadowy caverns 
 of the timberlands, touched here and there with a 
 ray of sunlight, thrilled to the creeping fingers of the 
 cold. Tough fibers of the stiff-ranked pines parted 
 with a crackling groan, as though unable to bear 
 silently the reiterant stabbing of the frost needles. 
 The frozen gum of the black spruce glowed like 
 frosted topaz. The naked whips of the quaking asp 
 were brittle traceries against the hard blue of the 
 sky. 
 
 Below the rounded shoulders of the peaks ran an 
 incessant whispering as thin swirls of powdered 
 snow spun down the wind and sifted through the 
 moving branches below. 
 
 The tawny lynx and the mist-gray mountain lion 
 hunted along snow-banked ranger trails. The blue 
 
 274 
 
The Little Fires 
 
 grouse sat stiff and close to the tree-trunk, while 
 gray squirrels with quaintly tufted ears peered curi- 
 ously at sinuous forms that nosed from side to side 
 of the hidden* trail below. 
 
 The two cabins of the Blue Mesa, hooded in 
 white, thrust their lean stovepipes skyward through 
 two feet of snow. The corrals were shallow fortifica- 
 tions, banked breast-high. The silence seemed not 
 the silence of slumber, but that of a tense waiting, 
 as though the whole winter world yearned for the 
 warmth of spring. 
 
 No creak of saddle or plod of hoof broke the bleak 
 stillness, save when some wandering Apache hunted 
 the wild turkey or the deer, knowing that winter 
 had locked the trails to his ancient heritage; that 
 the white man's law of boundaries was void until 
 the snows were thin upon the highest peaks. 
 
 Thirty miles north of this white isolation the low 
 country glowed in a sun that made golden the far 
 buttes and sparkled on the clay-red waters of the 
 Little Colorado. Four thousand feet below the hills 
 cattle drifted across the open lands. 
 
 Across the ranges, to the south, the barren sands 
 lay shimmering in a blur of summer heat waves; the 
 winter desert, beautiful in its golden lights and pur- 
 ple, changing shadows. And in that Southern desert, 
 where the old Apache Trail melts into the made 
 roads of ranchland and town, Bronson toiled at his 
 writing. And Dorothy, less slender, more sprightly, 
 
 275 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 growing stronger in the clean, clear air and the sun, 
 dreamed of her "ranger man" and the blue hills of 
 her autumn wonderland. With the warmth of sum- 
 mer around her, the lizards on the rocks, and the 
 chaparral still green, she could hardly realize that the 
 Blue Mesa could be desolate, white, and cold. As 
 yet she had not lived long enough in the desert to 
 love it as she loved the wooded hills, where to her 
 each tree was a companion and each whisper of the 
 wind a song. 
 
 She often wondered what Lorry was doing, and 
 whether Bondsman would come to visit her when 
 they returned to their cabin on the mesa. She often 
 recalled, with a kind of happy wonderment, Bonds- 
 man's singular visit and how he had left suddenly 
 one morning, heedless of her coaxing. The big Aire- 
 dale had appeared in Jason the day after Bud Shoop 
 had returned from Criswell. That Bondsman should 
 know, miles from* the town, that his master had re- 
 turned was a mystery to her. She had read of such 
 happenings; her father had written of them. But to 
 know them for the very truth! That was, indeed, 
 the magic, and her mountains were towering cita- 
 dels of the true Romance. 
 
 Long before Bronson ventured to return to his 
 mountain camp, Lorry was riding the hill trails 
 again as spring loosened the upland snows and filled 
 the canons and arroyos with a red turbulence of 
 waters bearing driftwood and dead leaves. With a 
 
 276 
 
The Little Fires 
 
 companion ranger he mended trail and rode along 
 the telephone lines, searching for sagging wires; 
 made notes of fresh down timber and the effect of 
 the snow-fed torrents on the major trails. 
 
 Each day the air grew warmer. Tiny green shoots 
 appeared in the rusty tangle of last season's mesa 
 grasses. Imperceptibly the dull-hued mesas became 
 fresh carpeted with green across which the wind 
 bore a subtly soft fragrance of sun-warmed spruce 
 and pine. 
 
 To Lorry the coming of the Bronsons was like the 
 return of old friends. Although he had known them 
 but a short summer season, isolation had brought them 
 all close together. Their reunion was celebrated with 
 an old-fashioned dinner of roast beef and potatoes, 
 hot biscuit and honey, an apple pie that would have 
 made a New England farmer dream of his ancestors, 
 and the inevitable coffee of the high country. 
 
 And Dorothy had so much to tell him of the won- 
 derful winter desert; the old Mexican who looked 
 after their horses, and his wife who cooked for them. 
 Of sunshine and sandstorms, the ruins of ancient 
 pueblos in which they discovered fragments of pot- 
 tery, arrowheads, beads, and trinkets, of the lean, 
 bronzed cowboys of the South, of the cattle and 
 sheep, until in her enthusiasm she forgot that Lorry 
 had always known of these things. And Lorry, 
 gravely attentive, listened without interrupting her 
 until she asked why he was so silent. 
 
 277 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "Because I'm right happy, miss, to see you lookin* 
 so spry and pretty. I'm thinkin' Arizona has been 
 kind of a heaven for you." 
 
 "And you?" she queried, laughing. 
 
 "Well, it wasn't the heat that would make me call 
 it what it was up here last winter. I rode up once 
 while you was gone. Gray Leg could just make it to 
 the cabin. It was n't so bad in the timber. But comin' 
 across the mesa the cinchas sure scraped snow." 
 
 "Right here on our mesa?" 
 
 "Right here, miss. From the edge of the timber 
 over there to this side it was four feet deep on the 
 level." 
 
 "And now," she said, gesturing toward the wav- 
 ering grasses. "But why did you risk it?" 
 
 Lorry laughed. He had not considered it a risk. 
 "You remember that book you lent me. Well, I left 
 it in my cabin. There was one piece that kep' both- 
 erin' me. I could n't recollect the last part about 
 those 'Little Fires.' I was plumb worried tryin' to 
 remember them verses. When I got it, I sure learned 
 that piece from the jump to the finish." 
 
 "The 'Little Fires'? I 'm glad you like it. I do. 
 
 " ' From East to West they 're burning in tower and forge 
 
 and home, 
 
 And on beyond the outlands, across the ocean foam; 
 On mountain crest and mesa, on land and sea and height, 
 The little fires along the trail that twinkle down the night/ 
 
 "And about the sheep-herder; do you remember 
 how 
 
 278 
 
The Little Fires 
 
 " ' The Andalusian herder rolls a smoke and points the way, 
 As he murmurs, " Caliente," " San Clemente," " Santa Fe," 
 Till the very names are music, waking memoried desires, 
 And we turn and foot it down the trail to find the little fires. 
 Adventuring! Adventuring! And, oh, the sights to see! 
 And little fires along the trail that wink at you and me/ " 
 
 "That's it! But I could n't say it like that. But 
 I know some of them little fires." 
 
 "We must make one some day. Won't it be fun!" 
 "It sure is when a fella ain't hustlin' to get grub. 
 That poem sounds better after grub, at night, when 
 the stars are shinin' and the horses grazin' and 
 mebby the pack-horse bell jinglin' 'way off some- 
 where. Then one of them little fires is sure friendly. " 
 "Have you been reading this winter?" 
 "Oh, some. Mostly forestry and about the war. 
 Bud was tellin' me to read up on forestry. He's 
 goin' to put me over west and a bigger job this 
 
 summer." 
 
 "You mean to stay?" 
 "About as much as I stay anywhere." 
 Dorothy pouted. She had thought that the Blue 
 Mesa and the timberlands were more beautiful than 
 ever that spring, but to think that the neighboring 
 cabin would be vacant all summer! No cheery 
 whistling and no wood smoke curling from the chim- 
 ney and no blithe voice talking to the ponies. No 
 jolly " Good-mornin', miss, and the day is sure 
 startin' out proud to see you." Well, Dorothy had 
 considered Mr. Shoop a friend. She would have a 
 
 279 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 very serious talk with Mr. Shoop when she saw 
 him. 
 
 She had read of Waring's fight in the desert and 
 of his slow recovery, and that Waring was Lorry's 
 father; matters that she could not speak of to Lorry, 
 but the knowledge of them lent a kind of romance 
 to her ranger man. At times she studied Lorry, en- 
 deavoring to find in him some trace of his father's 
 qualities. She had not met Waring, but she imag- 
 ined much from what she had heard and read. And 
 could Lorry, who had such kind gray eyes and such 
 a pleasant face, deliberately go out and kill men as 
 his father had done? Why should men kill each 
 other? The world was so beautiful, and there was 
 so much to live for. 
 
 Although the trail across the great forest terraces 
 below was open clear up to the Blue Mesa, the trails 
 on the northern side of the range were still impas- 
 sable. The lookout man would not occupy his lonely 
 cabin on Mount Baldy for several weeks to come, 
 and Lorry's work kept him within a moderate radius 
 of the home camp. 
 
 Several times Dorothy and her father rode with 
 Lorry, spending the day searching for new vistas 
 while he mended trail or repaired the telephone line 
 that ran from Mount Baldy to the main office. Fre- 
 quently they would have their evening meal in 
 Bronson's camp, after which Lorry always asked 
 them to his cabin, where Dorothy would play for 
 
 280 
 
The Little Fires 
 
 them while they smoked contentedly in front of the 
 log fire. To Dorothy it seemed that they had always 
 lived in a cabin on the Blue Mesa and that Lorry 
 had always been their neighbor, whom it was a joy 
 to tease because he never showed impatience, and 
 whose attitude toward her was that of a brother. 
 
 And without realizing it, Lorry grew to love the 
 sprightly, slender Dorothy with a wholesome, boy- 
 ish affection. When she was well, he was happy. 
 When she became over-tired, and was obliged to 
 Stay in her room, he was miserable, blaming him- 
 self for suggesting some expedition that had been 
 too much for her strength, so often buoyed above 
 its natural level by enthusiasm. At such times he 
 would blame himself roundly. And if there seemed 
 no cause for. her depression, he warred silently with 
 the power that stooped to harm so frail a creature. 
 "His own physical freedom knew no such check. He 
 could not quite understand sickness, save when it 
 came through some obvious physical injury. 
 
 Bronsonwas glad that there was a Lorry; both as 
 a companion to himself and as a tower of strength 
 to Dorothy. Her depression vanished in the young 
 ranger's presence. It was a case of the thoroughbred 
 endeavoring to live up to the thoroughbred standard. 
 And Bronson considered anything thoroughbred 
 that was true to type. Yet the writer had known 
 men physically inconsequent who possessed a fine 
 strain of courage, loyalty, honor. The shell might 
 
 281 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 be misshapen, malformed, and yet the spirit burn 
 high and clear. And Bronson reasoned that there 
 was a divinity of blood, despite the patents of democ- 
 racy. 
 
 Bronson found that he had to go to Jason for 
 supplies. Dorothy asked to go with him. Bronson 
 hesitated. It was a long ride, although Dorothy had 
 made it upon occasion. She teased prettily. Lorry 
 was away. She was n't afraid to stay alone, but 
 she would be lonesome. If she kissed him three 
 times, one right on top of the other, would he let her 
 come? Bronson gave in to this argument. They 
 would ride slowly, and stay a day longer in Jason to 
 rest. 
 
 When they arrived at Jason, Dorothy immediately 
 went to bed. She wanted to be at her best on the 
 following day. She was going to talk with Mr. 
 Shoop. It was a very serious matter. 
 
 And next morning she excused herself while her 
 father bought supplies. She called at the super- 
 visor's office. Bud Shoop beamed. She was so alert, 
 so vivacious, and so charming in her quick slender- 
 ness. The genial Bud placed a chair for her with 
 grandiloquent courtesy. 
 
 "I'm going to ask a terrible favor," she began, 
 crossing her legs and clasping her knee. 
 
 "I'm pow'ful scared," said Bud. 
 
 "I don't want favors that way. I want you to 
 like me, and then I will tell you." 
 
 282 
 
The Little Fires 
 
 "My goodness, missy! Like you! Who said I 
 didn't?" 
 
 "No one. But you have ordered Lorry Adams to 
 close up his camp and go over to work right near the 
 Apache Reservation." 
 
 "I sure did." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Shoop, I don't like Apaches." 
 
 "You got comp'ny, missy. But what's that got 
 to do with Lorry?" 
 
 "Oh, I suppose he doesn't care. But what do 
 you think his mother would say to you if he well, 
 if he got scalped?" 
 
 A slow grin spread across Bud's broad face. Doro- 
 thy looked solemn disapproval. "I can't help it," 
 he said as he shook all over. Two tears welled in 
 the corner of his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. 
 "I can't help it, missy. I ain't laughin' at you. But 
 Lorry gettin' scalped! Why, here you been livin' 
 up here, not five miles from the Apache line, and I 
 ain't heard you tell of bein' scared of Injuns. And 
 you ain't no bigger than a minute at that." 
 
 "That's just it! Suppose the Apaches did come 
 over the line? What could we do if Lorry were gone? " 
 
 "Well, you might repo't their trespassin' to me. 
 And I reckon your daddy might have somethin' to 
 say to 'em. He's been around some." 
 
 "Oh, I suppose so. But there is a lot of work to do 
 in Lorry's district, I noticed, coming down. The trails 
 are in very bad condition." 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "I know it. But he's worth more to the Service 
 doin' bigger work. I got a young college man wished 
 onto me that can mend trails." 
 
 "Will he live at Lorry's cabin?" 
 
 "No. He'll head in from here. I ain't givin' the 
 use of my cabin and my piano to everybody." 
 
 Dorothy's eyes twinkled. "If Lorry were away 
 some one might steal your piano." 
 
 "Now, see here, missy; you're joshin* your Uncle 
 Bud. Do you know that you're tryin' to bribe a 
 Gov'ment officer? That means a pow'ful big penalty 
 if I was to repo't to Washington." 
 
 Dorothy wrinkled her nose. "I don't care if you 
 do! You'd get what-for, too." 
 
 "Well, I'll tell you, missy. Let's ask Bondsman 
 about this here hocus. Are you willin' to stand by 
 what he says?" 
 
 "Oh, that's not fair! He's your dog." 
 
 "But he's plumb square in his jedgments, missy. 
 Now, I'll tell you. We'll call him in and say nothin'. 
 Then you ask him if he thinks I ought to put Lorry 
 Adams over west or leave him to my camp this sum- 
 mer. Now, if Bondsman wiggles that stub tail of his, 
 it means, 'y es -' If he don't wiggle his tail, he says, 
 'no,' huh?" 
 
 "Of course he'll wiggle his tail. He always does 
 when I talk to him." 
 
 "Then suppose I do the talkin'?" 
 
 "Oh, you can make him do just as you wish. But 
 
 284 
 
The Little Fires 
 
 all right, Mr. Shoop. And you will really let Bonds- 
 man decide?" 
 
 "'T ain't accordin' to rules, but seein' it's you " 
 
 Bud called to the big Airedale. Bondsman trotted 
 in, nosed Dorothy's hand, and looked up at his 
 master. 
 
 "Come 'ere!" commanded Shoop brusquely. 
 "Stand right there! Now, quit tryin* to guess what's 
 goin' on and listen to the boss. Accordin' to your jedg- 
 ment, which is plumb solid, do I put Lorry to work 
 over on the line this summer? " 
 
 Bondsman cocked his ears, blinked, and a slight 
 quiver began at his shoulders, which would undoubt- 
 edly accentuate to the affirmative when it reached* 
 his tail. 
 
 "Rats!" cried Dorothy. 
 
 The Airedale grew rigid, and his spike of a tail 
 cocked up straight and stiff. 
 
 Bud Shoop waved his hands helplessly. "I might 
 'a' knowed it! A lady can always get a man steppin' 
 on his own foot when he tries to walk around a argu- 
 ment with her. You done bribed me and corrupted 
 Bondsman. But I'm stayin' right by what I said." 
 
 Dorothy jumped up and took Bud's big hand in 
 her slender ones. "You're just lovely to us!" And 
 her brown eyes glowed softly. 
 
 Bud coughed. His shirt-collar seemed tight. He 
 tugged at it, and coughed again. 
 
 "Missy," he said, leaning forward and patting her 
 
 285 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 hand, "missy, I would send Lorry plumb to to 
 Phoenix and tell the Service to go find him, just to 
 see them brown eyes of yours lookin' at me like that. 
 But don't you say nothin' about this here committee 
 meetin' to nobody. I reckon you played a trick on me 
 for teasin' you. So you think Lorry is a right smart 
 hombre, eh?" 
 
 "Oh," indifferently, "he's rather nice at times. 
 He's company for father." 
 
 "Then I reckon you set a whole lot of store by your 
 daddy. Now, I wonder if I was a young, bow-legged 
 cow-puncher with kind of curly hair and lookin' 
 fierce and noble, and they was a gal whose daddy was 
 plumb lonesome for company, and Iwas to get notice 
 from the boss that I was to vamose the diggin's and 
 go to work, now, I wonder who 'd ride twenty miles 
 of trail to talk up for me?" 
 
 "Why, I would!" 
 
 "You got everything off of me but my watch," 
 laughed Bud. "I reckon you'll let me keep that?" 
 
 "Is it a good watch?" she asked, and her eyes 
 sparkled with a great idea. 
 
 "ToFable. Cost a dollar. I lost my old watch in 
 Criswell. I reckon the city marshal got it when I 
 wa'n't lookin'." 
 
 "Well, you may keep it for a while yet. When 
 are you coming up to visit us?" 
 
 "Just as soon as I can, missy. Here's your daddy. 
 I want to talk to him a minute." 
 
 286 
 
The Little Fires 
 
 Three weeks later, when the wheels of the local 
 stage were beginning to throw a fine dust, instead of 
 mud, as they whirred from St. Johns to Jason, Bud 
 Shoop received a tiny flat package addressed in an 
 unfamiliar hand. He laid it aside until he had read 
 the mail. Then he opened it. In a nest of cotton 
 batting gleamed a plain gold watch. A thin watch, 
 reflecting something aristocratic in its well-propor- 
 tioned simplicity. As he examined it his genial face 
 expressed a sort of childish wonderment. There was 
 no card to show from where it had come. He opened 
 the back of the case, and read a brief inscription. 
 
 "And the little lady would be sendin' this to me! 
 And it's that slim and smooth; nothin' fancy, but a 
 reg'lar thoroughbred, just like her." 
 
 He laid the watch carefully on his desk, and sat 
 for a while gazing out of the window. It was the first 
 time in his life that a woman had made him a present. 
 Turning to replace the watch in the box, he saw 
 something glitter in the cotton. He pulled out a layer 
 of batting, and discovered a plain gold chain of strong, 
 serviceable pattern. 
 
 That afternoon, as Bud came from luncheon at the 
 hotel, a townsman accosted him in the street. During 
 their chat the townsman commented upon the watch- 
 chain. Bud drew the watch from his pocket and 
 exhibited it proudly. 
 
 "Just a little present from a lady friend. And her 
 name is inside the cover, along with mine." 
 
 287 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "A lady friend, eh? Now, I thought it was politics 
 
 mebby?" 
 
 "Nope. Strictly pussonel." 
 
 "Well, Bud, you want to watch out." 
 
 "If you're meanin' that for a joke," retorted Bud, 
 
 "it's that kind of a joke what's foundered in its front 
 
 laigs and can't do nothin' but walk around itself. 
 
 I got the same almanac over to my office." 
 
