Jim Waring of Sonora Town by Knibbs, Henry Herbert

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JIM WARING

OF SONORA-TOWN

OR, TANG OF LIFE

BY

HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS

AUTHOR OF OVERLAND RED, ETC.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

E. BOYD SMITH

August 1918

To

Robert Frothingham

[Illustration: Waring of Sonora-Town]

Waring of Sonora-Town

_The heat acrost the desert was a-swimmin' in the sun,
When Waring of Sonora-Town,
Jim Waring of Sonora-Town,
From Salvador come ridin' down, a-rollin' of his gun.

He was singin' low and easy to his pony's steady feet,
But his eye was live and driftin'
Round the scenery and siftin'
All the crawlin' shadows shiftin' in the tremblin' gray mesquite.

Eyes was watchin' from a hollow where a outlaw Chola lay;
Two black, snaky eyes a-yearnin'
For Jim's hoss to make the turnin',
Then to send a bullet burnin' through his back--the Chola way.

And Jim Waring's gaze, a-rovin' round the desert as he rode,
Settled quick--without him seemin'
To get wise and quit his dreamin'--
On a shiny ring a-gleamin' where no ring had ever growed.

The lightnin' don't give warnin'; just a lick and she is through;
Waring set his gun to smokin'
Playful like, like he was jokin',
And--a Chola lay a-chokin' ... and a buzzard cut the blue._

Contents

I. The Canon

II. Jose Vaca

III. Donovan's Hand

IV. The Silver Crucifix

V. The Tang of Life

VI. Arizona

VII. The Return of Waring

VIII. Lorry

IX. High-Chin Bob

X. East and West

XI. Spring Lamb

XII. Bud Shoop and Bondsman

XIII. The Horse Trade

XIV. Bondsman's Decision

XV. John and Demijohn

XVI. Play

XVII. Down the Wind

XVIII. A Piece of Paper

XIX. The Fight in the Open

XX. City Folks

XXI. A Slim Whip of a Girl

XXII. A Tune for Uncle Bud

XXIII. Like One Who Sleeps

XXIV. The Genial Bud

XXV. The Little Fires

XXVI. Idle Noon

XXVII. Waco

XXVIII. A Squared Account

XXIX. Bud's Conscience

XXX. In the Hills

XXXI. In the Pines

XXXII. Politics

XXXIII. The Fires of Home

XXXIV. Young Life

XXXV. The High Trail

Illustrations

Waring of Sonora-Town

A huddled shape near a boulder

"I came over--to tell you--that it was Pat's gun"

They made coffee and ate the sandwiches she had prepared

_From drawings by E. Boyd Smith_

TANG OF LIFE

Chapter I

_The Canon_

Waring picketed his horse in a dim angle of the Agua Fria Canon, spread
his saddle-blanket to dry in the afternoon sun, and, climbing to a
narrow ledge, surveyed the canon from end to end with a pair of
high-power glasses. He knew the men he sought would ride south. He was
reasonably certain that they would not ride through the canon in
daylight. The natural trail through the Agua Fria was along the western
wall; a trail that he had avoided, working his toilsome way down the
eastern side through a labyrinth of brush and rock that had concealed
him from view. A few hundred yards below his hasty camp a sandy arroyo
crossed the canon's mouth.

He had planned to intercept the men where the trail crossed this arroyo,
or, should the trail show pony tracks, to follow them into the desert
beyond, where, sooner or later, he would overtake them. They had a start
of twelve hours, but Waring reasoned that they would not do much riding
in daylight. The trail at the northern end of the canon had shown no
fresh tracks that morning. His problem was simple. The answer would be
definite. He returned to the shelter of the brush, dropped the glasses
into a saddle-pocket, and stretched himself wearily.

A few yards below him, on a brush-dotted level, his horse, Dexter,
slowly circled his picket and nibbled at the scant bunch-grass. The
western sun trailed long shadows across the canon; shadows that drifted
imperceptibly farther and farther, spreading, commingling, softening the
broken outlines of ledge and brush until the walled solitude was brimmed
with dusk, save where a red shaft cleft the fast-fading twilight,
burning like a great spotlight on a picketed horse and a man asleep, his
head pillowed on a saddle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waring knew they would kill him if they could. He knew that not even a
fighting chance would have been his were they in his place and he in
theirs. He was deputized and paid to do just what he was doing. The men
were bandits who had robbed the paymaster of the Ortez Mines. To Waring
there was nothing complicated about the matter. It was his day's work.
The morning sun would be in their faces, but that was not his fault.