Chapter XXVI 
 
 Idle Noon 
 
 occasional raw winds of spring softened 
 to the warm calm of summer. The horses 
 
 JL had shed their winter coats, and grew sleek 
 and fat on the lush grasses of the mesa. The mesa 
 stream cleared from a ropy red to a sparkling thread 
 of silver banked with vivid green. If infrequent thun- 
 derstorms left a haze in the canons, it soon vanished 
 in the light air. 
 
 Bronson found it difficult to keep Dorothy from 
 over-exerting herself. They arose at daybreak and 
 went to bed at dusk, save when Lorry came for an 
 after-dinner chat or when he prevailed upon Dorothy 
 to play for them in his cabin. On such occasions she 
 would entertain them with old melodies played softly 
 as they smoked and listened, the lamp unlighted and 
 the door wide open to the stars. 
 
 One evening, when Dorothy had ceased to play 
 for them, Lorry mentioned that he was to leave on 
 the following day for an indefinite time. There had 
 been some trouble about a new outfit that was grazing 
 cattle far to the south. Shoop had already sent word 
 to the foreman, who had ignored the message. Lorry 
 had been deputized to see the man and have an 
 
 289 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 understanding with him. The complaint had been 
 brought to Shoop by one of the Apache police that 
 some cowboys had been grazing stock and killing 
 game on the Indian reservation. 
 
 Dorothy realized that Lorry might be away for 
 some time. She would miss him. And that night she 
 asked her father if she might not invite a girl friend 
 up for the summer. They were established. And 
 Dorothy was much stronger and able to attend to the 
 housekeeping. Bronson was quite willing. He realized 
 that he was busy most of the time, writing. He was 
 not much of a companion except at the table. So 
 Dorothy wrote to her friend, who was in Los Angeles 
 and had already planned to drive East when the roads 
 became passable. 
 
 Lorry was roping the packs next morning when 
 Dorothy appeared in her new silver-gray corduroy 
 riding-habit a surprise that she had kept for an 
 occasion. She was proud of the well-tailored coat 
 and breeches, the snug-fitting black boots, and the 
 small, new Stetson. Her gray silk waist was bright- 
 ened by a narrow four-in-hand of rich blue, and her 
 tiny gauntlets of soft gray buckskin were stitched 
 with blue silk. 
 
 She looked like some slender, young exquisite who 
 had stepped from the stage of an old play as she stood 
 smoothing the fingers of her gloves and smiling across 
 at Lorry. He said nothing, but stared at her. She 
 was disappointed. She wanted him to tell her that 
 
 290 
 
Idle Noon 
 
 he liked her new things, she had spent so much time 
 and thought on them. But there he stood, the pack- 
 rope slack in his hand, staring stupidly. 
 She nodded, and waved her hand. 
 "It's me," she called. " Good-morning I" 
 Lorry managed to stammer a greeting. He felt as 
 though she were some strange person that looked like 
 Dorothy, but like a new Dorothy of such exquisite 
 attitude and grace and so altogether charming that 
 he could do nothing but wonder how the transforma- 
 tion had come about. He had always thought her 
 pretty. But now she was more than that. She was 
 alluring; she was the girl he loved from the brim of 
 her gray Stetson to the toe of her tiny boot. 
 "Would you catch my pony for me?" 
 Lorry flushed. Of course she wanted Chinook. He 
 swung up on Gray Leg and spurred across the mesa. 
 His heart was pounding hard. He rode with a dash 
 and a swing as he rounded up the ponies. As he 
 caught up her horse he happened to think of his own 
 faded shirt and overalls. He was wearing the essen- 
 tially proper clothing for his work. For the first time 
 he realized the potency of carefully chosen attire. 
 As he rode back with the pastured pony trailing be- 
 hind him, he felt peculiarly ashamed of himself for 
 feeling ashamed of his clothing. Silently he saddled 
 Chinook, accepted her thanks silently, and strode to 
 his cabin. When he reappeared he was wearing a 
 new shirt, his blue silk bandanna, and his silver- 
 
 291 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 studded chaps. He would cache those chaps at his 
 first camp out, and get them when he returned. 
 
 Bronson came to the doorway. 
 
 Dorothy put her finger to her lips. "Lorry is 
 stunned, I think. Do I look as spiff as all that?" 
 
 "Like a slim young cavalier; very dashing and 
 wonderful, Peter Pan." 
 
 "Not a bit like Dorothy?" 
 
 "Well, the least bit; but more like Peter Pan." 
 
 "I was getting tired of being just Dorothy. That 
 was all very well when I was n't able to ride and camp 
 and do all sorts of adventures. 
 
 "And that isn't all," she continued. "I weigh 
 twelve pounds more than I did last summer. Mr. 
 Shoop weighed me on the store scales. I wanted to 
 weigh him. He made an awful pun, but he would n't 
 budge." 
 
 Bronson nodded. "I would n't ride farther than 
 the Big Spring, Peter. It's getting hot now." 
 
 "All right, daddy. I wish that horrid old story 
 was finished. You never ride with me." 
 
 "You'll have some one to ride with you when Alice 
 
 comes." 
 
 "Yes; but Alice is only a girl." 
 
 Bronson laughed, and she scolded him with her 
 eyes. Just then Lorry appeared. 
 
 Bronson stooped and kissed her. "And don't ride 
 too far," he cautioned. 
 
 Lorry drove the pack-animals toward Bronson's 
 
 292 
 
Idle Noon 
 
 cabin. He dismounted to tighten the cinch on 
 Chinook's saddle. 
 
 The little cavalcade moved out across the mesa. 
 Dorothy rode behind the pack-animals, who knew 
 their work too well to need a lead-rope. It was her 
 adventure. At the Big Spring, she would graciously 
 allow Lorry to take charge of the expedition. 
 
 Lorry, riding behind her, turned as they entered 
 the forest, and waved farewell to Bronson. 
 
 To ride the high trails of the Arizona hills is in 
 itself an unadulterated joy. To ride these wooded 
 uplands, eight thousand feet above the world, with 
 a sprightly Peter Pan clad in silver-gray corduroys 
 and chatting happily, is an enchantment. In such 
 companionship, when the morning sunlight dapples 
 the dun forest carpet with pools of gold, when vista 
 after vista unfolds beneath the high arches of the 
 rusty-brown giants of the woodlands; when some- 
 where above there is the open sky and the marching 
 sun, the twilight underworld of the green-roofed cav- 
 erns is a magic land. 
 
 The ponies plodded slowly upward, to turn and 
 plod up the next angle of the trail, without loitering 
 and without haste. When Dorothy checked her pony 
 to gaze at some new vista, the pack-animals rested, 
 waiting for the word to go on again. Lorry, awakened 
 to a new charm in Dorothy, rode in a silence that 
 needed no interpreter. 
 
 At a bend in the trail, Dorothy reined up. "Oh, I 
 
 293 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 just noticed! You are wearing your chaps this 
 morning." 
 
 Lorry flushed, and turned to tie a saddle-string 
 that was already quite secure. 
 
 Dorothy nodded to herself and spoke to the horses. 
 They strained on up a steeper pitch, pausing occa- 
 sionally to rest. 
 
 Lorry seemed to have regained his old manner. 
 Her mention of the chaps had wakened him to every- 
 day affairs. After all, she was only a girl; not yet 
 eighteen, her father had said. "Just a kid," Lorry 
 had thought; "but mighty pretty in those city 
 clothes." Pie imagined that some women he had seen 
 would look like heck in such a riding-coat and 
 breeches. But Dorothy looked like a kind of stylish 
 boy-girl, slim and yet not quite as slender as she had 
 appeared in her ordinary clothes. Lorry could not 
 help associating her appearance with a thoroughbred 
 he had once seen; a dark-bay colt, satin smooth and 
 as graceful as a flame. He had all but worshiped that 
 horse. Even as he knew horses, through that colt he 
 had seen perfection; his ideal of something beautiful 
 beyond words. 
 
 From his pondering, Lorry arrived at a conclusion 
 having nothing to do with ideals. He would buy a 
 new suit of clothes the first time he went to Phoenix. 
 It would be a trim suit of corduroy and a dark-green 
 flannel shirt, like the suit and shirt worn by Lundy, 
 the forestry expert. 
 
 294 
 
Idle Noon 
 
 At the base of a great gray shoulder of granite, the 
 Big Spring spread in its natural rocky bowl which 
 grew shallower toward the edges. Below the spring 
 in the black mud softened by the overflow were the 
 tracks of wild turkey and the occasional print of a 
 lynx pad. The bush had been cleared from around 
 the spring, and the ashes of an old camp-fire marked 
 the spot where Lorry had often "bushed over-night" 
 on his way to the cabin. 
 
 Lorry dismounted and tied the pack-horses. He 
 explained that they were still a little too close to home 
 to be trusted untied. 
 
 Dorothy decided that she was hungry, although 
 they had been but two hours on the trail. Could 
 they have a real camp-fire and make coffee? 
 
 "Yes, ma'am; right quick." 
 
 "Lorry, don't say 'yes, ma'am.' I it's nice of 
 you, but just say 'Dorothy."' 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 Dorothy's brown eyes twinkled. 
 
 Lorry gazed at her, wondering why she smiled. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," she said stiffly, as though to a 
 superior whom she feared. 
 
 Lorry grinned. She was always doing something 
 sprightly, either making him laugh or laughing at 
 him, talking to the horses, planning some little sur- 
 prise for their occasional dinners in the Bronson 
 cabin, quoting some fragment of poetry from an out- 
 land song, she called these songs "outlandish," 
 
 295 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 and had explained her delight in teasing her father 
 with "outlandish" adjectives; whistling in answer 
 to the birds, and amusing herself and her "men- 
 folks" in a thousand ways as spontaneous as they 
 were delightful. 
 
 With an armful of firewood, Lorry returned to the 
 spring. The ponies nodded in the heat of noon. 
 Dorothy, spreading their modest luncheon on a 
 bright new Navajo blanket, seemed daintier than ever 
 against the background of the forest. They made 
 coffee and ate the sandwiches she had prepared. After 
 luncheon Lorry smoked, leaning back against the 
 granite rock, his hat off, and his legs crossed in lazy 
 content. 
 
 "If it could only be like this forever," sighed 
 Dorothy. 
 
 Lorry promptly shook his head. " We 'd get hungry 
 after a spell." 
 
 "Men are always hungry. And you've just eaten." 
 
 "But I could listen to a poem," he said, and he 
 winked at a tree-trunk. 
 
 "It's really too warm even to speak of 'The Little 
 Fires,' isn't it? Oh, I know! Do you remember the 
 camp we made?" 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Oh, silly!" 
 
 "Well, I ain't had time to remember this one yet 
 and this is the first for us." 
 
 "Lorry, you're awfully practical." 
 
 296 
 
Idle Noon 
 
 "I got to be." 
 
 "And I don't believe you know a poem when you 
 see one." 
 
 "I reckon you're right. But I can tell one when I 
 hear it." 
 
 "Very well, then. Shut your eyes tight and 
 listen: 
 
 " * Do you remember the camp we made as we nooned on the mesa 
 
 floor, 
 Where the grass rolled down like a running sea in the wind 
 
 and the world our own? 
 You laughed as you sat in the cedar shade and said 't was the 
 
 ocean shore 
 Of an island lost in a wizardry of dreams, for ourselves alone. 
 
 "'Our ponies grazed in the idle noon, unsaddled, at ease, and 
 
 slow; 
 
 The ranges dim were a faeryland; blue hills in a haze of gray. 
 Hands clasped on knee, you hummed a tune, a melody light and 
 
 low; 
 
 And do you remember the venture planned in jest for your 
 heart was gay? ' ' 
 
 Dorothy paused. "You may open your eyes. 
 That's all." 
 
 "Well, it's noon," said Lorry, "and there are the 
 ponies, and the hills are over there. Won't you say the 
 rest of it?" 
 
 "Oh, the rest of it is about a venture planned that 
 never came true. It could n't, even in a poem. But 
 I'll tell you about it some day." 
 
 "I could listen right now." 
 
 Dorothy shook her head. "I am afraid it would 
 
 297 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 spoil our real adventure. But if I were a boy 
 would n't it be fun! We would ride and camp in the 
 hills at night and find all the little fires along the 
 trail " 
 
 "We'd make our own," said Lorry. 
 
 "Of course, Mr. Practical Man." 
 
 "Well, I can't help bein' like I am. But sometimes 
 I get lazy and sit and look at the hills and the canons 
 and mesas down below, and wonder what's the good 
 of hustlin'. But somehow I got to quit loafin' after a 
 spell and go right to hustlin'again. It 's a sure good 
 way to get rested up; just to sit down and forget 
 everything but the big world rollin' down to the edge 
 of nothin'. It makes a fella's kickin' and complainm' 
 look kind of small and ornery." 
 
 "I never heard you complain, Lorry." 
 
 "Huh! You ain't been along with me when I been 
 right up against it and mebby had to sweat my way 
 out of some darned box canon or make a ride through 
 some down timber at night. I've said some lovely 
 things them times." 
 
 "Oh, I get cross. But, then, I'm a girl. Men 
 should n't get cross." 
 
 "I reckon you're right. The sun's comin' through 
 that pine there. Gettin' too hot?" 
 
 "No, I love it. But I must go. I '11 just ride down 
 to the cabin and unsaddle Chinook and say 'Hello* 
 to father and that's the end of our adventure." 
 
 "Won't those city folks be comin' in soon?" 
 
 298 
 
Idle Noon 
 
 "Yes. And Alice Weston is lovely. I know you'll 
 like her." 
 
 "Alice who, did you say?" 
 
 "Weston. Alice and her mother are touring over- 
 land from Los Angeles. I know you will admire Alice." 
 
 "Mebby. If she's as pretty as you." 
 
 "Oh, fudge! You like my new suit. And Alice 
 is n't like me at all. She is nearly as tall as you, and 
 big and strong and really pretty. Bud Shoop told me 
 I wasn't bigger than a minute." 
 
 "A minute is a whole lot sometimes," said Lorry. 
 
 "You're not so practical as you were, are you?" 
 
 "More. I meant that." 
 
 Dorothy rose and began to roll the Navajo blanket. 
 
 Lorry stepped up and took it from her. "Roll it 
 long and let it hang down. Then it won't bother you 
 gettin' on or off your horse. That's the way the In- 
 dians roll 'em." 
 
 He jerked the tie-strings tight. "Well, I reckon 
 I'll be goin'," he said, holding out his hand. 
 
 "Good-bye, ranger man." 
 
 "Good-bye, Dorothy." 
 
 Her slender hand was warm in his. She looked up 
 at him, smiling. He had never looked at her that way 
 before. She hoped so much that he would say nothing 
 to spoil the happiness of their idle noon. 
 
 "Lorry, we're great friends, are n't we?" 
 
 "You bet. And I'd do most anything to make you 
 happy." 
 
 299 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "But you don't have to do anything to make me 
 happy. I am happy. Are n't you?" 
 
 "I aim to be. But what makes you ask?" 
 
 "Oh, you looked so solemn a minute ago. We'll 
 be just friends always, won't we? " 
 
 "Just friends," he echoed, "always." 
 
 Her brown eyes grew big as he stooped and kissed 
 her. She had not expected that he would do that. 
 
 "Oh, I thought you liked me!" she said, clasping 
 her hands. 
 
 Lorry bit his lips, and the hot flush died from his face. 
 
 "But I didn't know that you cared like that! 
 I really don't mind because you kissed me good-bye 
 if it was just good-bye and nothing else." And she 
 smiled a little timidly. 
 
 "I I reckon I was wrong," he said, "for I was 
 tryin' not to kiss you. If you say the word, I '11 ride 
 back with you and tell your father. I ain't ashamed 
 of it only if you say it was wrong." 
 
 Dorothy had recovered herself. A twinkle of fun 
 danced in her eyes. "I can't scold you now. You're 
 going away. But when you get back " And she 
 shook her finger at him and tried to look very grave, 
 which made him smile. 
 
 "Then I'll keep right on ridin' south," he said. 
 
 "But you'd get lonesome and come back to your 
 hills. I know! And it's awfully hot in the desert." 
 
 "Would you be wantin' me to come back?" 
 
 "Of course. Father would miss you." 
 
 300 
 
Idle Noon 
 
 "And that would make you unhappy him bein' 
 lonesome, so I reckon I'll come back." 
 
 "I shall be very busy entertaining my guests," 
 she told him with a charming tilt of her chin. And she 
 straightway swung to the saddle. 
 
 Lorry started the pack-horses up the hill and 
 mounted Gray Leg. She sat watching him as he rode 
 sideways gazing back at her. 
 
 As he turned to follow the pack-horses up the next 
 ascent she called to him: 
 
 "Perhaps I won't scold you when you come back." 
 
 He laughed, and flung up his arm in farewell. 
 Dorothy reined Chinook round, and rode slowly 
 down through the silent woodlands. 
 
 Her father came out and took her horse. She told 
 him of their most wonderful camp at the Big Spring. 
 Bronson smiled. 
 
 "And Lorry kissed me good-bye," she concluded. 
 "Was n't it silly of him?" 
 
 Bronson glanced at her quickly. "Do you really 
 care for Lorry, Peter Pan?" 
 
 "Heaps! He's the nicest boy I ever met. Why 
 shouldn't I?" 
 
 "There's no reason in the world why you should 
 n't. But I thought you two were just friends." 
 
 "Why, that's what I said to Lorry. Don't look so 
 mournful, daddy. You did n't think for a minute 
 that I'd marry him, did you?" 
 
 "Of course not. What would I do without you? " 
 

 Chapter XXVII 
 
 Waco 
 
 tramp Waco, drifting south through 
 Prescott, fell in with a quartet of his kind 
 camped along the railroad track. He stum- 
 bled down the embankment and "sat in" beside their 
 night fire. He was hungry. He had no money, and 
 he had tramped all that day. They were eating bread 
 and canned peaches, and had coffee simmering in a 
 pail. They asked no questions until he had eaten. 
 Then the usual talk began. 
 
 The hobos cursed the country, its people, the rail- 
 road, work and the lack of it, the administration, and 
 themselves. Waco did not agree with everything they 
 said, but he wished to tramp with them until some- 
 thing better offered. So he fell in with their humor, 
 but made the mistake of cursing the trainmen's 
 union. A brakeman had kicked him off a freight car 
 just outside of Prescott. 
 
 One of the hobos checked Waco sharply. 
 
 "We ain't here to listen to your cussin' any union," 
 he said. "And seein* you're so mouthy, just show 
 your card." 
 
 "Left it over to the White House," said Waco. 
 
 "That don't go. You got your three letters?" 
 
 "Sure! W.B.Y. Catch onto that? " 
 
 302 
 
Waco 
 
 "No. And this ain't no josh." 
 
 "Why, W.B.Y. is for 'What's bitin' you?' Know 
 the answer?" 
 
 "If you can't show your I.W.W., you can beat it," 
 said the tramp. 
 
 "Tryin'tokidme?" 
 
 "Not so as your mother would notice. Got your 
 card?" 
 
 Waco finally realized that they meant business. 
 "No, I ain't got no I.W.W. card. I'm a bo, same as 
 you fellas, What's bitin' you, anyway?" 
 
 "Let's give him the third, fellas." 
 
 Waco jumped to his feet and backed away. The 
 leader of the group hesitated wisely, because Waco 
 had a gun in his hand. 
 
 "So that's your game, eh? Collectin' internal reve- 
 nue. Well, we're union men. You better sift along." 
 And the leader sat down. 
 
 "I've a dam' good mind to sift you," said Waco, 
 backing toward the embankment. "Got to have a 
 card to travel with a lousy bunch like you, eh?" 
 
 He climbed to the top of the embankment, and, 
 turning, ran down the track. Things were in a fine 
 state when a guy could n't roll in with a bunch of 
 willies without showing a card. Workmen often 
 tramped the country looking for work. But hobos 
 forming a union and calling themselves workmen! 
 Even Waco could not digest that. 
 
 But he had learned a lesson, and the next group 
 
 303 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 that he overtook treading the cinders were more 
 genial. One of them gave him some bread and cold 
 meat. They tramped until nightfall. That evening 
 Waco industriously "lifted" a chicken from a con- 
 venient hencoop. The hen was old and tough and 
 most probably a grandmother of many years' setting, 
 but she was a welcome contribution to their evening 
 meal. While they ate Waco asked them if they 
 belonged to the I.W.W. They did to a man. He had 
 lost his card. Where could he get a renewal? From 
 headquarters, of course. But he had been given his 
 card up in Portland; he had cooked in a lumber camp. 
 In that case he would have to see the "boss" at 
 Phoenix. 
 
 There were three men in the party besides Waco. 
 One of them claimed to be a carpenter, another an 
 ex-railroad man, and the third an iron moulder. 
 Waco, to keep up appearances, said that he was a 
 cook; that he had lost his job in the Northern camps 
 on account of trouble between the independent lum- 
 bermen and the I.W.W. It happened that there had 
 been some trouble of that kind recently, so his word 
 was taken at its face value. 
 
 In Phoenix, he was directed to the "headquarters," 
 a disreputable lounging-room in an abandoned store 
 on the outskirts of the town. There were papers and 
 magazines scattered about; socialistic journals and 
 many newspapers printed in German, Russian, and 
 Italian. The place smelled of stale tobacco smoke 
 
 304 
 
Waco 
 
 and unwashed clothing. But the organization evi- 
 dently had money. No one seemed to want for food, 
 tobacco, or whiskey. 
 
 The "boss," a sharp-featured young man, aggres- 
 sive and apparently educated, asked Waco some 
 questions which the tramp answered lamely. The 
 boss, eager for recruits of Waco's stamp, nevertheless 
 demurred until Waco reiterated the statement that 
 he could cook, was a good cook and had earned good 
 money. 
 
 "I'll give you a renewal of your card. What was 
 the number?" queried the boss. 
 
 "Thirteen," said Waco, grinning. 
 
 "Well, we may be able to use you. We want cooks 
 at Sterling." 
 
 "All right. Nothin' doin' here, anyway." 
 
 The boss smiled to himself. He knew that Waco 
 had never belonged to the I.W.W., but if the impend- 
 ing strike at the Sterling smelter became a reality a 
 good cook would do much to hold the I.W.W. camp 
 together. Any tool that could be used was not over- 
 looked by the boss. He was paid to hire men for a 
 purpose. 
 
 In groups of from ten to thirty the scattered aggre- 
 gation made its way to Sterling and mingled with the 
 workmen after hours. A sinister restlessness grew 
 and spread insidiously among the smelter hands. 
 Men laid off before pay-day and were seen drunk in 
 the streets. Others appeared at the smelter in a like 
 
 305 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 condition. They seemed to have money with which 
 to pay for drinks and cigars. The heads of the differ- 
 ent departments of the smelter became worried. Local 
 papers began to make mention of an impending 
 strike when no such word had as yet come to the 
 smelter operators. Outside papers took it up. Sur- 
 mises were many and various. Few of the papers 
 dared charge the origin of the disturbances to the 
 I.W.W. The law had not been infringed upon, yet 
 lawlessness was everywhere, conniving in dark cor- 
 ners, boasting openly on the street, setting men's 
 brains afire with whiskey, playing upon the ignorance 
 of the foreign element, and defying the intelligence 
 of Americans who strove to forfend the threatened 
 calamity. 
 
 The straight union workmen were divided in senti- 
 ment. Some of them voted to work; others voted 
 loudly to throw in with the I.W.W., and among these 
 were many foreigners Swedes, Hungarians, Ger- 
 mans, Poles, Italians; the usual and undesirable 
 agglomeration to be found in a smelter town. 
 
 Left to themselves, they would have continued to 
 work. They were in reality the cheaper tools of the 
 trouble-makers. There were fewer and keener tools 
 to be used, and these were selected and turned against 
 their employers by that irresistible potency, gold; 
 gold that came from no one knew where, and came in 
 abundance. Finally open threats of a strike were 
 made. Circulars were distributed throughout town 
 
 306 
 
Waco 
 
 overnight, cleverly misstating conditions. A grain of 
 truth was dissolved in the slaver of anarchy into a 
 hundred lies. 
 
 Waco, installed in the main I.W.W. camp just out- 
 side the town, cooked early and late, and received a 
 good wage for his services. More men appeared, 
 coming casually from nowhere and taking up their 
 abode with the disturbers. 
 
 A week before the strike began, a committee from 
 the union met with a committee of townsmen and 
 representatives of the smelter interests. The argu- 
 ment was long and inconclusive. Aside from this, a 
 special committee of townsmen, headed by the mayor, 
 interviewed the I.W.W. leaders. 
 
 Arriving at no definite understanding, the citizens 
 finally threatened to deport the trouble-makers in a 
 body. The I.W.W. members laughed at them. Social- 
 ism, in which many of the better class of workmen 
 believed sincerely, began to take on the red tinge of 
 anarchy. A notable advocate of arbitration, a fore- 
 man in the smelter, was found one morning beaten 
 into unconsciousness. And no union man had done 
 this thing, for the foreman was popular with the 
 union, to a man. The mayor received an anonymous 
 letter threatening his life. A similar letter was re- 
 ceived by the chief of police. And some few politi- 
 cians who had won to prominence through question- 
 able methods were threatened with exposure if they 
 did not side with the strikers. 
 
 807 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Conditions became deplorable. The papers dared 
 not print everything they knew for fear of political 
 enmity. And they were not able to print many things 
 transpiring in that festering underworld for lack of 
 definite knowledge, even had they dared. 
 
 Noon of an August day the strikers walked out. 
 Mob rule threatened Sterling. Women dared no 
 longer send their children to school or to the grocery 
 stores for food. They hardly dared go themselves. 
 A striker was shot by a companion in a saloon brawl. 
 The killing was immediately charged to a corporation 
 detective, and our noble press made much of the 
 incident before it found out the truth. 
 
 Shortly after this a number of citizens representing 
 the business backbone of the town met quietly and 
 drafted a letter to a score of citizens whom they 
 thought might be trusted. That was Saturday even- 
 ing. On Sunday night there were nearly a hundred 
 men in town who had been reached by the citizens' 
 committee. They elected a sub-committee of twelve, 
 with the sheriff as chairman. Driven to desperation 
 by intolerable conditions, they decided to administer 
 swift and conclusive justice themselves. To send for 
 troops would be an admission that the town of Ster- 
 ling could not handle her own community. 
 
 It became whispered among the I.W.W. that "The 
 Hundred" had organized. Leaders of the strikers 
 laughed at these rumors, telling the men that the day 
 of the vigilante was past. 
 
 308 
 
Waco 
 
 On the following Wednesday a rabid leader of the 
 disturbers, not a union man, but a man who had never 
 done a day's work in his life, mounted a table on a 
 street corner and addressed the crowd which quickly 
 swelled to a mob. Members of "The Hundred," 
 sprinkled thinly throughout the mob, listened until 
 the speaker had finished. Among other things, he 
 had made a statement about the National Govern- 
 ment which should have turned the mob to a tribunal 
 of prompt justice and hanged him. But many of the 
 men were drunk, and all were inflamed with the 
 poison of the hour. When the man on the table con- 
 tinued to slander the Government, and finally named 
 a name, there was silence. A few of the better class 
 of workmen edged out of the crowd. The scattered 
 members of "The Hundred" stayed on to the last 
 word. * 
 
 Next morning this speaker was found dead, hang- 
 ing from a bridge a little way out of town. Not a 
 few of the strikers were startled to a sense of broad 
 justice in his death, and yet such a hanging was an 
 outrage to any community. One sin did not blot out 
 another. And the loyal "Hundred" realized too late 
 that they had put a potent weapon in the hands of 
 their enemies. 
 
 A secret meeting was called by "The Hundred." 
 Wires were commandeered and messages sent to 
 several towns in the northern part of the State to men 
 known personally by members of "The Hundred" as 
 
 809 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 fearless and loyal to American institutions. Already 
 the mob had begun rioting, but, meeting with no re- 
 sistance, it contented itself with insulting those whom 
 they knew were not sympathizers. Stores were closed, 
 and were straightway broken into and looted. Drunk- 
 enness and street fights were so common as to evoke 
 no comment. 
 
 Two days later a small band of cowboys rode into 
 town. They were followed throughout the day by 
 other riders, singly and in small groups. It became 
 noised about the I.W.W. camp that professional gun- 
 men were being hired by the authorities; were coming 
 in on horseback and on the trains. That night the 
 roadbed of the railroad was dynamited on both sides 
 of town. "The Hundred" immediately dispatched 
 automobiles with armed guards to meet the trains. 
 
 Later, strangers were seen in town ; quiet men who 
 carried themselves coolly, said nothing, and paid no 
 attention to catcalls and insults. It was rumored that 
 troops had been sent for. Meanwhile, the town 
 seethed with anarchy and drunkenness. But, as must 
 ever be the case, anarchy was slowly weaving a rope 
 with which to hang itself. 
 
 Up in the second story of the court-house a broad- 
 shouldered, heavy- jawed man sat at a flat-topped 
 desk with a clerk beside him. The clerk wrote names 
 in a book. In front of the clerk was a cigar-box filled 
 with numbered brass checks. The rows of chairs from 
 the desk to the front windows were pretty well filled 
 
 310 
 
Waco 
 
 with men, lean, hard-muscled men of the ranges in 
 the majority. The room was quiet save for an occa- 
 sional word from the big man at the desk. The clerk 
 drew a check from the cigar-box. A man stepped up 
 to the desk, gave his name, age, occupation, and 
 address, received the numbered check, and went to 
 his seat. The clerk drew another check. 
 
 A fat, broad-shouldered man waddled up, smiling. 
 
 "Why, hello, Bud!" said the heavy-jawed man, 
 rising and shaking hands. "I didn't expect to see 
 you. Wired you thinking you might send one or two 
 men from your county." 
 
 "I got 'em with me," said Bud. 
 
 "Number thirty-seven," said the clerk. 
 
 Bud stuffed the check in his vest pocket. He would 
 receive ten dollars a day while in the employ of "The 
 Hundred." He would be known and addressed while 
 on duty as number thirty-seven. "The Hundred" 
 were not advertising the names of their supporters 
 for future use by the I.W.W. 
 
 Bud's name and address were entered in a note- 
 book. He waddled back to his seat. 
 
 "Cow-punch," said some one behind him. 
 
 Bud turned and grinned. "You seen my laigs," he 
 retorted. 
 
 "Number thirty-eight." 
 
 Lorry came forward and received his check. 
 
 "You're pretty young," said the man at the desk. 
 Lorry flushed, but made no answer. 
 
 311 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "Number thirty-nine." 
 
 The giant sheepman of the high country strode up, 
 nodded, and took his check. 
 
 "Stacey County is well represented," said the man 
 at the desk. 
 
 When the clerk had finished entering the names, 
 there were forty-eight numbers in his book. The man 
 at the desk rose. 
 
 "Men," he said grimly, "you know what you are 
 here for. If you have n't got guns, you will be out- 
 fitted downstairs. Some folks think that this trouble 
 is only local. It isn't. It is national. Providence 
 seems to have passed the buck to us to stop it. We 
 are here to prove that we can. Last night our flag 
 our country's flag was torn from the halyards 
 above this building and trampled in the dust of the 
 street. Sit still and don't make a noise. We're not 
 doing business that way. If there are any married 
 men here, they had better take their horses and ride 
 home. This community does not assume responsi- 
 bility for any man's life. You are volunteers. There 
 are four ex-Rangers among you. They will tell you 
 what to do. But I'm going to tell you one thing first; 
 don't shoot high or low when you have to shoot. 
 Draw plumb center, and don't quit as long as you 
 can feel to pull a trigger. For any man that is n't 
 outfitted there's a rifle and fifty rounds of soft-nosed 
 ammunition downstairs." 
 
 The heavy-shouldered man sat down and pulled the 
 
 312 
 
Waco 
 
 notebook toward him. The men rose and filed quietly 
 downstairs. 
 
 As they gathered in the street and gazed up at the 
 naked halyards, a shot dropped one of them in his 
 tracks. An eagle-faced cowman whipped out his gun. 
 With the report came the tinkle of breaking glass 
 from a window diagonally opposite. Feet clattered 
 down the stairs of the building, and a woman ran into 
 the street, screaming and calling out that a man had 
 been murdered. 
 
 "Reckon I got him," said the cowman. "Boys, I 
 guess she's started." 
 
 The men ran for their horses. As they mounted 
 and assembled, the heavy-shouldered man appeared 
 astride a big bay horse. 
 
 "We're going to clean house," he stated. "And 
 we start right here." 
 
Chapter XXVIII 
 
 A Squared Account 
 
 THE housecleaning began at the building 
 diagonally opposite the assembled posse. 
 In a squalid room upstairs they found the 
 man who had fired upon them. He was dead. Papers 
 found upon him disclosed his identity as an I.W.W. 
 leader. He had evidently rented the room across 
 from the courthouse that he might watch the move- 
 ments of "The Hundred." A cheap, inaccurate re- 
 volver was found beside him. Possibly he had fired, 
 thinking to momentarily disorganize the posse; that 
 they would not know from where the shot had come 
 until he had had time to make his escape and warn 
 his fellows. 
 
 The posse moved from building to building. Each 
 tenement, private rooming-house, and shack was 
 entered and searched. Union men who chanced to 
 be at home were warned that any man seen on the 
 street that day was in danger of being killed. Sev- 
 eral members of the I.W.W. were routed out in dif- 
 ferent parts of the town and taken to the jail. 
 
 Saloons were ordered to close. Saloon-keepers who 
 argued their right to keep open were promptly ar- 
 rested. An I.W.W. agitator, defying the posse, was 
 handcuffed, loaded into a machine, and taken out 
 
 314 
 
A Squared Account 
 
 of town. Groups of strikers gathered at the street 
 corners and jeered the armed posse. One group, 
 cornered in a side street, showed fight. 
 
 "We'll burn your dam' town!" cried a voice. 
 
 The sheriff swung from his horse and shouldered 
 through the crowd. As he did so, a light-haired, 
 weasel-faced youth, with a cigarette dangling from 
 the corner of his loose mouth, backed away. The 
 sheriff followed and pressed him against a building. 
 
 "I know you!" said the sheriff. "You never made 
 or spent an honest dollar in this town. Boys," he 
 continued, turning to the strikers, "are you proud 
 of this skunk who wants to burn your town?" 
 
 A workman laughed. 
 
 "You said it!" asserted the sheriff. "When some- 
 body tells you what he is, you laugh. Why don't 
 you laugh at him when he's telling you of the build- 
 ings he has dynamited and how many deaths he is 
 responsible for? Did he ever sweat alongside of any 
 of you doing a day's work? Do you know him? Does 
 he know anything about your work or conditions? 
 Not a damned thing! Just think it over. And, boys, 
 remember he is paid easy money to get you into 
 trouble. Who pays him? Is there any decent Ameri- 
 can paying him to do that sort of thing? Stop and 
 think about it." 
 
 The weasel-faced youth raised his arm and pointed 
 at the sheriff. "Who pays you to shoot down women 
 and kids?" he snarled. 
 
 315 
 
Tang of Life , 
 
 "I'm taking orders from the Governor of this 
 State." 
 
 "To hell with the Governor! And there's where 
 he'll wake up one of these fine days." 
 
 "Because he's enforcing the law and trying to 
 keep the flag from being insulted by whelps like you, 
 eh?" 
 
 "We'll show you what's law! And we'll show you 
 the right kind of a flag " 
 
 "Boys, are you going to stand for this kind of 
 talk?" And the sheriff's heavy face quivered with 
 anger. "I'd admire to kill you!" he said, turning on 
 the youth. "But that would n't do any good." 
 
 The agitator was taken to the jail. Later it was 
 rumored that a machine had left the jail that night 
 with three men in it. Two of them were armed 
 guards. The third was a weasel-faced youth. He 
 was never heard of again. 
 
 As the cavalcade moved on down the street, work- 
 men gathered on street corners and in upper rooms 
 and discussed the situation. The strike had got 
 beyond their control. Many of them were for send- 
 ing a delegation to the I.W.W. camp demanding 
 that they disband and leave. Others were silent, and 
 still others voted loudly to "fight to a finish." 
 
 Out beyond the edge of town lay the I.W.W. 
 camp, a conglomeration of board shacks hastily 
 erected, brush-covered hovels, and tents. Not 
 counting the scattered members in town, there were 
 
 316 
 
t A Squared Account 
 
 at least two hundred of the malcontents loafing in 
 camp. When the sheriff's posse appeared it was met 
 by a deputation. But there was no parley. 
 
 "We'll give you till sundown to clear out," said 
 the sheriff and, turning, he and his men rode back 
 to the courthouse. 
 
 That evening sentinels were posted at the street 
 corners within hail of each other. In a vacant lot 
 back of the court-house the horses of the posse were 
 corralled under guard. The town was quiet. Occa- 
 sionally a figure crossed the street; some shawl- 
 hooded striker's wife or some workman heedless of 
 the sheriff's warning. 
 
 Lorry happened to be posted on a corner of the 
 court-house square. Across the street another sen- 
 tinel paced back and forth, occasionally pausing to 
 talk with Lorry. 
 
 This sentinel was halfway up the block when a 
 figure appeared from the shadow between two build- 
 ings. The sentinel challenged. 
 
 "A friend," said the figure. "I was lookin' for 
 young Adams." 
 
 "What do you want with him?" 
 
 "It's private. Know where I can find him?" 
 
 "He's across the street there. Who are you, any- 
 way?" 
 
 "That's my business. He knows me." 
 
 "This guy wants to talk to you," called the sen- 
 tinel. 
 
 317 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Lorry stepped across the street. He stopped sud- 
 denly as he discovered the man to be Waco, the 
 tramp. 
 
 "Is it all right?" asked the sentinel, addressing 
 Lorry. 
 
 "I guess so. What do you want?" 
 
 "It's about Jim Waring," said Waco. "I seen 
 you when the sheriff rode up to our camp. I seen 
 by the papers that Jim Waring was your father. I 
 wanted to tell you that it was High-Chin Bob what 
 killed Pat. I was in the buckboard with Pat when 
 he done it. The horses went crazy at the shootin' 
 and ditched me. When I come to I was in Grant." 
 
 "Why did n't you stay and tell what you knew? 
 Nobody would 'a' hurt you." 
 
 "I was takin' no chance of the third, and twenty 
 years." 
 
 "What you doin' in this town?" 
 
 "Cookin' for the camp. But I can't hold that job 
 long. My whole left side is goin' flooey. The boss 
 give me hallelujah to-day for bein' slow. I'm sick 
 of the job." 
 
 "Well, you ought to be. Suppose you come over 
 to the sheriff and tell him what you know about the 
 killin' of Pat." 
 
 "Nope; I was scared you would say that. I'm 
 tellin' you because you done me a good turn onct. 
 I guess that lets me out." 
 
 "Not if I make you sit in." 
 
 318 
 
A Squared Account 
 
 "You can make me sit in all right. But you can't 
 make me talk. Show me a cop and I freeze. I ain't 
 takin' no chances." 
 
 "You're takin' bigger chances right now." 
 