As Waring waited in the arroyo the faint clatter of shod hoofs came from
above. He drew close to a cutbank, leaning his shoulder against it
easily. With a slither of sand, the first horse took the pitch, legs
angled awkwardly as he worked down. The second rider followed, the led
horses pulling back.

At the bottom of the arroyo, the Mexicans reined up. The elder, squat,
broad of back, a black handkerchief tied round his thick neck, reached
into his pocket and drew out tobacco and cigarette papers. The other,
hardly more than a boy, urged that they hasten. Fear vibrated in his
voice. The squat Mexican laughed and began to roll a cigarette.

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

"Si!" said Waring softly.

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

Waring's lips tightened. The bandit was spurring his horse on the off
side to get behind his companion. Evidently the numbness of surprise had
given way to fear, and fear meant action. Waring knew that the elder
Mexican would sacrifice his companion for the sake of a chance of
killing the gringo.

Waring held out his left hand. "Give me your gun," he said to the youth.
"And hand it down butt first."

The youth, as though hypnotized, pulled out his gun and handed it to
Waring. Waring knew that if the other Mexican meant to fight it would be
at that instant. Even as the butt of the gun touched Waring's hand it
jumped. Two shattering reports blended and died echoless in the
close-walled arroyo.

The Mexican's gun slipped slowly from his fingers. He rocked in the
saddle, grasped the horn, and slid to the ground. Waring saw him reach
for the gun where it lay on the sand. He kicked it aside. The Mexican
youth leaped from the saddle and stood between Waring and the fallen
man. Waring stepped back. For an instant his eyes drew fine. He was
tempted to make an end of it right there. The youth dropped to his
knees. A drift of wind fluttered the bandanna at his throat. Waring saw
a little silver crucifix gleaming against the smooth brown of his chest.

"If it is that I am to die, I am not afraid," said the youth. "I have
this!" And his fingers touched the crucifix. "But you will not kill my
uncle!"

Waring hesitated. He seemed to be listening. And as though in a dream,
yet distinct--clear as though he had spoken himself came the words: "It
is enough!"

"Not this journey," said Waring.

The Mexican youth gazed at him wonderingly. Was the gringo mad?

Waring holstered his gun with a jerk. "Get up on your hind legs and quit
that glory stuff! We ride north," he growled.

Chapter II

_Jose Vaca_

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

"Get your uncle on his horse," he told the youth. "Don't make a break.
We're due at Juan Armigo's ranchito about sundown."

So far as he was concerned, that was all there was to it for the time
being. He had wounded and captured Jose Vaca, notorious in Sonora as
leader in outlawry. That there were no others of Vaca's kind with him
puzzled Waring. The young Ramon, Vaca's nephew, did not count.

Ramon helped his uncle to mount. They glanced at each other, Vaca's eyes
blinking. The gringo was afoot. They were mounted. Waring, observing
their attitude, smiled, and, crooking his finger, whistled shrilly. The
young Ramon trembled. Other gringos were hidden in the arroyo; perhaps
the very man that his uncle had robbed! Even now he could hear the click
of hoofs on the gravel. The gunman had been merciful for the moment,
only to turn his captives over to the merciless men of the mines; men
who held a Mexican's life worth no more than a dog's. The wounded man,
stiff in the saddle, turned his head. Round a bend in the dry river-bed,
his neck held sideways that the reins might drag free, came Waring's big
buckskin horse, Dexter. The horse stopped as he saw the group. Waring
spoke to him. The big buckskin stepped forward and nosed Waring, who
swung to the saddle and gestured toward the back trail.

They rode in silence, the Mexicans with bowed heads, dull-eyed,
listless, resigned to their certain fate. For some strange reason the
gringo had not killed them in the arroyo. He had had excuse enough.

Would he take them to Sonora--to the prison? Or would he wait until they
were in some hidden fastness of the Agua Fria, and there kill them and
leave them to the coyotes? The youth Ramon knew that the two little
canvas sacks of gold were cleverly tied in the huge tapaderas of his
uncle's saddle. Who would think to look for them there?

The gringo had said that they would ride to the ranchito of Juan Armigo.
How easily the gringo had tricked them at the very moment when they
thought they were safe! Yet he had not asked about the stolen money. The
ways of this gringo were past comprehension.