 " Bigger 'n you know, kid. Listen! You and Jim 
 Waring and Pat used me white. I'm sore at that 
 I.W.W. bunch, but I dassent make a break. They 'd 
 get me. But listen! If the boys knowed I was tellin' 
 you this they'd cut me in two. Two trucks just came 
 into camp from up north. Them trucks was loaded 
 to the guards. Every man in camp's got a automa- 
 tic and fifty rounds. And they was settin' up a ma- 
 chine gun when I slipped through and beat it, lookin* 
 for you. You better fan it out of this while you got 
 the chanct." 
 
 "Did they send you over to push that bluff or 
 are you talkin' straight?" 
 
 "S' help me! It's the bleedin' truth!" 
 
 "Well, I'm thankin' you. But get goin' afore I 
 change my mind." 
 
 "Would you shake with a bum?" queried Waco. 
 
 "Why all right. You're tryin' to play square, 
 I reckon. Wait a minute! Are you willin' to put in 
 writin' that you seen High-Chin Bob kill Pat? I 
 got a pencil and a envelope on me. Will you put 
 it down right here, and me to call my friend and 
 witness your name?" 
 
 "You tryin' to pinch me?" 
 
 "That ain't my style." 
 
 319 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "All right. I'll put it down." 
 
 And in the flickering rays of the arc light Waco 
 scribbled on the back of the envelope and signed 
 his name. Lorry's companion read the scrawl and 
 handed it back to Lorry. Waco humped his shoul- 
 ders and shuffled away. 
 
 "Why did n't you nail him?" queried the other. 
 
 "I don't know. Mebby because he was trustin' 
 me." 
 
 Shortly afterward Lorry and his companion were 
 relieved from duty. Lorry immediately reported to 
 the sheriff, who heard him without interrupting, 
 dismissed him, and turned to the committee, who 
 held night session discussing the situation. 
 
 "They've called our bluff," he said, twisting his 
 cigar round in his lips. 
 
 A ballot was taken. The vote was eleven to one 
 for immediate action. The ballot was secret, but the 
 member who had voted against action rose and ten- 
 dered his resignation. 
 
 "It would be plain murder if we were to shoot up 
 their camp. It would place us on their level." 
 
 Just before daybreak a guard stationed two blocks 
 west of the courthouse noticed a flare of light in the 
 windows of a building opposite. He glanced toward 
 the east. The dim, ruddy glow in the windows was 
 not that of dawn. He ran to the building and tried 
 to open the door to the stairway. As he wrenched 
 at the door a subdued soft roar swelled and grew 
 
 320 
 
A Squared Account 
 
 louder. Turning, he ran to the next corner, calling 
 to the guard. The alarm of fire was relayed to the 
 court-house. 
 
 Meanwhile the two cowboys ran back to the build- 
 ing and hammered on the door. Some one in an up- 
 stairs room screamed. Suddenly the door gave in- 
 ward. A woman carrying a cheap gilt clock pushed 
 past them and sank in a heap on the sidewalk. The 
 guards heard some one running down the street. 
 One of them tied a handkerchief over his face and 
 groped his way up the narrow stairs. The hall above 
 was thick with smoke. A door sprang open, and a 
 man carrying a baby and dragging a woman by the 
 hand bumped into the guard, cursed, and stumbled 
 toward the stairway. 
 
 The cowboy ran from door to door down the long, 
 narrow hall, calling to the inmates. In one room he 
 found a lamp burning on a dresser and two children 
 asleep. He dragged them from bed and carried them 
 to the stairway. From below came the surge and 
 snap of flames. He held his breath and descended 
 the stairs. A crowd of half-clothed workmen had 
 gathered. Among them he saw several of the guards. 
 
 "Who belongs to these kids?" he cried. 
 
 A woman ran up. "She's here," she said, point- 
 ing to the woman with the gilt clock, who still lay 
 on the sidewalk. A man was trying to revive her. 
 The cowboy noticed that the unconscious woman 
 still gripped the gilt clock. 
 
 321 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 He called to a guard. Together they dashed up the 
 stairs and ran from room to room. Toward the back 
 of the building they found a woman insanely gath- 
 ering together a few cheap trinkets and stuffing them 
 into a pillow-case. She was trying to work a gilt- 
 framed lithograph into the pillow-case when they 
 seized her and led her toward the stairway. She 
 fought and cursed and begged them to let her go 
 back and get her things. A burst of flame swept up 
 the stairway. The cowboys turned and ran back 
 along the hall. One of them kicked a window out. 
 The other tied a sheet under the woman's arms and 
 together they lowered her to the ground. 
 
 Suddenly the floor midway down the hall sank 
 softly in a fountain of flame and sparks. 
 
 "Reckon we jump," said one of the cowboys. 
 
 Lowering himself from the rear window, he dropped. 
 His companion followed. They limped to the front 
 of the building. A crowd massed in the street, heed- 
 less of the danger that threatened as a section of 
 roof curled like a piece of paper, writhed, and dropped 
 to the sidewalk. 
 
 A group of guards appeared with a hose-reel. They 
 coupled to a hydrant. A thin stream gurgled from 
 the hose and subsided. The sheriff ran to the steps 
 of a building and called to the crowd. 
 
 "Your friends," he cried, "have cut the water- 
 main. There is no water." 
 
 The mass groaned and swayed back and forth. 
 
 322 
 
A Squared Account 
 
 From up the street came a cry the call of a 
 range rider. A score of cowboys tried to force the 
 crowd back from the burning building. 
 
 " Look out for the front ! " cried the guards. " She 's 
 coming!" 
 
 The crowd surged back. The front of that flam- 
 ing shell quivered, curved, and crashed to the street. 
 
 The sheriff called to his men. An old Texas Ranger 
 touched his arm. "There's somethin' doin' up yon- 
 der, Cap." * 
 
 "Keep the boys together," ordered the sheriff. 
 "This fire was started to draw us out. Tell the boys 
 to get their horses." 
 
 Dawn was breaking when the cowboys gathered 
 in the vacant lot and mounted their horses. In the 
 clear light they could see a mob in the distance; a 
 mob that moved from the east toward the court- 
 house. The sheriff dispatched a man to wire for 
 troops, divided his force in halves, and, leading one 
 contingent, he rode toward the oncoming mob. The 
 other half of the posse, led by an old Ranger, swung 
 round to a back street and halted. 
 
 The shadows of the buildings grew shorter. A 
 cowboy on a restive pony asked what they were 
 waiting for. Some one laughed. 
 
 The old Ranger turned in his saddle. "It's a right 
 lovely mornin'," he remarked impersonally, tugging 
 at his silver-gray mustache. 
 
 Suddenly the waiting riders stiffened in their sad- 
 
 323 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 dies. A ripple of shots sounded, followed by the 
 shrill cowboy yell. Still the old Ranger sat his horse, 
 coolly surveying his men. 
 
 "Don't we get a look-in?" queried a cowboy. 
 
 "Poco tiempo," said the Ranger softly. 
 
 The sheriff bunched his men as he approached the 
 invaders. Within fifty yards of their front he halted 
 and held up his hand. Massed in a solid wall from 
 curb to curb, the I.W.W. jeered and shouted as he 
 tried to speak. A parley was impossible. The va- 
 grants were most of them drunk. 
 
 The sheriff turned to the man nearest him. 
 
 "Tell the boys that we'll go through, turn, and ride 
 back. Tell them not to fire a shot until we turn." 
 
 As he gathered his horse under him, the sheriff's 
 arm dropped. The shrill " Yip ! Yip ! " of the range rose 
 above the thunder of hoofs as twenty ponies jumped 
 to a run. The living thunder-bolt tore through the 
 mass. The staccato crack of guns sounded sharply 
 above the deeper roar of the mob. The ragged path- 
 way closed again as the riders swung round, bunched, 
 and launched at the mass from the rear. Those who 
 had turned to face the second charge were crowded 
 back as the cowboys, with guns going, ate into the 
 yelling crowd. The mob turned, and like a great, 
 black wave swept down the street and into the court- 
 house square. 
 
 The cowboys raced past, and reined in a block be- 
 low the court-house. As they paused to reload, a 
 
 324 
 
A Squared Account 
 
 riderless horse, badly wounded, plunged among them. 
 A cowboy caught the horse and shot it. Another 
 rider, gripping his shirt above his abdomen, writhed 
 and groaned, begging piteously for some one to kill 
 him. Before they could get him off his horse he 
 spurred out, and, pulling his carbine from the scab- 
 bard, charged into the mob, in the square. With the 
 lever going like lightning, he bored into the mob, fired 
 his last shot in the face of a man that had caught his 
 horse's bridle, and sank to the ground. Shattered and 
 torn he lay, a red pulp that the mob trampled into 
 the dust. 
 
 The upper windows of the court-house filled with 
 figures. An irregular fire drove the cowboys to the 
 shelter of a side street. In the wide doorway of the 
 court-house several men crouched behind a blue-steel 
 tripod. Those still in the square crowded past and 
 into the building. Behind the stone pillars of the 
 entrance, guarded by a machine gun, the crazy mob 
 cheered drunkenly and defied the guards to dislodge 
 them. 
 
 From a building opposite came a single shot, and 
 the group round the machine gun lifted one of their fel- 
 lows and carried him back into the building. Again 
 came the peremptory snarl of a carbine, and another 
 figure sank in the doorway. The machine gun was 
 dragged back. Its muzzle still commanded the square, 
 but its operators were now shielded by an angle of the 
 entrance. 
 
 325 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Back on the side street, the old ex-Ranger had dif- 
 ficulty in restraining his men. They knew by the num- 
 ber of shots fired that some of their companions had 
 gone down. 
 
 The sheriff was about to call for volunteers to cap- 
 ture the machine gun when a white handkerchief 
 fluttered from an upper window of the court-house. 
 Almost immediately a man appeared on the court- 
 house steps, alone and indicating by his gestures 
 that he wished to parley with the guard. The sheriff 
 dismounted and stepped forward. 
 
 One of his men checked him. "That 's a trap, John. 
 They want to get you, special. Don't you try it." 
 
 "It's up to me," said the sheriff, and shaking off 
 the other's hand he strode across the square. 
 
 At the foot of the steps he met the man. The 
 guard saw them converse for a brief minute; saw the 
 sheriff shake his fist in the other's face and turn to 
 walk back. As he turned, a shot from an upper win- 
 dow dropped him in his stride. 
 
 The cowboys yelled and charged across the square. 
 The machine gun stuttered and sprayed a fury of 
 slugs that cut down horses and riders. A cowboy, 
 his horse shot from under him, sprang up the steps 
 and dragged the machine gun into the open. A rain of 
 slugs from the upper windows struck him down. His 
 companions carried him back to cover. The machine 
 gun stood in the square, no longer a menace, yet no 
 one dared approach it from either side. 
 
 BM 
 
A Squared Account 
 
 When the old Ranger, who had orders to hold his 
 men in reserve, heard that the sheriff had been shot 
 down under a flag of truce, he shook his head. 
 
 "Three men could 'a' stopped that gun as easy as 
 twenty, and saved more hosses. Who wants to take a 
 little pasear after that gun?" 
 
 Several of his men volunteered. 
 
 "I only need two," he said, smiling. "I call by 
 guess. Number twenty-six, number thirty-eight, and 
 number three." 
 
 The last was his own number. 
 
 In the wide hallway and massed on the court- 
 house stairs the mob was calling out to recover the 
 gun. Beyond control of their leaders, crazed with 
 drink and killing, they surged forward, quarreling, 
 and shoved from behind by those above. 
 
 "We're ridin'," said the old Ranger. 
 
 With a man on each side of him he charged across 
 the square. 
 
 Waco, peering from behind a stone column in the 
 entrance, saw that Lorry was one of the riders. Lorry's 
 lips were drawn tight. His face was pale, but his gun 
 arm swung up and down with the regularity of a ma- 
 chine as he threw shot after shot into the black tide 
 that welled from the court-house doorway. A man 
 near Waco pulled an automatic and leveled it. Waco 
 swung his arm and brained the man with an empty 
 whiskey bottle. He threw the bottle at another of his 
 fellows, and, stumbling down the steps, called to 
 
 327 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Lorry. The three riders paused for an instant as 
 Waco ran forward. The riders had won almost to the 
 gun when Waco stooped and jerked it round and 
 poured a withering volley into the close-packed door- 
 way. 
 
 Back in the side street the leader of the cowboys 
 addressed his men. 
 
 "We'll leave the horses here," he said. "Tex went 
 after that gun, and I reckon he's got it. We'll clean 
 up afoot." 
 
 But the I.W.W. had had enough. Their leaders had 
 told them that with the machine gun they could clean 
 up the town, capture the court-house, and make their 
 own terms. They had captured the court-house, but 
 they were themselves trapped. One of their own num- 
 ber had planned that treachery. And they knew that 
 those lean, bronzed men out there would shoot them 
 down from room to room as mercilessly as they 
 would kill coyotes. 
 
 They surrendered, shuffling out and down the slip- 
 pery stone steps. Each man dropped his gun in the 
 little pile that grew and grew until the old Ranger 
 shook his head, pondering. That men of this kind 
 should have access to arms and ammunition of the 
 latest military type and a machine gun. What 
 was behind it all? He tried to reason it out in his old- 
 fashioned way even as the trembling horde filed past, 
 cordoned by grim, silent cowboys. 
 
 The vagrants were escorted out of town in a body. 
 
 323 
 
A Squared Account 
 
 Fearful of the hate of the guard, of treachery among 
 themselves and of the townsfolk in other places, they 
 tramped across the hills, followed closely by the stern- 
 visaged riders. Several miles north of Sterling they 
 disbanded. 
 
 When a company of infantrymen arrived in Ster- 
 ling they found several cowboys sluicing down the 
 court-house steps with water hauled laboriously from 
 the river. 
 
 The captain stated that he would take charge of 
 things, and suggested that the cowboys take a rest. 
 
 "That's all right, Cap," said a puncher, pointing 
 toward the naked flagstaff. "But we-all would ad- 
 mire to see the Stars and Stripes floatin' up there afore 
 we drift." 
 
 "I'll have the flag run up," said the captain. 
 
 "That 's all right, Cap. But you don't sabe the idee. 
 These here steps got to be clean afore that flag goes up." 
 
 "And they's some good in bein* fat," said Bud 
 Shoop as he met Lorry next morning. "The army 
 doc just put a plaster on my arm where one of them 
 automatic pills nicked me. Now, if I'd been lean like 
 you" 
 
 "Did you see Waco?" queried Lorry. 
 
 "Waco? What 'sailin' you, son?" 
 
 "Nothin'. It was Waco went down, workin' that 
 machine gun against his own crowd. I didn't sabe 
 that at first." 
 
 M 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "Him? Did n't know he was in town." 
 
 "I did n't, either, till last night. He sneaked in to 
 tell me about the killin' of Pat. Next I seen him was 
 when he brained a fella that was shootin' at me. Then 
 somehow he got to the gun and you know the rest." 
 
 "Looks like he was crazy," suggested Shoop. 
 
 "I don* know about that. I got to him before he 
 cashed in. He pawed around like he could n't see, I 
 asked what I could do. He kind of braced up then. 
 'That you, kid?' he says. 'They didn't get you?' 
 I told him no. 'Then I reckon we're square,' he says. 
 I thought he was gone, but he reached out his hand. 
 Seems he could n't see. 'Would you mind shakin' 
 hands with a bum?' he says. I did. And then he let 
 go my hand. He was done." 
 
 "H'm! And him! But you can't always tell. 
 Sometimes it takes a bullet placed just right, and 
 sometimes religion, and sometimes a woman to make 
 a man show what's in him. I reckon Waco done you 
 a good turn that journey. But ain't it hard luck when 
 a fella waits till he's got to cross over afore he shows 
 white?" 
 
 "He must 'a' had a hunch he was goin' to get his," 
 said Lorry. "Or he would n't chanced sneakin' into 
 town last night. When do we go north?" 
 
 "To-morrow. The doc says the sheriff will pull 
 through. He sure ought to get the benefit of the big 
 doubt. There's a man that God A'mighty took some 
 trouble in makin'." 
 
 330 
 
A Squared Account 
 
 " Well, I 'm mighty glad it 's over. I don't want any 
 more like this. I come through all right, but this 
 ain't fightin'; it's plumb killin' and murder." 
 
 "And both sides thinks so," said Bud. "And 
 lemme tell you; you can read your eyes out about 
 peace and equality and fraternity, but they's goin* 
 to be killin' in this here world just as long as they's 
 fools willin' to listen to other fools talk. And they's 
 always goin' to be some fools." 
 
 "You ain't strong on socialism, eh, Bud?" 
 
 "Socialism? You mean when all men is born fools 
 and equal? Not this mawnin', son. I got all I can do 
 figurin' out my own trail." 
 
Chapter XXIX 
 
 Bud's Conscience 
 
 THOSE riders who had come from the north- 
 ern part of the State to Sterling were given 
 _ transportation for themselves and their 
 horses to The Junction. From there they rode to 
 their respective homes. Among them were Bud 
 Shoop, the giant sheepman, and Lorry, who seemed 
 more anxious than did Shoop to stop at Stacey on 
 their way to the reserve. 
 
 "Your maw don't know you been to Sterling," 
 Shoop said as they rode toward Stacey. 
 
 "But she won't care, now we're back again. She'll 
 find out some time." 
 
 "I'mwillin' to wait," said Bud. "I got you into 
 that hocus. But I had no more idee than a cat that 
 we 'd bump into what we did. They was a time when 
 a outfit like ours could 'a' kep' peace in a town by 
 just bein' there. Things are changin' fast. If the 
 Gov'ment don't do somethin' about allowin' the 
 scum of this country to get hold of guns and ca'tridges 
 wholesale, they 's goin' to be a whole lot of extra book- 
 keepin' for the recordin' angel. I tell you what, son, 
 allowin' that I seen enough killin' in my time so as 
 just seein' it don't set too hard on my chest, that 
 mess down to Sterling made me plumb sick to my 
 
 332 
 
Bud's Conscience 
 
 stummick. I'm wonderin' what would 'a' happened 
 if Sterling had n't made that fight and the I.W. W. had 
 run loose. It ain't what we did. That had to be did. 
 But it's the idee that decent folks, livin' under the 
 American flag, has got to shoot their way back to the 
 llaw, like we done." 
 
 "Mebby the law ain't right," suggested Lorry. 
 
 "Don't you get that idee, son. The law is all right. 
 Mebby it ain't handled right sometimes." 
 
 "But what can anybody do about it?" 
 
 "Trouble is that folks who want to do the right 
 thing ain't always got the say. Or mebby if they 
 have got the say they leave it to the other fella. 
 
 "What did the folks in Arizona do long back in 
 eighty, when the sheep disease got bad. First off they 
 doctored up the sick sheep, tryin' to save 'em. That 
 did n't work, so they took to killin' 'em to save the 
 good sheep. But the disease had got into the blood of 
 some of the good sheep. Then some of the big sheep- 
 men got busy. Arizona made a law that no stock was 
 to be shipped into any of her territory without bein' 
 inspected. That helped some. But inspectors is hu- 
 man, and some sick sheep got by. 
 
 "Then one day a fella that had some brains got 
 up in the State House and spoke for the shuttin' out 
 of all stock until the disease was stomped out. You 
 see, that disease did n't start in this here country. 
 But who downed that fella? Why, the sheepmen 
 themselves. It would hurt their business. And the 
 
 333 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 funny part of it is them sheepmen was willin' enough 
 to ship sick sheep anywhere they could sell 'em. But 
 some States was wise. California, she put a inspection 
 tax of twenty-five dollars on every carload of stock 
 enterin' her State or on one animal; did n't make 
 no difference. That inspection tax had to be paid by 
 the shipper of the stock, as I said, whether he shipped 
 one head or a hundred. And the stock had to be 
 inspected before loadin'." 
 
 "You mean immigrants?" queried Lorry. 
 "The same. The gate is open too wide. If I had 
 the handlin' of them gates I would shut 'em for ten 
 years and kind of let what we got settle down and get 
 acquainted. But the man hirin' cheap labor would n't. 
 He'll take anything that will work cheap, and the 
 country pays the difference, like we done down to 
 Sterling." ' 
 
 "You mean there can't be cheap labor?" 
 "The same. Somebody's got to pay." 
 "Well, Sterling paid," said Lorry, "if a man's life 
 is worth anything." 
 
 "Yes, she paid. And the worst part of the whole 
 business is that the men what paid did n't owe any- 
 thing to the smelter or to them others. They just 
 made a present of their lives to this here country. And 
 the country ain't goin' to even say ' thanks."' 
 "You're pretty sore about it, aren't you, Bud?" 
 "I be. And if you had my years you'd be like- 
 wise. But what's worryin' me right now is I'm 
 
 334 
 
Bud's Conscience 
 
 wonderin' what your maw '11 say to me when she 
 finds out." 
 
 "You can say we been south on business." 
 
 "Yes," grunted Bud, "and I got the receipt right 
 here on my left wing." 
 
 "Hurtin' you much?" 
 
 "Just enough to let me know I'm livin' and ain't 
 ridin' through hell shootin' down a lot of pore, drunk 
 fools that's tryin' to run the oven. And them kind 
 would kick if they was ridin' in hell on a free pass 
 and their hotel bills paid. But over there is the hills, 
 and we can thank God A'mighty for the high trails 
 and the open country. I ain't got the smell of that 
 town out of my nose yet." 
 
 When they arrived at Stacey, Lorry learned that his 
 father had recently gone to the ranch. After supper 
 that evening, Mrs. Adams mentioned the strike. The 
 papers printed columns of the awful details; outrages 
 and killings beyond the thought of possibility. And 
 Mrs. Adams spoke of the curious circumstance that 
 the men who put down the lawlessness were unnamed; 
 that all that could be learned of them was that there 
 were ranchers and cowmen who were known by num- 
 ber alone. 
 
 "And I'm glad that you did n't go riding off down 
 there," she said to Lorry. "The paper says men from 
 all over the State volunteered." 
 
 "So am I," said Shoop promptly. "I was readin' 
 
 335 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 about that strike when we was over to The Junction. 
 Lorry and me been over that way on business. I seen 
 that that young fella, number thirty-eight, was one 
 of the men who went after that machine gun." 
 
 "How do you know that he was a young man?" 
 queried Mrs. Adams. 
 
 "Why er only a young fella would act that 
 foolish, I reckon. You say Jim is feelin' spry ag'in?" 
 
 "Oh, much better! He's lame yet. But he can 
 ride." 
 
 "That's good." 
 
 "And did you see that the paper says men are vol 
 unteering to go to France? I wonder what will hap* 
 pen next?" 
 
 "I dunno," said Shoop gravely. "I been thinkin 4 
 about that." 
 
 "Well, I hope Lorry won't think that he has to go v 
 Some of the boys in town are talking about it." 
 
 "It's in the air," said Shoop. 
 
 "And his father will need him now. Could yow 
 spare him, if Jim finds he can't get along alone? " 
 
 "I don't know," laughed Bud. "I reckon I need 
 somebody to look after them campers up to my old 
 place." 
 
 "Oh, I forgot to tell you; the folks that were here 
 last summer stopped by on their way to Jason. Mrs. 
 Weston and her girl. They said they were going to 
 visit Mr. Bronson." 
 
 "H'm! Then I reckon I got to keep Lorry. Don't 
 
 336 
 
Bud's Conscience 
 
 know what three females would do with just Bronson 
 for comp'ny. He's a-tickin' at that writin' machine 
 of his most all day, and sometimes nights. It must be 
 like livin' in a cave." 
 
 "But Dorothy has n't," said Lorry. 
 
 "That's right! My, but that little gal has built up 
 wonderful since she's been up there! Did you see my 
 watch?" 
 
 "Why, no!" 
 
 "Some style to that!" And Shoop displayed the 
 new watch with pride. "And here's the name of the 
 lady what give it to me." 
 
 Lorry's mother examined the watch, and handed 
 it to Lorry, to whom the news of the gift was a sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "But she did n't give him a watch," said Shoop, 
 chuckling. 
 
 Up in their room that night, Lorry helped Bud out 
 of his coat. Shoop's arm was stiff and sore. 
 
 "And your mother would think it was a mighty 
 queer business, if she knowed this," said Bud, "OP 
 who that number thirty-eight was down there." 
 
 "You sure made a good bluff, Bud." 
 
 "Mebby. But I was scared to death. When I was 
 talkin' about Sterling so free and easy, and your 
 maw mighty near ketched me that time, my arm was 
 itchin' like hell-fire, and I dassen scratch it. I never 
 knowed a fella's conscience could get to workin' 
 
 337 % 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 around his system like that. Now, if it was my laig, 
 I could 'a' scratched it with my other foot under the 
 table. Say, but you sure showed red in your face 
 when your maw said them Weston folks was up to 
 the camp." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know." 
 
 "Well, I do. Here, hook onto your Uncle Bud'a 
 boot. I'm set: go ahead and pull. You can't do 
 nothin' but shake the buildin'. Say, what does 
 Bronson call his gal 'Peter Pan' for?" 
 
 "Why, it's a kind of foreign name," flashed Lorry. 
 "And it sounds all right when you say it right. You 
 said it like the 'pan' was settin' a mile off." 
 
 "Well, you need n't to get mad." 
 
Chapter XXX 
 
 In the Hills 
 
 LORRY'S return to the mountains was some- 
 what of a disappointment to his expectations. 
 Dorothy had greeted him quite casually and 
 naturally enough, in that she knew nothing of his 
 recent venture. He was again introduced to Mrs. 
 Weston and her daughter. For the first time Dorothy 
 heard of the automobile accident and Lorry's share 
 in the subsequent proceedings. She asked Lorry why 
 he had not told her that he knew the Westons. He 
 had no reply save "Oh, I don't know," which rather 
 piqued Dorothy. He was usually definite and frank. 
 
 The Westons occupied Bronson's cabin with Dor- 
 othy. Bronson pitched a tent, moved his belong- 
 ings into it, and declared himself, jokingly, free from 
 Dorothy's immediate tyranny. 
 
 Dorothy, busy in the kitchen, asked her father to 
 invite Lorry to dinner that evening. Through a sort 
 of youthful perverseness not unmixed with bucolic 
 pride, Lorry declined the invitation. He would be 
 busy making ready for another trip in the hills. He 
 had already planned his own evening meal. He appre- 
 ciated the invitation, but they could get along with- 
 out him. These excuses satisfied Bronson. Lorry's 
 
 339 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 real reason for declining was that Dorothy had not 
 invited him in person. He knew it, and felt ashamed 
 of himself. What reason had he to expect her to invite 
 him personally, except that she had almost invariably 
 done so heretofore? And back of this was the subtle 
 jealousy of caste. The Westons were "her kind of 
 folks." He was not really one of them. Boyishly he 
 fancied that he would do as a companion when there 
 was no one else available. He was very much in love 
 with Dorothy and did not realize it. 
 
 And Dorothy was disappointed in him. She had 
 wanted the Westons to know what a really fine fellow 
 he was. 
 
 Alice Weston at once recalled Lorry's attitude 
 toward her on a former occasion when he had been 
 tacitly invited to go with them to the Horseshoe Hills 
 and he had stayed at the hotel. She told Dorothy 
 that Mr. Adams was not to be taken too seriously. 
 After all, he was nothing more than a boy, and per- 
 haps he would feel better, having declined to risk 
 possible embarrassment at their table. 
 
 Dorothy was inwardly furious on the instant, but 
 she checked herself. What did Alice Weston know 
 about Lorry? Well, Alice knew that he was a good- 
 looking young savage who seemed quite satisfied with 
 himself. She thought that possibly she could tame 
 him if she cared to try. Dorothy, with feminine gra- 
 ciousness, dared Alice to invite Lorry to the dinner. 
 Alice was to know nothing of his having declined an 
 
 340 
 
In the Hills 
 
 earlier invitation. Greatly to Dorothy's surprise, 
 Alice Weston accepted the challenge. 
 
 She waited until just before the dinner hour. Lorry 
 was mending a pack-saddle when she came to his 
 cabin. He dropped his work and stood up. 
 
 "I have been thinking about that tramp you 
 arrested," she began. "And I think you were right 
 in what you did." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," stammered Lorry. 
 
 Her manner had been especially gracious. 
 
 "And I did n't have a chance to say good-bye 
 that time" and she smiled "when you rode off 
 waving your scarf " 
 
 "It was a leg of lamb," corrected Lorry. 
 
 "Well, you waved it very gracefully. What big, 
 strong arms! They don't look so big when your 
 sleeves are down." 
 
 Lorry promptly rolled down his sleeves. He felt 
 that he had to do something. 
 
 "And there is so much to talk about I hardly know 
 where to begin. Oh, yes! Thank you so much for 
 
 repairing our car. 
 "That was nothin'." 
 
 "It meant a great deal to us. Is that your horse 
 the one standing alone over there?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am. That's Gray Leg." 
 
 "I remember him. I could n't ever forget that 
 morning but I don't want to hinder your work. 
 I see you are mending something." 
 
 341 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "Just fittin' a new pad to this pack-saddle. I was 
 figurin' to light out to-morrow." 
 
 "So soon? That's too bad. But, then, we can visit 
 at dinner this evening. Dorothy said she expected 
 you. I believe it is almost ready." 
 
 "I don't know, Miss Weston. It's like this " 
 
 "And I know Mr. Bronson meant to ask you. H* 
 has been quite busy. Perhaps he forgot." 
 
 "He" 
 
 "So I am here as ambassador. Will I do?" 
 
 "Why, sure! But" 
 
 "And mother would be so disappointed if you 
 did n't come. So should I, especially as you are leav- 
 ing to-morrow. What is it they say in Mexico, 
 'Adios'? I must run back." 
 
 She proffered her hand gracefully. Lorry shook 
 hands with her. She gave his fingers a little, lingering 
 squeeze that set his pulses racing. She was a mighty 
 pretty girl. 
 
 "We shall expect you," she called, halfway to the 
 cabin. 
 
 And she sure could change a fellow's mind for him 
 without half trying. She had n't given him a chance 
 to refuse her invitation. She just knew that he was 
 coming to supper. And so did he. 
 
 Alice Weston held Lorry's attention from the be- 
 ginning, as she had intended. She was gowned in some 
 pale-green material touched here and there with a 
 film of lace. Lorry was fascinated by her full, rounded 
 
In the Hills 
 
 arms, her beautifully strong wrists, and by the way 
 in which she had arranged her heavy, dark hair. In 
 the daylight that afternoon he had noticed that her 
 eyes were blue. He had thought them brown. But 
 they were the color of wood violets untouched by the 
 sun. While she lacked the positive outdoor coloring 
 of Dorothy, her complexion was radiant with youth 
 and health. Lorry felt subdued, disinclined to talk 
 despite Dorothy's obvious attempts to be entertain- 
 ing. He realized that Dorothy was being exceedingly 
 nice to him, although he knew that she was a little 
 high-strung and nervous that evening. 
 
 After dinner Bronson and Lorry smoked out on the 
 veranda. When the others came out, Bronson sug- 
 gested that they have some music. Lorry promptly 
 invited them to his cabin. 
 
 "Alice plays wonderfully," said Dorothy. 
 
 Bronson, talking with Mrs. Weston, enjoyed him- 
 self. He had been isolated so long that news from the 
 "outside" interested him. 
 
 Lorry, gravely attentive to the playing, happened 
 to glance up. Dorothy was gazing at him with a most 
 peculiar expression. He flushed. He had not realized 
 that he had been staring at Alice Weston; at her 
 round, white throat and graceful arms. But just then 
 she ceased playing. 
 
 "Have you any music that you would like?" she 
 asked Lorry. 
 
 "There's some here. I don't know what it's like, 
 
 343 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Some songs and dances the boys fetched up for 
 Bud." 
 
 "What fun!" said Alice. "And what an assort- 
 ment! Shall we try this?" 
 
 And she began to play a flimsy tune printed on & 
 flimsy sheet that doubled and slid to the keys. Lorry 
 jumped up, spread it out, and stood holding a corner 
 of it while she played. Close to her, he was sensible 
 of a desire to caress her hair, to kiss her vivid lips as 
 she glanced up at him and smiled. He had no idea 
 then that she was deliberately enthralling him with 
 every grace she possessed. 
 
 The fact that she rather liked him made her 
 subtleties all the more potent. It flattered her to 
 see the frank admiration in his gray eyes. She 
 knew he was anything but "soft," which made the 
 game all the more alluring. He was to leave soon 
 to-morrow. Meanwhile, she determined that he 
 should remember her. 
 
 Late that evening Bronson and the others said 
 good-night. Alice, not Dorothy, asked Lorry 
 when he was to leave. His "some time to-morrow" 
 sounded unnaturally indefinite. 
 
 He was standing in the doorway of his camp as the 
 others entered Bronson's cabin. Alice Weston was 
 the last to enter. For an instant she stood in the 
 lamplight that floated through the doorway, looking 
 back toward him. Impulsively he waved good-night. 
 Her attitude had seemed to call for it. He saw her 
 
 344 
 
In the Hills 
 
 fingers flash to her lips. She tilted her chin and threw 
 him a kiss. 
 
 "Dog-gone the luck!" he growled as he entered 
 his cabin. And with the brief expletive he condemned 
 his disloyalty to the sprightly, slender Dorothy; 
 the Peter Pan of the Blue Mesa; the dream girl of 
 that idle noon at the Big Spring. The other girl 
 well, she was just playing with him. 
 
 In view of Lorry's training and natural careful- 
 ness it was especially significant that he decided next 
 day that he had forgotten to lay in enough supplies 
 for his journey south. He would ride to Jason and 
 pack in what he needed. He had a fair excuse. Bron- 
 son had recently borrowed some of his canned pro- 
 visions. He was well on his way to Jason that morn- 
 ing before the others had arisen. 
 
 He was back at the camp shortly after nine that 
 night. As he passed Bronson's cabin he saw a light 
 in the window. Mrs. Weston was talking with 
 Dorothy. Lorry had hoped to catch a glimpse of 
 Alice Weston. He had been hoping all that day that 
 he would see her again before he left. Perhaps she 
 was asleep. 
 
 As he passed the corral a greeting came from the 
 darkness: 
 
 "Good-evening! I thought you had gone." 
 
 "I I did n't see you," he stammered. 
 
 Alice Weston laughed softly. "Oh, I was just 
 
 345 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 out here looking at the stars. It's cooler out here. 
 Then you changed your mind about going?" 
 
 "Nope. I had to go to Jason for grub. I'm going 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "Oh, I see! We thought you had gone." 
 
 "Got a headache?" queried Lorry. 
 
 Her voice had been so unnaturally low, almost sad. 
 
 "No. I just wanted to be alone." 
 
 Lorry fumbled in his pockets. "I got the mail," 
 he stated. 
 
 "I'll give it to Mr. Bronson." 
 
 Lorry leaned down and gave her the packet of 
 letters and papers. 
 
 "Good-bye. I won't see you in the mornin'." 
 
 "We '11 miss you." 
 
 "Honest?" 
 
 "Of course!" And she gave him her hand. 
 
 He drew his foot from the stirrup. "Put your 
 foot in there," he said, still holding her hand. 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 " 'Cause I'm goin' to ride off with you, like in 
 books." He laughed, but his laughter was tense and 
 unnatural. 
 
 It was dark. The stars shone faintly. The air 
 was soft with a subtle fragrance; the fragrance of 
 sun-warmed pine that the night had stolen from 
 the slumbering woodlands. She slipped her foot in 
 the wide stirrup. Half laughing, she allowed him 
 to draw her up. She felt the hard strength of his 
 
 346 
 
In the Hills 
 
 arm, and was thrilled. She had not meant to do any* 
 thing like this. 
 
 "You been playin* with me," he told her, whis* 
 pering, "and I take my pay." 
 
 She turned her face away, but he found her lips 
 and crushed her to him. 
 
 "Oh!" she whispered as he kissed her again and 
 again. 
 
 Slowly his arm relaxed. White-faced and trem- 
 bling, she slid to the ground and stood looking up at 
 him. 
 
 "I hate you!" she said. 
 
 "No, you don't," said Lorry quite cheerfully. 
 
 And he reached out his hand as though to take her 
 hand again. 
 
 She stood still, making no effort to avoid him. 
 Then "No, please!" she begged. 
 
 Lorry sat for a moment looking down at her. 
 There had been no make-believe on her part when 
 he held her in his arms. He knew that. And now? 
 She had said that she hated him. Perhaps she did 
 for having made her do that which she had never 
 dreamed of doing. But he told himself that he could 
 stand a whole lot of that kind of hate. And did he 
 really care for her? Could a girl give what she had 
 given and forget on the morrow? He would never 
 forget. 
 
 She had told herself that he should have reason 
 to remember her. 
 
 347 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 After he had gone she stood gazing across the 
 starlit mesa. She heard Lorry whistling cheerily as 
 he unsaddled his pony. A falling star flamed and 
 faded across the night. 
 
Chapter XXXI 
 
 In the Pines 
 
 ALICE WESTON pleaded headache next 
 morning. She did not get up until noon. 
 Meanwhile Dorothy came, bringing hot 
 coffee and toast. 
 
 "Does it really hurt?" queried Dorothy. "Or 
 is it one of those headaches that is always going to 
 hurt, but never does?" 
 
 Alice smiled and sipped her coffee. "Oh, it's not 
 bad. I want to rest. Perhaps it's the altitude." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Dorothy. "I'm sorry, Alice." 
 
 They chatted awhile. Suddenly Alice thought of 
 the letters Lorry had given her. She had carried 
 them to her room, and had forgotten them. 
 
 "Mr. Adams left some mail with me last night. 
 I happened to be outside when he rode past." 
 
 "Why, I thought he had gone!" 
 
 "He said he had to go to Jason for something or 
 other. He left early this morning, I think." 
 
 Dorothy glanced at the mail. "All for daddy 
 except this circular. H'm! 'Intelligent clothing for 
 Intelligent People.' Is n't that awful? How in the 
 world do such firms get one's address when one 
 
 349 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 lives Vay up here in the sky. Do you ever get ad- 
 vertisements like this?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; heaps of them." 
 
 "Well, your gowns are beautiful," sighed Dorothy. 
 
 "You are a darling," said Alice, caressing Doro- 
 thy's cheek. 
 
 "So are you, dear." And Dorothy kissed her. 
 "And you coaxed Lorry to come to dinner, after all! 
 I don't know what made him so grumpy, though. 
 I would have been sorry if he had n't come to din- 
 ner, even if he was grumpy." 
 
 "Do you like him?" queried Alice. 
 
 "Of course; he has been so nice to us. Don't 
 you?" 
 
 Alice's lips trembled. Suddenly she hid her face 
 in her hands and burst into tears. 
 
 "Why, Alice, what is the matter?" 
 
 "Nothing," she sobbed. "I'm just tired of 
 everything." 
 
 "It must be the altitude," said Dorothy gravely. 
 "Father says it does make some persons nervous. 
 Just rest, Allie, and I'll come in again." 
 
 Without telling her father anything further than 
 that she was going for a ride, Dorothy saddled Chin- 
 ook. 
 