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

The pack on Ramon's saddle rode too lightly to contain anything heavier
than food. There was nothing tied to Vaca's saddle but a frayed and
faded blanket. Yet Waring was certain that they had not cached the gold;
that they carried it with them.

At noon they watered the horses midway up the canon. As they rode on
again, Waring noticed that Vaca did not thrust his foot clear home in
the stirrup, but he attributed this to the other's condition. The
Mexican was a sick man. His swarthy face had gone yellow, and he leaned
forward, clutching the horn. The heat was stagnant, unwavering. The pace
was desperately slow.

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

Again Waring heard the Voice, as though from a distance, and yet the
voice was his own: "You will turn back from the hunting of men."

"Like hell I will!" muttered Waring.

Ramon, who rode immediately ahead of him, turned in the saddle. Waring
gestured to him to ride on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waring nodded.

"And the horses; they shall have feed, water, everything--I myself--"

"Thanks. But I'll look after the horses, Juan. I'm taking Vaca and Ramon
to Sonora. See what you can do for Vaca. He's pretty sick."

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

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

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

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

He rose and threw some hay to the horses. He could hear Ramon and Armigo
talking in the ranch-house. Taking his empty canteen from his own
saddle, he untied the sacks and slipped the gold-pieces, one by one,
into the canteen. He scooped up sand and filled the canteen half full.
The gold no longer jingled as he shook it.

While Waring had no fear that either of the men would attempt to escape,
he knew Mexicans too well to trust Armigo explicitly. A thousand
dollars was a great temptation to a poor rancher. And while Armigo had
always professed to be Waring's friend, sympathy of blood and the appeal
of money easily come by might change the placid face of things
considerably.

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

"Jose and Ramon are your countrymen, Juan."

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

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

"But--senor--"

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

"Senor, it is impossible!"

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

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

"All right. Then when Ramon rode in here two days ago and asked you for
two horses, why didn't you refuse him? Why did you tell him you would
sell them, but that you would not lend them to him?"

"If Ramon says that, he lies. I told Ramon--"

"Thanks. That's all I want to know. I don't care what you told Ramon.
You let him take the horses. Now, I'm going to tell you something that
will be worth more to you than gold. Don't try to rope any stock grazing
round here to-night. I might wake up quick and make a mistake. Men look
alike in the moonlight--and we'll have a moon."

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

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

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

"The senor sleeps with the horses," said Armigo significantly.

Ramon bent his head and muttered a prayer.

"And if you pray," said Armigo, shifting the blankets from one arm to
the other, "pray then that the two horses that you borrowed may return.
As for your Uncle Jose, he will not die."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the coolness of night, with its dim radiance of stars, to the
accumulated heat of the interior of the adobe was an unpleasant change.
The walls were whitewashed and clean enough, but the place smelled
strongly of cooking. A lamp burned on the oilcloth-covered table. Ramon,
wide-eyed with trepidation, stood by his uncle, who had braced himself
on his elbow as Waring approached. Waring nodded pleasantly and rolled a
cigarette. Jose Vaca glared up at him hungrily. The lower lip,
pendulous, showed his broken teeth. Waring thought of a trapped wolf.
Juan glanced from one to the other.

But the gringo seemed incurious, merely gazing at the pictures on the
walls; a flaming print of the Madonna, one of the Christ, a cheap
photograph of Juan and his senora taken on their wedding day, an abalone
shell on which was painted something resembling a horse and rider--

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

Jose Vaca had spoken, but Waring was watching Ramon's eyes.

"All right, hombre. Muchas gracias."

"And now you will let me go?" queried Vaca.

"I haven't said so." Waring's tone was pleasant, almost indifferent.

Ramon's face was troubled. Of what use was it to try and deceive the
gringo? But Waring was smiling. Did he, then, believe such an obvious
lie?

"Bueno!" Waring exclaimed. "That lets _you_ out. Now, what about you,
Ramon?"

"My uncle has spoken," said Ramon. "I have nothing to say."

"Then you will ride with me to Sonora."

"As you say, senor."

"All right. Don't sit up all night praying. That won't do any good. Get
some sleep. And you, too, Juan." And Waring turned quickly to Armigo.
"Sleep all you can. You'll feel better in the morning."

Waring turned and strode out. In the corral he spread his blankets. With
his head on the saddle, he lay gazing up at the stars.

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

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

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