 Dorothy was exceedingly trustful, but she was 
 not at all stupid. She thought she understood Alice's 
 headache. And while Dorothy did not dream that 
 her friend cared anything for Lorry, she was not so 
 
 350 
 
In the Pines 
 
 sure that Lorry did not care for Alice. Perhaps he 
 had said something to her. Perhaps they had be- 
 come rather well acquainted in Stacey last sum- 
 mer. 
 
 Dorothy rode toward the Big Spring. She had 
 no definite object in view other than to be alone. She 
 was hurt by Lorry's incomprehensible manner of 
 leaving. What had she done to cause him to act so 
 strangely? And why had he refused her invitation 
 and accepted it again through Alice? "But I'll 
 never, never let him know that I care about that," 
 she thought. "And when he comes back everything 
 will be all right again." 
 
 Just before she reached the Big Spring her pony 
 nickered. She imagined she could see a horse stand- 
 ing back of the trees round the spring. Some ranger 
 returning to Jason or some cattle outfit from the 
 south was camped at the spring. But when Chinook 
 nickered again and the other pony answered, she 
 knew at once that Lorry was there. Why had he 
 stopped at the spring? He had started early enough 
 to have made a camp farther on. 
 
 Lorry saw her coming, and busied himself adjust- 
 ing one of the packs. As she rode up he turned and 
 took off his hat. His face was flushed. His eyes did 
 not meet hers as she greeted him. 
 
 "I did n't look for you to ride up here," he said 
 lamely. 
 
 "And I did n't expect to find you here," she said 
 
 351 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 as she dismounted. She walked straight to him. 
 "Lorry, what is the matter? You're not like my 
 ranger man at all! Are you in trouble?" 
 
 Her question, so frank and sincere, and the deep 
 solicitude in her troubled eyes hurt him, and yet 
 he was glad to feel that hot pain in his throat. He 
 knew now that he cared for her more than for any 
 living being; beyond all thought of passion or of 
 selfishness. She looked and seemed like a beautiful 
 boy, with all the frankness of true comradeship in 
 her attitude and manner. And she was troubled be- 
 cause of him and not for herself. Lorry thought 
 of the other girl. He had taken his pay. His lips 
 burned dry as he recalled that moment when he had 
 held her in his arms. 
 
 Dorothy saw the dull pain in his eyes, a sort of 
 dumb pleading for forgiveness for something he had 
 done; she could not imagine what. He dropped to 
 his knee, and taking her slender hand in his kissed 
 her fingers. 
 
 "Don't be silly," she said, yet her free hand ca- 
 ressed his hair. "What is it, ranger man?" 
 
 "I been a regular dam' fool, Dorothy." 
 
 "But, Lorry! You know if there is anything, 
 anything in the world that I can do Please, 
 please don't cry. If you were to do that I think I 
 should die. I could n't stand it. You make me 
 afraid. What is it? Surely it is not Alice?" 
 
 He crushed her fingers. Suddenly he stood up 
 
 352 
 
In the Pines 
 
 and stepped back. The sunlight shone on his bared 
 head. He looked very boyish as he shrugged his 
 shoulders as though to free himself from an invisible 
 hand that oppressed and irritated him. His sense of 
 fair play in so far as Alice Weston was concerned 
 would not allow him to actually regret that affair. 
 To him that had been a sort of conquest. But shame 
 and repentance for having been disloyal to Dorothy 
 were stamped so clearly upon his features that she 
 understood. She knew what he was about to say, 
 and checked him. 
 
 "Don't tell me," she said gently. "You have told 
 me. I know Alice is attractive; she can't help that. 
 If you care for her " 
 
 "Care for her! She was playin' with me. When 
 I found out that" 
 
 Dorothy caught her breath. Her eyes grew big. 
 She had not thought that Alice Weston But then 
 that did not matter now. Lorry was so abjectly 
 sorry about something or other. He felt her hand 
 on his sleeve. She was smiling. "You're just a great 
 big, silly boy, ranger man. I'm really years older 
 than you. Please don't tell me anything. I don't 
 want to know. I just want you to be happy." 
 
 "Happy? And you say that!" 
 
 "Of course!" 
 
 "Well, mebby I could be happy if you was to set 
 to and walk all over me." 
 
 "Oh, but that would n't do any good. Tell me 
 
 353 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 why you stopped here at the spring. You did n't 
 expect to meet any one, did you?" 
 
 "I stopped here because we camped here 
 that time." 
 
 "Well, Lorry, it's really foolish of you to feel so 
 badly when there's nothing the matter. If you 
 wanted to kiss Alice and she let you why, that 
 is n't wrong. A boy kissed me once when I was going 
 to school in the East. I just boxed his ears and 
 laughed at him. It is only when you act grumpy or 
 feel badly that I worry about you. I just want to 
 be your little mother then and try to help you." 
 
 "You make me feel like I was n't fit to ever touch 
 your hand again," he told her. 
 
 "But you must n't feel that way," she said cheerily. 
 "I want you to be brave and strong and happy; just 
 as you were that day we camped here. And you will, 
 won't you?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am. I'm takin' orders from you." 
 
 "But you must n't wait for me to tell you. Just 
 be yourself, and then I know you will never be 
 ashamed of anything you do. I must go now. Good- 
 bye, Lorry." 
 
 She gave her hand, and he drew her to him. But she 
 turned her face away as he bent his head above her. 
 
 "No; not now, Lorry. I can't. Please don't." 
 
 "I guess you're right. I reckon you showed me 
 just where I stand. Yes, you're plumb right about 
 it, Dorothy. But I'm comin' back " 
 
 354 
 
In the Pines 
 
 "I'll wait for you," she said softly. 
 
 He turned briskly to the ponies. The pack-horses 
 plodded up the trail as he mounted Gray Leg and rode 
 over to her. 
 
 She reached up and patted Gray Leg's nose. 
 "Good-bye, everybody!" she chirruped. And she 
 kissed Gray Leg's nose. 
 
 Back in the ranges, far from the Big Spring, Lorry 
 made his camp that night. As he hobbled the horses 
 he talked to them affectionately after his manner 
 when alone with them. 
 
 "And you, you old trail-hitter," he said to Gray 
 Leg, "I reckon you think you're some ladies' man, 
 don't you? Well, you got a right to be proud. Step 
 along there, and 'tend to your grazin' and don't go 
 to rubbin' noses with the other horses. You're a fool 
 if you do." 
 
Chapter XXXII 
 
 Politics 
 
 THE week following Lorry's departure the 
 Westons left for the East. As for Dorothy, 
 she confessed to herself that she was not 
 sorry. While Alice had been unusually nice to every 
 one, Dorothy felt that Alice was forcing herself to 
 appear natural and happy. Mrs. Weston knew this, 
 and wondered what the cause could be. Mrs. Weston 
 had found Dorothy delightful and Bronson interest- 
 ing, but she had been so long in the West that its 
 novelty had worn thin. She did not regret it when 
 they shipped their machine from Stacey and took the 
 Overland for New York. 
 
 A few days after they had gone, Bud Shoop rode 
 up to the Blue Mesa. It was evident that he wanted 
 to talk with Bronson, so Dorothy coaxed Bondsman 
 to her favorite tree, and sat stroking his shaggy head 
 as she read from a new book that Shoop had brought 
 with the mail. 
 
 The genial Bud was in a fix. Perhaps Bronson, who 
 had been a newspaper man and knew something about 
 politics, could help him out. Bronson disclaimed any 
 special keenness of political intelligence, but said he 
 would be glad to do anything he could for Shoop. 
 
 356 
 
Politics 
 
 "It's like this," Bud began, seating himself on the 
 edge of the veranda; "John Torrance, who was super- 
 visor before you came in, got me this job and put it 
 up to me to stick. Now, I like John, and I figure John 
 ain't scared of me. But here's where I lose the trail. 
 A ole friend, the biggest shipper of sheep in this State, 
 goes and gets it into his head that they's a State Sen- 
 ator over there drawin' down pay that ought to come 
 to me. Recollec', I said he was a sheepman and 
 I been for the longhorns all my days. And he's got 
 the nerve to tell me that all the sheepmen in this here 
 county are strong for me if I run for the job. If I 
 did n't know him like I know this here right hand, I 
 would say he was gettin' hardenin' of the brain in his 
 ole aige. But he's a long ways from havin' his head 
 examined yet. 
 
 "Then along comes a representative of the Cattle- 
 men's Association and says they want me to run for 
 State Senator. Then along comes a committee of 
 hay-tossers from up around St. Johns and says, 
 polite, that they are waitin' my pleasure in the mat- 
 ter of framin' up their ticket for senatorial candidate 
 from this mesa country. They say that the present 
 encumbrance in the senatorial chair is such a dog- 
 gone thief that he steals from hisself just to keep in 
 practice. 1 don't say so. 'Course, if I can get to a 
 chair that looks big and easy, without stompin' on 
 anybody why, I 'm like to set down. But if I 
 can't, I figure to set where I be. 
 
 357 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "Now, this here war talk is gettin' folks excited. 
 And ridin' excitement down the trail of politics is 
 like tryin' to ride white lightnin' bareback. It's like 
 to leave you so your friends can't tell what you looked 
 like. And somebody that ain't got brains enough to 
 plug the hole hi a watch-key has been talkin' around 
 that Bud Shoop is a fighter, with a record for gettin' 
 what he goes after. And that this same Bud Shoop 
 is as honest as the day is long. Now, I 've seen some 
 mighty short days when I was tradin' hosses. And 
 then this here stingin' lizard goes to work and digs 
 up my deputy number over to Sterling and sets the 
 papers to printin' as how it was me, with the help of 
 a few parties whose names are of no special int'rest, 
 settled that strike." 
 
 "So you were at Sterling?" 
 
 "Uh-uh. Between you and me, I was. And it 
 wa'n't what you 'd call a girl's school for boys, neither. 
 But that's done. What I'm gettin' at is: If I resign 
 here, after givin' my word to Torrance to stick, it 
 looks like I been playin' with one hand under the 
 table. The papers will lie like hell boostin' me, and 
 if I don't lie like hell, boostin' myself, folks '11 think 
 I 'm a liar, anyhow. Now, takin' such folks one at a 
 time, out back of the store, mebby, where they ain't 
 no wimmin-folks, I reckon I could make 'em think 
 different. But I can't lick the county. I ain't no an- 
 gel. I never found that tellin' the truth kep' me awake 
 nights. And I sleep pretty good. Now, I writ to Tor- 
 
 358 
 
Politics 
 
 ranee, tellin' him just how things was headed. What 
 do you think he writ back?" 
 
 " Why, he told you to go ahead and win, did n't he? " 
 
 "Yep. And he said that it was apparent that the 
 State needed my services more than the Service did. 
 That's somethin' like a train with a engine on each 
 end. You don't know which way it's headed." 
 
 "I'd take it as a sincere compliment." 
 
 "Well, I did swell up some. Then I says to myself: 
 'Bud, you ain't no fancy office man, and even if you 
 are doin' good work here, you can't put it in writin* 
 for them big bugs at Washington.' Mebby John is so 
 dog-gone busy like the fella with both hands full 
 and his suspenders broke that he 'd be glad to get 
 behind 'most anything to get shut of me." 
 
 "I think you're mistaken. You know you can't 
 keep a born politician out of politics." 
 
 "Meanin'me?" 
 
 "You 're the type." 
 
 "By gravy, Bronson! I never seen you hidin' 
 your watch when I come up to visit you before." 
 
 "See here, Shoop. Why don't you write to Tor- 
 ranee and ask him point-blank if he has had a hand 
 in getting you nominated for Senator? Torrance is 
 a big man in his line, and he probably knows what he 
 is doing." 
 
 Shoop grinned. "You win the pot!" he exclaimed. 
 "That's just what I been thinkin' right along. I 
 kind of wanted somebody who was n't interested in 
 
 359 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 this deal to say it. Well, I reckon I bothered you 
 long enough. You got your alfalfa to I you got 
 your writin' to do. But they's one thing. If I get 
 roped in and got to run, and some new supervisor 
 comes botherin' around up here, puttin' some ranger 
 in my camp that ain't like Lorry, all you got to do is 
 to move over into my cabin and tell 'em to keep off 
 the grass. That there four hundred and eighty is 
 mine. I homesteaded it, and I got the papers. It 
 ain't on the reserve." 
 
 "I thought it was." 
 
 "So do some yet. Nope. I'm just east of the res- 
 ervation line; outside the reserve. I aimed to know 
 what I was doin' when I homesteaded that piece of 
 sky farm." 
 
 "And yet you took exception to my calling you 
 a born politician." 
 
 Shoop chuckled. "Speakin' personal, I been 
 thinkin' about that job of State Senator for quite a 
 spell. Now, I reckon you got sense enough not to get 
 mad when I tell you that I just been tryin' out a lit- 
 tle speech I framed up for my constituents. Just a 
 kind of little alfalfa-seed talk. Outside of ijuts and 
 Mexicans, it's about what I aim to hand to the voters 
 of this here district, puttin' it up to them that I was 
 roped into this hocus and been settin' back on the 
 rope right along. And that's a fact. But you got to 
 rub some folks' noses in a fact afore they can even 
 smell it." 
 
 360 
 
Politics 
 
 "And you have the nerve to tell me that you framed 
 up all that stuff to get my sympathy? Shoop, you are 
 wasting time in Arizona. Go East. And forgive me 
 for falling for your most natural appeal." 
 
 The genial Bud chuckled and wiped his eyes. 
 "But it's true from the start to the wire." 
 
 "I must congratulate you." And, "Dorothy!" 
 called Bronson. "Come and shake hands with our 
 next Senator from the mesa country." 
 
 "Really?" exclaimed Dorothy. "But we will lose 
 our supervisor. Still, I think Mr. Shoop will make a 
 lovely Senator. You are just the right size and 
 everything." 
 
 "I reckon you're right, missy. Half of the game is 
 lookin' the part afore election. The other half is not 
 sayin' too much after election. If any man gets a 
 promise out of me afore election, it'll have to be did 
 with a stump-puller." 
 
 "But we won't see you any more," said Dorothy. 
 "You will be so busy and so important. Senator 
 Shoop will speak here. And Senator Shoop will speak 
 there. And let me see! Oh, yes! The Senate ad- 
 journed after a stormy session in which the Sena- 
 tor from Mesa County, supported by an intelligent 
 majority, passed his bill for the appropriation of 
 twenty thousand dollars to build a road from Jason 
 to the Blue Mesa. What fun!" 
 
 Bud polished his bald head. "Now, I reckon that 
 ain't such a joke. We'll build a road plumb through 
 
 361 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 to the old Apache Trail and ketch them tourists 
 goin' into Phoenix." 
 
 "You see," said Dorothy, turning to her father, 
 "I know something about politics. I read the local 
 papers. Mr. Shoop's name is in every one of them. 
 I read that article about the Sterling strike. I have 
 been wondering " 
 
 Shoop immediately called attention to Bondsman, 
 who was gently tugging at the supervisor's pants leg. 
 
 "Now, look at that! Do you know what he's tellin' 
 me? He's tellin' me I got a piano in that there cabin 
 and we ain't had a duet for quite a spell. That there 
 dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous." 
 
 Bondsman slipped from beneath Dorothy's hand 
 as she stooped to pat him. He trotted to Shoop's 
 cabin, and stood looking up at the door. 
 
 "Would you be playin' 'Annie Laurie' for us?" 
 queried Shoop. 
 
 Dorothy played for them, unaccompanied by 
 Bondsman. Shoop shook his head. Either the tune 
 had lost its charm for the Airedale or else Dorothy's 
 interpretation differed from Bud's own. 
 
 " Thanks, missy," said Shoop when she had fin- 
 ished playing. "Guess I'll be movin' along." 
 
 "Oh, no! You'll stay to-night. I'll play for you. 
 Make him stay, father." 
 
 "I wish you would, Shoop. I'd like to talk with 
 you about the election." 
 
 "Well, now, that's right neighborly of you folks. 
 
 362 
 
Politics 
 
 I was aimin' to ride back this evening. But I reckon 
 we'll stay. Bondsman and me ain't so spry as we 
 
 was." 
 
 After supper Dorothy played for them again, with 
 no light except the dancing red shadows from the pine 
 logs that flamed in the fireplace. 
 
 Shoop thanked her. "I'll be livin' in town," 
 and he sighed heavily, "where my kind of piano- 
 playin' would bring the law on me, most-like. Now, 
 that ole piano is hacked up some outside, but she's 
 got all her innards yet and her heart's right. If you 
 would be takin' it as a kind of birthday present, it's 
 yours." 
 
 "You don't mean me ?" 
 
 "I sure do." 
 
 "But I could n't accept such a big present. And 
 then, when we go away this winter " 
 
 "Listen to your Uncle Bud, missy. A little lady 
 give me a watch onct. 'T wa'n't a big watch, but it 
 was a big thing. 'Cause why? 'Cause that little lady 
 was the first lady to give me a present in my life. I 
 was raised up by men-folks. My mammy she wa'n't 
 there long after I come. Reckon that's why I never 
 was much of a hand with wimmin-folks. I wa'n't 
 used to 'em. And I don't care how old and ornery 
 a man is; the first time he gets a present from a gal, 
 it kind of hits him where he breathes. And if it don't 
 make him feel warm inside and mighty proud of bein' 
 who he is, why, it's because he's so dog-gone old he 
 
 363 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 can't think. I ain't tellin' no secret when I say that 
 the little lady put her name in that watch alongside of 
 mine. And her name bein' there is what makes that 
 present a big thing bigger than any piano that was 
 ever built. 
 
 "Why, just a spell ago I was settin' in my office, 
 madder 'n a cat what had tore his Sunday pants, 
 'cause at twelve o'clock I was goin' over to the saloon 
 to fire that young ranger, Lusk, for gettin' drunk. I 
 pulled out this here watch, and I says to myself: 
 'Bud, it was clost around twelve o'clock by a young 
 fella's watch onct when he was filled up on liquor and 
 rampin' round town when he ought to been to work. 
 And it was the ole foreman's gal that begged that 
 boy's job back for him, askin' her daddy to give him 
 another chanct.' And the boy he come through all 
 right. I know for I owned the watch. And so I 
 give Lusk another chanct." 
 
 Dorothy stepped to Shoop's chair, and, stoop- 
 ing quickly, kissed his cheek. Bondsman, not to be 
 outdone, leaped jealously into Bud's lap and licked 
 the supervisor's face. Shoop spluttered, and thrust 
 Bondsman down. 
 
 "Things is comin' too fast!" he cried, wiping his 
 face. "I was just goin' to say something when that 
 dog just up and took the words right out of my 
 mouth. Oh, yes! I was just wishin' I owned a piano 
 factory." 
 
Chapter XXXIII 
 
 The Fires of Home 
 
 BUD SHOOP read the newspaper notice twice 
 before he realized fully its import. The 
 Adams House at Stacey was for sale. "Then 
 Jim and Annie 's patched it up," he soliloquized. And 
 the genial Bud did not refer to the Adams House. 
 
 Because his master seemed pleased, Bondsman 
 waited to hear the rest of it with head cocked side- 
 ways and tail at a stiff angle. 
 
 "That's all they is to it," said Shoop. 
 
 Bondsman lay down and yawned. He was growing 
 old. It was only Bud's voice that could key the big 
 Airedale up to his earlier alertness. The office was 
 quiet. The clerk had gone out for his noon meal. The 
 fall sunshine slanted lazily through the front-office 
 windows. The room was warm, but there was a tang 
 of autumn in the air. Shoop glanced at the paper 
 again. He became absorbed in an article proposing 
 conscription. He shook his head and muttered to 
 himself. He turned the page, and glanced at the live- 
 stock reports, the copper market, railroad stocks, and 
 passed on to an article having to do with local 
 politics. 
 
 Bondsman, who constituted himself the guard of 
 Snoop's leisure, rapped the floor with his tail. Shoop 
 
 365 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 glanced over the top of his paper as light footsteps 
 sounded in the outer office. Dorothy tapped on the 
 lintel and stepped in. Shoop crumpled the paper and 
 rose. Bondsman was at her side as she shook hands 
 with the supervisor. 
 
 "My new saddle came," she said, patting Bonds- 
 man. "And father's latest book. Why don't you 
 cheer?" 
 
 "Goodness, missy! I started cheerin* inside the 
 minute I seen you. Now, I reckon you just had to 
 have that new saddle." 
 
 "It's at the store. Father is over there talking 
 politics and war with Mr. Handley." 
 
 "Then you just set down and tell your Uncle Bud 
 the news while you're waitin'." 
 
 "But I am not waiting. I am visiting you. And I 
 told you the news." 
 
 "And to think a new saddle could make your 
 eyes shine like that! Ain't you 'shamed to fool your 
 Uncle Bud?" 
 
 "I have n't if you say you know I have." 
 
 "'Course. Most any little gal can get the best of 
 me." 
 
 "Well, because you are so curious Lorry is 
 back." 
 
 "I reckoned that was it." 
 
 "He rode part- way down with us. He has gone 
 to see his father." 
 
 "And forgot to repo't here first." 
 
 866 
 
The Fires of Home 
 
 "No. He gave me the reports to give to you. 
 Here they are. One of Mr. Waring's men, that young 
 Mexican, rode up to the mesa last week and left word 
 that Lorry's father wanted to see him." 
 
 "I aim to know about that," chuckled Shoop. 
 And he smoothed out the paper and pointed to the 
 Adams House sale notice. 
 
 "The Adams House for sale? Why " 
 
 "Jim and Annie that's Jim Waring and Mrs. 
 Waring now are goin' to run the ranch. I'm 
 mighty glad." 
 
 "Oh, I see ! And Lorry is really Laurence Waring?" 
 
 "You bet! And I reckon Lorry '11 be fo'man of that 
 ranch one of these days. Cattle is sky-high and goin' 
 up. I don't blame him." 
 
 "He did n't say a word about that to me." 
 
 "'Course not. He's not one to say anything till 
 he's plumb sure." 
 
 "He might have said something" asserted Dorothy. 
 
 "Did n't he?" chuckled Shoop. 
 
 Dorothy's face grew rosy. "Your master is very 
 inquisitive," she told Bondsman. 
 
 "And your little missy is right beautiful this 
 mawnin'," said Shoop. "Now, if I was a bow-legged 
 young cow-puncher with curly hair, and looked 
 fierce and noble and could make a gal's eyes shine 
 like stars in the evenin', I reckon I would n't be 
 sittin' here signin' letters." 
 
 "He is n't bow-legged!" flashed Dorothy. She was 
 
 367 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 very definite about that. "And he's not a cowboy. 
 He is a ranger." 
 
 "My goodness! I done put my foot in a gopher 
 hole that shake. I sure am standin' on my head, wait- 
 in' for somebody to set me up straight ag'in. You 
 ain't mad at your Uncle Bud, be you?" 
 
 Dorothy tossed her head, but her eyes twinkled, 
 and suddenly she laughed. "You know I like you 
 heaps! You're just jealous." 
 
 "Reckon you said it! But I only got one ear laid 
 back yet. Wait till I see that boy." 
 
 "Oh, pshaw! You can't help being nice to him." 
 
 "And I got comp'ny." 
 
 "But really I want to talk seriously, if you will 
 let me. Lorry has been talking about enlisting. He 
 did n't say that he was going to enlist, but he has 
 been talking about it so much. Do you think he will? " 
 
 "Well, now, missy that's a right peart question. 
 I know if I was his age I'd go. Most any fella that 
 can read would. I been readin' the papers for two 
 years, and b'ilin' inside. I reckon Lorry 's just woke 
 up to what's goin' on. We been kind of slow wakin' 
 up out here. Folks livin' off in this neck of the woods 
 gets to thinkin' that the sun rises on their east-line 
 fence and sets on their west line. It takes somethin' 
 strong to make 'em recollec' the sun's got a bigger 
 job 'n that. But I admire to say that when them kind 
 of folks gets started onct they's nothin' ever built 
 that '11 stop 'em. If I get elected I aim to tell some 
 
 368 
 
The Fires of Home 
 
 folks over to the State House about this here war. 
 And I'm goin' to start by talkin' about what we 
 got to set straight right here to home first. They can 
 feel what's goin' on to home. It ain't all print. And 
 they got to feel what's goin' on over there afore they 
 do anything." 
 
 "It's all too terrible to talk about," said Dorothy. 
 "But we must do our share, if only to keep our self- 
 respect, must n't we?" 
 
 "You said it providin' we got any self -respect 
 to keep." 
 
 "But why don't our young men volunteer. They 
 are not cowards." 
 
 "It ain't that. Suppose you ask Lorry why." 
 
 "I should n't want to know him if he did n't go," 
 said Dorothy. 
 
 "Missy, I'm lovin' you for sayin* that! If all the 
 mothers and sisters and sweethearts was like that, 
 they would n't be no conscription. But they ain't. 
 I'm no hand at understandin' wimmin-folks, but I 
 know the mother of a strappin' young fella in this 
 town that says she would sooner see her boy dead 
 in her front yard than for him to go off and fight for 
 foreigners. She don't know what this country's got 
 to fight for pretty quick or she would n't talk like 
 that. And she ain't the only one. Now, when wim- 
 min talks that way, what do you expect of men? I 
 reckon the big trouble is that most folks got to see 
 somethin' to fight afore they get goin'. Fightin' for a 
 
 369 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 principle looks just like poundin' air to some folks. I 
 don't believe in shootin' in the dark. How come, I 've 
 plugged a rattlesnake by just shootin' at the sound 
 when he was coiled down where I could n't see him. 
 But this ain't no kind of talk for you to listen to, 
 missy." 
 
 "I you won't say that I spoke of Lorry?" 
 
 "Bless your heart, no! And he'll figure it out his- 
 self. But don't you get disap'inted if he don't go 
 right away. It's mighty easy to set back and say 
 'Go!' to the other fella; and listen to the band and 
 cheer the flag. It makes a fella feel so durned patri- 
 otic he is like to forget he ain't doin' nothin' hisself. 
 
 "Now, missy, suppose you was a sprightin' kind 
 of a boy 'bout nineteen or twenty, and mebby some 
 gal thought you was good-lookin' enough to talk 
 to after church on a Sunday; and suppose you had 
 rustled like a little nigger when you was a kid, 
 helpin' your ma wash dishes in a hotel and chop 
 wood and sweep out and pack heavy valises for tour- 
 ists and fill the lamps and run to the store for gro- 
 ceries and milk a cow every night and mornin'. 
 
 "And say you growed up without breakin' your 
 laig and went to punchin' cattle and earnin' your own 
 money, and then mebby you got a job in the Ranger 
 Service, ridin' the high trails and livin' free and in- 
 dependent; and suppose a mighty pretty gal was to 
 come along and kind of let you take a shine to her, and 
 you was doin' your plumb durndest to put by a little 
 
 370 
 
The Fires of Home 
 
 money, aimin' to trot in double harness some day; 
 and then suppose your daddy was to offer you a half- 
 interest in a growin' cattle business, where you could 
 be your own boss and put by a couple of thousand a 
 year. And you only nineteen or twenty. 
 
 "Suppose you had been doin' all that when along 
 comes word from 'way off somewhere that folks was 
 killin' each other and it was up to you to stop 'em. 
 Would n't you do some hard thinkin' afore you 
 jumped into your fightin' clothes?" 
 
 "But this war means more than that." 
 
 "It sure does. But some of us ain't got the idee 
 yet. 'Course all you got to do to some folks is to say 
 'Fight' and they come a-runnin'. And some of that 
 kind make mighty good soldier boys. But the fella 
 I'm leavin' alone is the one what cinches up slow 
 afore he climbs into the saddle. When he goes into 
 a fight it 's like his day's work, and he don't waste 
 no talk or elbow action when he's workin'." 
 
 "I wish I were a man!" 
 
 "Well, some of us is right glad you ain't. A good 
 woman can do just as much for this country right now 
 as any man. And I don't mean by dressin' up in 
 fancy clothes and givin' dances and shellin' out 
 mebby four per cent of the gate receipts to buy a 
 ambulance with her name on it. 
 
 "And I don't mean by payin' ten dollars for a 
 outfit of gold-plated knittin'-needles to make two- 
 bit socks for the boys. What I mean is that a good 
 
 371 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 woman does her best work to home; mebby just by 
 sayin' the right word, or mebby by keepin' still or 
 by smilin' cheerful when her heart is breakin' ae 
 count of her man goin' to war. 
 
 "You can say all you like about patriotism, but 
 patriotism ain't just marchin' off to fight for your 
 country. It's usin' your neighbors and your country 
 right every day in the week, includin' Sunday. Some 
 folks think patriotism is buildin' a big bonfire once 
 a year and lettin' her blaze up. But the real thing is 
 keepin' your own little fire a-goin' steady, right here 
 where you live. And it's thinkin' of that little fire 
 to home that makes the best soldier. 
 
 "He's got a big job to do. He's goin' to get it 
 done so he can go back to that there home and find 
 the little fire a-burning bright. What do some of our 
 boys do fightin' alongside of them Frenchmen and 
 under the French flag, when they get wounded and 
 get a furlough? Set around and wait to go back to 
 fightin'? I reckon not. Some of 'em pack up and 
 come four, five thousand miles just to see their folks 
 for mebby two, three days. And when they see them 
 little fires to home a-burnin' bright, why, they say: 
 'This here is what we're fighting for.' And they go 
 back, askin' God A'mighty to keep 'em f acin' straight 
 to the front till the job is done." 
 
 Dorothy, her chin in her hand, gazed at Bud. 
 She had never known him to be so intense, so earnest. 
 
 "Oh, I know it is so!" she cried. "But what can 
 
 372 
 
The Fires of Home 
 
 I do? I have only a little money in the bank, and 
 father makes just enough to keep us comfortable. 
 You see, we spent such lots of money for those 
 horrid old doctors in the East, who did n't do me a 
 bit of good." 
 
 "You been doin' your share just gettin* well and 
 strong, which is savin' money. But seein' you asked 
 me, you can do a whole lot if Lorry was to say 
 anything to you about goin'. And you know how 
 better 'n I can tell you or your daddy or anybody." 
 
 "But Lorry must do as he thinks best. We we 
 are not engaged." 
 
 "'Course. And it ain't no time for a young fella 
 to get engaged to a gal and tie up her feelin's and 
 march off with her heart in his pocket. Mebby some 
 day she 's goin' to want it back ag'in, when he ain't 
 livin' to fetch it back to her. I see, by the Eastern 
 papers Torrance has been sendin' me, that some young 
 fellas is marryin' just afore they go to jine the French- 
 men on the front. Now, what are some of them gals 
 goin' to do if their boys don't come back? Or mebby 
 come back crippled for life? Some of them gals is 
 goin' to pay a mighty high price for just a few days 
 of bein' married. It riles me to think of it." 
 
 "I hadn't thought of it as you do," said 
 Dorothy. 
 
 "Well, I hope you'll forgive your Uncle Bud for 
 ragin' and rampin' around like this. I can't talk 
 what's in my heart to folks around here. They're 
 
 373 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 mostly narrow-gauge. I reckon I said enough. Let's 
 go look at that new saddle." 
 
 "Is n't it strange," said Dorothy, "that I could n't 
 talk with father like this? He'd be nice, of course, 
 but he would be thinking of just me." 
 
 "I reckon he would. And mebby some of Lorry." 
 
 "If Lorry should ask me about his going " 
 
 "Just you tell him that you think one volunteer is 
 worth four conscripts any time and any place. And 
 if that ain't a hint to him they's somethin' wrong 
 with his ears." 
 
 Shoop rose and plodded out after Dorothy. 
 Bondsman trailed lazily behind. Because Shoop 
 had not picked up his hat the big dog knew that his 
 master's errand, whatever it was, would be brief. 
 Yet Bondsman followed, stopping to yawn and stretch 
 the stiffness of age from his shaggy legs. There was 
 really no sense in trotting across the street with his 
 master just to trot back again in a few minutes. But 
 Bondsman's unwavering loyalty to his master's every 
 mood and every movement had become such a mat- 
 ter of course that the fine example was lost in the 
 monotony of repetition. 
 
 A dog's loyalty is so often taken for granted that 
 it ceases to be noticeable until in an unlooked-for 
 hazard it shines forth in some act of quick heroism 
 or tireless faithfulness worthy of a greater tribute 
 than has yet been written. 
 
 Bondsman was a good soldier. 
 
Chapter XXXIV 
 
 Young Life 
 
 RAMON was busy that afternoon transfer- 
 ring mattresses and blankets from the ranch- 
 house to the new, low-roofed bunk-house 
 that Waring had built. Ramon fitted up three beds 
 one for the cook, one for an old range-rider that 
 Waring had hired when his men had left to enlist, 
 and one for himself. 
 
 The partitions of the ranch-house had been taken 
 down, the interior rearranged, and the large living- 
 room furnished in a plain, comfortable way. 
 
 As Ramon worked he sang softly. He was happy. 
 The senora was coming to live with them, and per- 
 haps Senor Jim's son. Senor Jim had been more active 
 of late. His lameness was not so bad as it had been. 
 It was true the Senor Jim did not often smile, but 
 his eyes were kindly. 
 
 Ramon worked rapidly. There was much to do in 
 the other house. The bale of Navajo blankets was 
 still unopened. Perhaps the Senor Jim would help to 
 arrange them in the big room with the stone fireplace. 
 The senora would not arrive until to-morrow, but 
 then the home must be made ready, that she would 
 find it beautiful. And Ramon, accustomed to the 
 
 375 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 meagerly furnished adobes of old Mexico, thought 
 that the ranch-house was beautiful indeed. 
 
 Waring ate with the men in the new bunk-house 
 that evening. After supper he went over to the larger 
 building and sat alone in the living-room, gazing out 
 of the western window. His wounds ached, and in 
 the memory of almost forgotten trails he grew young 
 again. Again in Old Mexico, the land he loved, he saw 
 the blue crest of the Sierras rise as in a dream, and 
 below the ranges a tiny Mexican village of adobe huts 
 gold in the setting sun. Between him and the vil- 
 lage lay the outlands, ever mysterious, ever calling to 
 him. Across the desert ran a thin trail to the village. 
 And down the trail the light feet of Romance ran 
 swiftly as he followed. He could even recall the posi- 
 tions of the different adobes; the strings of chiles dark 
 red in the twilight; the old black-shawled seiiora who 
 had spoken a guttural word of greeting as he had 
 ridden up. 
 
 Back in Sonora men had said, "Waring has made 
 his last ride." They had told each other that a white 
 man was a fool to go alone into that country. Per- 
 haps he had been a fool. But the thrill of those early 
 days, when he rode alone and free and men sang of 
 him from Sonora to the Sweetgrass Hills! And on 
 that occasion he had found the fugitive he sought, yet 
 he had ridden back to Sonora alone. He had never 
 forgotten the face of the young Mexican woman who 
 had pleaded with him to let her lover go. Her eyes 
 
 376 
 
Young Life 
 
 were big and velvet black. Her mouth was the mouth 
 of a Madonna. 
 
 Waring had told her that it was useless to plead. 
 He remembered how her eyes had grown dull and 
 sullen at his word. He told her that he was simply 
 doing his duty. She had turned on him like a panther, 
 her little knife glittering in the dusk as she drove it 
 at his breast. The Mexican lover had jerked free 
 and was running toward the foothills. Waring re- 
 called his first surprise at the wiry strength of her 
 wrist as he had twisted the knife from her. If the 
 Mexican lover had not turned and shot at him 
 The black figure of the Mexican had dropped just 
 where the road entered the foothills. The light had 
 almost gone. The vague bulk of the Sierras wavered. 
 Outlines vanished, leaving a sense of something 
 gigantic, invisible, that slumbered in the night. The 
 stars were big and softly brilliant as he had ridden 
 north. 
 
 The old wound in his shoulder ached. The Mexi- 
 can had made a good shot for a Mexican. 
 
 Out on the Arizona mesa, against the half disk of 
 gold, was the black silhouette of a horseman. Waring 
 stepped to the doorway. Ramon was seated just 
 outside the door, smoking a cigarette. The southern 
 stars were almost visible. Each star seemed to have 
 found its place, and yet no star could be seen. 
 
 "It is Lorry," said Ramon. "He has ridden far." 
 
 Waring smiled. Fifty miles had not been con- 
 
 377 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 sidered a big day's ride in his time. In his time ! But 
 his day was past. The goddess he had followed had 
 left him older than his years, crippled, unable to 
 ride more than a few hours at a time; had left him 
 fettered to the monotony of the far mesa levels and 
 the changeless hills. Was this his punishment, or 
 simply a black trick of fate, that the tang of life 
 had evaporated, leaving a stagnant pool wherein 
 he gazed to meet the blurred reflection of a face weary 
 with waiting for what end? 
 
 Unused to physical inactivity, Waring had grown 
 somber of mind these latter days. Despite the 
 promise of more comfortable years, he had never 
 felt more lonely. With the coming of Lorry the old 
 order would change. Young blood, new life would 
 have its way. 
 
 The sound of pattering hoofs grew louder. War- 
 ing heard the old familiar, "Hi! Yippy! Yip!" of the 
 range rider. Young blood? New life? It was his 
 own blood, his own life reincarnate in the cheery rider 
 that swung down and grasped his hand. Nothing 
 had changed. Life was going on as it always had. 
 
 "Hello, dad! How's the leg?" 
 
 Waring smiled in the dusk. "Pretty fair, Lorry. 
 You did n't waste any time getting here." 
 
 "Well, not much. I rode down with Bronson and 
 Dorothy." 
 
 "Do you call her 'Dorothy'?" 
 
 "Ever since she calls me 'Lorry/' 3 
 
 378 
 
Young Life 
 
 "Had anything to eat?" 
 
 "Nope. I cut across. How's mother?" 
 
 "She will be here to-morrow. We have been get- 
 ting things ready. Let Ramon take your horse " 
 
 "Thanks. I '11 fix him in two shakes." 
 
 And in two shakes bridle and saddle were off, and 
 Gray Leg was rolling in the corral. 
 
 While Lorry ate, Ramon laid a fire in the big stone 
 fireplace. After supper Lorry and his father sat 
 gazing at the flames. Lorry knew why he had been 
 sent for, but waited for his father to speak. 
 
 Presently Waring turned to him. "I sent for you 
 because I need some one to help. And your mother 
 wants you here. I won't urge you, but I can offer you 
 Pat's share in the ranch. I bought his share last 
 week. You'll have a working interest besides that. 
 You know something about cattle. Think it over." 
 
 "That's a dandy offer," said Lorry. "I'm right 
 obliged, dad. But there's something else. You put 
 your proposition straight, and I 'm going to put mine 
 straight. Now, if you was in my boots, and she liked 
 you enough, would you marry her?" 
 
 "You have n't told me who she is." 
 
 "Why Dorothy Bronson. I thought you knew." 
 
 Waring smiled. "You're pretty young, Lorry." 
 
 "But you married young, dad." 
 
 "Yes. And I married the best woman in the 
 world. But I can't say that I made your mother 
 happy." 
 
 379 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "I guess ma never cared for anybody but you," 
 said Lorry. 
 
 "It is n't just the caring for a person, Lorry." 
 
 "Well, I thought it was. But I reckon you know. 
 And Dorothy is the prettiest and lovin'est kind of a 
 girl you ever seen. I was wishin' you was acquainted." 
 
 "I should like to meet her. Are you sure she is 
 your kind of girl, Lorry? Now, wait a minute; I know 
 how you feel. A girl can be good-looking and mighty 
 nice and think a lot of a man, and yet not be the 
 right girl for him." 
 
 "But how is he goin' to find that out?" 
 
 "If he must find out by marrying her." 
 
 "Then I aim to find out, if she is willin'. But I 
 wanted to tell you because you made me that 
 offer. I was askin' your advice because you been 
 through a lot." 
 
 "I wish I could advise you. But you're a man 
 grown, so far as taking care of yourself is concerned. 
 And when a man thinks of getting married he is n't 
 looking for advice against it. Why don't you wait 
 a year or two?" 
 
 "Well, mebbe I got to. Because well, I did n't 
 ask Dorothy yet. Then there 's somethin' else. A lot 
 of the fellas up in the high country have enlisted in the 
 regulars, and some have gone over to Canada to 
 join the Foreign Legion. Now, I don't want to be 
 the last hombre on this mesa to go." 
 
 "There has been no call for men by the Nation." 
 
 380 
 
Young Life 
 
 "But it's comin', dad. Any fella can see that. 
 I kind of hate to wait till Uncle Sam says I got to go. 
 I don't like going that way." 
 
 "What do you think your mother will say?" 
 
 "Gosh! I know! That's why I wanted to talk to 
 you first. If I 'm goin', I want to know it so I can say 
 to her that I am goin' and not that I aim to go." 
 
 "Well, you will have to decide that." 
 
 "Well, I'm goin' to before ma comes. Dog- 
 gone it! You know how it is tryin' to explain things 
 to a woman. Wimmin don't understand them kind 
 of things." 
 
 "I don't know about that, Lorry." 
 
 Lorry nodded. "I tell you, dad you kind of 
 set a pace for me. And I figure I don't want folks to 
 say: * There goes Jim Waring's boy.' If they're 
 goin' to say anything, I want it to be: * There goes 
 Lorry Waring.' " 
 
 Waring knew that kind of pride if he knew any- 
 thing. He was proud of his son. And Waring's 
 most difficult task was to keep from influencing him 
 in any way. He wanted the boy to feel free to do as 
 he thought best. 
 
 "You were in that fight at Sterling," said War- 
 ing, gesturing toward the south. 
 
 "But that was different," said Lorry. "Them 
 coyotes was pluggin' at us, and we just nacher- 
 ally had to let 'em have it. And besides we was work- 
 in' for the law." 
 
 381 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "I understand there was n't any law in Sterling 
 about that time." 
 
 "Well, we made some," asserted Lorry. 
 
 "And that's just what this war means. It's 
 being fought to make law." 
 
 "Then I'm for the law every time, big or little. 
 I seen enough of that other thing." 
 
 "Think it over, Lorry. Remember, you're free 
 to do as you want to. I have made my offer. Then 
 there is your mother and the girl. It looks as 
 though you had your hands full." 
 
 "You bet! Business and war and and Dorothy 
 is a right big order. I 'm gettin' a headache thinkin' 
 of it!" 
 
 Waring rose. "I'm going to turn in. I have to 
 live pretty close to the clock these days." 
 
 "See you in the mornin'," said Lorry, giving his 
 hand. "Good-night, dad." 
 
 "Good-night, boy." 
 
Chapter XXXV 
 
 The High Trail 
 
 BLACK-EDGED against the silvery light of 
 early dawn the rim of the world lay dotted 
 with far buttes and faint ranges fading 
 into the spaces of the north and south. The light 
 deepened and spread to a great crimson pool, tide- 
 less round the bases of magic citadels and mighty 
 towers. Golden minarets thrust their slender, fiery 
 shafts athwart the wide pathway of the ascending 
 sun. The ruddy glow palpitated like a live ember 
 naked to the wind. The nearer buttes grew boldly 
 beautiful. Slowly their molten outlines hardened to 
 rigid bronze. Like ancient castles of some forgotten 
 land, isolated in the vast mesa, empty of life, they 
 seemed to await the coming of a host that would 
 reshape their fallen arches and their wind-worn 
 towers to old-time splendor, and perfect their 
 imageries. 
 
 But the marching sun knew no such sentiment. 
 Pitilessly he pierced their enchanted walls, discover- 
 ing their pretense, burning away their shadowy 
 glory, baring them for what they were masses of 
 jumbled rock and splintered spires; rain-gutted 
 wraiths of clay, volcanic rock, the tumbled malpais 
 and the tufa of the kind. 
 
 383 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 Black shadows shifted. That which had been the 
 high-arched entrance to a mighty fortress was now 
 a shallow hollow in a hill. Here and there on the 
 western slope of the mounds cattle grazed in the chill 
 morning air. Enchantments of the dawn reshaped 
 themselves to local landmarks. 
 
 From his window Lorry could discern the distant 
 peak of Mount Baldy glimmering above the purple 
 sea of forest. Not far below the peak lay the viewless 
 level of the Blue Mesa. The trail ran just below that 
 patch of quaking asp. 
 
 The hills had never seemed so beautiful, nor had 
 the still mesas, carpeted with the brown stubble 
 of the close-cropped bunch-grass. 
 
 Arizona was his country his home. And yet 
 he had heard folk say that Arizona was a desert. 
 But then such folk had been interested chiefly in 
 guide-posts of the highways or the Overland dining- 
 car menu. 
 
 And he had been offered a fair holding in this land 
 twenty thousand acres under fence on a long-term 
 lease; a half -interest in the cattle and their increase. 
 He would be his own man, with a voice in the man- 
 agement and sale of the stock. A year or two and he 
 could afford to marry if Dorothy would have him. 
 He thought she would. And to keep in good health 
 she must always live in the West. What better land 
 than Arizona, on the high mesa where the air was 
 clean and clear; where the keen August rains re- 
 
 384 
 
The High Trail 
 
 freshed the sunburned grasses; where the light snows 
 of winter fell but to vanish in the retrieving sun? If 
 Dorothy loved this land, why should she leave it? 
 Surely health meant more to her than the streets and 
 homes of the East? 
 
 And Lorry had asked nothing of fortune save a 
 chance to make good. And fortune had been more 
 than kind to him. He realized that it was through 
 no deliberate effort of his own that he had acquired 
 the opportunity which offered. Why not take advan- 
 tage of it? It would give him prestige with Bron- 
 son. A good living, a good home for her. Such luck 
 did n't come to a man's door every day. 
 
 He had slept soundly that night, despite his intent 
 to reason with himself. It was morning, and he had 
 made no decision or so he thought. There was the 
 question of enlisting. Many of his friends had al- 
 ready gone. Older men were now riding the ranges. 
 Even the clerk in the general store at Stacey's had vol- 
 unteered. And Lorry had considered him anything 
 but physically competent to "make a fight." But it 
 was n't all in making a fight. It was setting an ex- 
 ample of loyalty and unselfishness to those fellows 
 who needed such an impulse to stir them to action. 
 Lorry thought clearly. And because he thought 
 clearly and for himself, he realized that he, as an 
 individual soldier in the Great War, would amount to 
 little; but he knew that his going would affect others; 
 that the mere news of his having gone would react 
 
 385 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 as a sort of endless chain reaching to no one knew 
 what sequestered home. 
 
 And this, he argued, was his real value: the spirit 
 ever more potent than the flesh. Why, he had heard 
 men joke about this war! It was a long way from 
 home. What difference did it make to them if those 
 people over there were being starved, outraged, mur- 
 dered? That was their own lookout. Friends of his 
 had said that they were willing to fight to a finish if 
 America were threatened with invasion, but that 
 could never happen. America was the biggest and 
 richest country in the world. She attended to her 
 own business and asked nothing but that the other 
 nations do likewise. 
 
 And those countries over there were attending to 
 their own business. If our ships were blown up, it was 
 our own fault. We had been warned. Anyway, the 
 men who owned those ships were out to make money 
 and willing to take a chance. It was n't our business 
 to mix in. We had troubles enough at home. As 
 Lorry pondered the shallow truths a great light came 
 to him. "Troubles enough at home' 9 that was it! 
 America had already been invaded, yet men slum- 
 bered in fancied security. He had been at Sterling 
 
 Lorry could hear Ramon stirring about in the 
 kitchen. The rhythmically muffled sound suggested 
 the mixing of flapjacks. Lorry could smell the thin, 
 appetizing fragrance of coffee. 
 
 With characteristic abruptness, he made his de- 
 
 386 
 
The High Trail 
 
 cision, but with no spoken word, no gesture, no emo- 
 tion. He saw a long day's work before him. He would 
 tackle it like a workman. 
 
 And immediately he felt buoyantly himself again. 
 The matter was settled. 
 
 He washed vigorously. The cold water brought a 
 ruddy glow to his face. He whistled as he strode to 
 the kitchen. He slapped the gentle-eyed Ramon on 
 the shoulder. Pancake batter hissed as it slopped over 
 on the stove. 
 
 "Cheer up, amigo!" he cried! "Had a good look 
 at the sun this mornin' ? " 
 
 "No, senor. I have made the breakfast, si." 
 
 "Well, she's out there, shinin' right down on 
 Arizona." 
 
 "The sefiora?" queried Ramon, puzzled. 
 
 "No; the sun. Don't a mornin' like this make 
 you feel like jumpin' clean out of your boots and 
 over the fence?" 
 
 "Not until I have made the flapcake, Senor 
 Lorry." 
 
 "Well, go the limit. Guess I'll roust out dad." 
 
 Bud Shoop scowled, perspired, and swore. Bonds- 
 man, close to Shoop's chair, blinked and lay very 
 still. His master was evidently beyond any proffer 
 of sympathy or advice. Yet he had had no argument 
 with any one lately. And he had eaten a good break- 
 fast. Bondsman knew that. Whatever the trouble 
 
 387 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 might be, his master had not consulted him about it. 
 It was evidently a matter that dogs could not under- 
 stand, and hence, very grave. Bondsman Ikked his 
 chops nervously. He wanted to go out and lie in the 
 sunshine, but he could not do that while his master 
 suffered such tribulation of soul. His place was close 
 to his master now, if ever. 
 
 Around Shoop were scattered pieces of paper; bits 
 of letters written and torn up. 
 
 " It 's a dam 5 sight worse resignin' than makin* out 
 my application and that was bad enough," growled 
 Shoop. "But I got to do this personal. This here pen 
 is like a rabbit gone loco. Now, here I set like a bag of 
 beans, tryin' to tell John Torrance why I'm quittin* 
 this here job without makin' him think I'm glad 
 to quit which I am, and I ain't. It's like tryin' to 
 split a flea's ear with a axe; it can't be did without 
 mashin' the flea. Now, if John was here I could tell 
 him in three jumps. The man that invented writin* 
 must 'a' been tongue-tied or had sore throat some 
 time when he wanted to talk awful bad. My lang- 
 widge ain't broke to pull no city rig or no hearse. 
 She 's got to have the road and plenty room to side- 
 step. 
 
 "Now, how would I say it if John were here? 
 Would I start off with 'Dear John' or 'Dear Old 
 Friend'? I reckon not. I'd just say: 'John, I'm 
 goin' to quit. I tried to do by you what I said I 
 would. I got a chanct to bust into the State House, 
 
 388 
 
The High Trail 
 
 and I got a good reason for bustin' in. I been nomi- 
 nated for Senator, and I got to live up to the name. 
 I'm a-goin' to run for Senator and mebby I'll 
 keep on when I get started, and end up somewhere 
 in Mexico. I can't jine the reg'lars account of my 
 physical expansibility and my aige, so I got to do 
 my fightin' to home. I'm willin' to stick by this job 
 if you say the word. Mebby some folks would be 
 dissap'inted, but I can stand that if they can. What 
 do you reckon I better do?' 
 
 "Now, that's what I'd say if John was here. 
 Why in tarnation can't I say it on paper? Lemme 
 
 see." 
 
 Bud filled a sheet with his large, outdoor script. 
 When he had finished, he tucked the letter in an 
 envelope hurriedly. He might reconsider his attempt 
 if he re-read the letter. 
 
 He was carefully directing the envelope when 
 Lorry strode in. 
 
 "'Bout time you showed up," said Shoop. 
 
 Lorry dropped his hat on the floor and pulled up 
 a chair. He was a bit nervous. Preamble would 
 make him more so. He spoke up quickly. 
 
 "Bud, I want to resign." 
 
 "Uh-uh. You tired of this job?" 
 
 "Nope; I like it." 
 
 "Want more pay?" 
 
 "No; I get all I'm worth." 
 
 "Ain't you feelin' well?" 
 
 389 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "Bully! I'm going to enlist." 
 
 "Might 'a' knowed it," said Bud, leaning back 
 and gazing at the newly addressed envelope on his 
 desk. "Got your reports all in?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Well, seein' you're quittin' for the best reason 
 I know, I'm right glad. You done your work like 
 I expected. Your mother knows you're goin' to jine 
 the army?" 
 
 "I told her yesterday. I've been at the ranch." 
 
 "Uh-uh. How's your dad?" 
 
 "He ain't so spry. But he is better." 
 
 "Uh-uh. That young Mexican stayin' at the 
 ranch with him?" 
 
 "You could n't chase Ramon away with a gun." 
 
 "Uh-uh. Well, Lorry, I just been sweatin' out a 
 letter tellin' John Torrance that I've quit. I'm goin' 
 to run for State Senator." 
 
 "I knew they would land you. Everybody knew 
 it." 
 
 "So we're both leavin' the Service. And we're 
 leavin' a mighty good job; mebby not such big pay, 
 but a man's job, that has been the makin' of some 
 no-account boys. For no fella can work for the Serv- 
 ice without settin' up and ridin' straight. Now, 
 when I was a young buster chasin' cow-tails over 
 the country I kind of thought the Forestry Serv- 
 ice was a joke. It ain't. It's a mighty big thing. 
 You're leaving it with a clean record. Mebby some 
 
 390 
 
The High Trail 
 
 day you'll want to get back in it. Were you goin' 
 on up?" 
 
 "I figured to straighten up things at the cabin." 
 
 "All right. When you come down you can get 
 your check. Give my regards to Bronson and the 
 little missy." 
 
 "You bet I will!" 
 
 Bud rose and proffered his hand. Lorry, rather 
 embarrassed, shook hands and turned to go. "See 
 you later," he said. 
 
 "I was going over to Stacey," said Shoop. "Mebby 
 I'll be out when you get back. But your check '11 be 
 here all right. You sure look like you was walkin* 
 on sunshine this mawnin'. Gosh, what a whoopin* 
 fine place this here world is when you are young 
 
 and kind of slim! Now, Bondsman and me 
 we was young onct. When it comes to bein' young 
 
 or State Senator you can have the politics and 
 give me back my ridin' legs. You 're ridin' the High 
 Trail these days. 
 
 "If I could just set a hoss onct, with twenty years 
 under my hide, and look down on this here country, 
 and the sage a-smellin' like it used to and the sun- 
 shine a-creepin' across my back easy and warm, with 
 a sniff of the timber comin' down the mawnin' breeze; 
 and 'way off the cattle a-lookin' no bigger 'n flies 
 on a office map why, I would n't trade that there 
 seat in the saddle for a million in gold. But I reckon 
 I would 'a' done it, them days. Sometimes I set 
 
 391 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 back and say 'Arizona' just to myself. I'm a-lovin* 
 that name. Accordin' to law, I'm livin' single, and 
 if I ain't married to Arizona, she's my best gal, 
 speakin' general. 'Course, a little lady give me a 
 watch onct. And say, boy, if she sets a lot of store 
 by you why, you why, git out of this here 
 office afore I make a dam' fool of myself!" 
 
 And the genial Bud waved his arm, blustering 
 and swearing heartily. 
 
 Bondsman leaped up. A ridge of hair rose along 
 his neck. For some unknown reason his master had 
 ordered Lorry to leave the office and at once. But 
 Lorry was gone, and Bud was patting the big Airedale. 
 It was all right. Nothing was going to happen. And 
 was n't it about time for the stage to arrive? 
 
 Bondsman trotted to the doorway, gazed up and 
 down the street, and came back to Shoop. The stage 
 had arrived, and Bondsman was telling Shoop so by 
 the manner in which he waited for his master to 
 follow him into the sunlight. Bud grinned. 
 
 "You're tellin' me the stage is in and I got a 
 letter to send." 
 
 Bud picked up his hat. Bondsman had already 
 preceded him to the doorway, and stood waiting. 
 His attitude expressed the extreme patience of age, 
 but that the matter should be attended to without 
 unreasonable delay. Shoop sighed heavily. 
 
 "That there dog bosses me around somethin' 
 scandalous." 
 
 392 
 
The High Trail 
 
 Halfway across the Blue Mesa, Dorothy met her 
 ranger man. She had been watching the trail. Lorry 
 dismounted and walked with her to the cabin. Bron- 
 son was glad to see him. They chatted for a while. 
 Lorry would have spoken of his father's offer of 
 his plans, of many things he wished Bronson to know, 
 yet he could not speak of these things until he had 
 talked with Dorothy. He would see Bronson again. 
 Meanwhile 
 
 A little later Lorry went to his cabin to take stock of 
 the implements and make his final report. He swept 
 the cabin, picked up the loose odds and ends, closed 
 the battered piano gently, and sat down to think. 
 
 He had made his decision, and yet he had seen 
 Dorothy again; touched her hand, talked with her, 
 and watched her brown eyes while he talked. The 
 Great War seemed very far away. And here he was 
 at home. This was his country. But he had set his 
 face toward the High Trail. He could not turn back. 
 
 Dorothy stood in the doorway, her finger at her 
 lips. Bronson was busy writing. Lorry rose and 
 stepped out. He stooped and lifted her to Gray Leg. 
 She sat sideways in the saddle as he led the pony 
 across the mesa to the veritable rim of the world. 
 
 Far below lay the open country, veiled by the soft 
 haze of distance. He gave her his hand, and she 
 slipped to the ground and stood beside him. For the 
 first time the tremendous sweep of space appalled 
 her. She drew close to him and touched his arm. 
 
Tang of Life 
 
 "What is it, Lorry?" 
 
 "You said once that you would wait for me." 
 
 "Yes. And now you are here, I'll never be lone- 
 some again." 
 
 "Were you lonesome?" 
 
 "A little. I had never really waited like that 
 before." 
 
 He frowned and gazed into the distances. It had 
 been easy to decide when alone. Then he faced 
 her, his gray eyes clear and untroubled. 
 
 "I'm going to enlist," he said simply. 
 
 She had hoped that he would. She wanted to think 
 that of him. And yet, now that he had spoken, now 
 that he was actually going Her eyes grew big. She 
 wanted to say that she was glad. Her lips trembled. 
 
 He held out his arms. She felt their warm strength 
 round her. On the instant she thought of begging him 
 not to go. But his eyes were shining with a high pur- 
 pose that shamed her momentary indecision. She 
 pressed her cheek to his. 
 
 "I will wait for you," she whispered, and her face 
 was wet with tears of happiness. 
 
 She was no longer the little mother and he her 
 boy, for in that moment he became to her the man 
 strength of the race, his arms her refuge and his 
 eyes her courage for the coming years. 
 
 THE END 
 
. - f 
 
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 SEVENTH 
 
 APR 23 
 NOV 101936 
 
 APh 17 '4Q 
 
YB 67106 
 
 V 
 
 6C3077 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY