Jim Waring of Sonora-Town Part 13

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

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

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

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

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

"How far?"

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

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

When the car faced the east she stopped it.

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

"I could, ma'am. But it ain't right. He'll try this here stunt again.

There's a reward out for him."

"But won't you--please!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothin'."

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

Chapter IX

_High-Chin Bob_

The man's rusty black coat was torn and wrinkled. His cheap cotton shirt was faded and b.u.t.tonless. His boots were split at the sole, showing part of a bare foot. He was grimy, unshaven, and puffed unhealthily beneath the eyes. Lorry knew that he was but an indifferent rider without seeing him on a horse. He was a typical railroad tramp, turned highwayman.

"Got another gun on you?" queried Lorry.

The man shook his head.

"Where'd you steal that horse?"

"Who says I stole him?"

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

The man plodded across the sand. Lorry followed on Gray Leg, and led the other horse. Flares of noon heat shot up from the reddish-gray levels.

Lorry whistled, outwardly serene, but inwardly perturbed. That girl had asked him to let the man go and she had said "please." But, like all women, she didn't understand such things.

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

"What you callin' yourself?" asked Lorry.

"A dam' fool."

"I knew that. Anything else?"

"Waco--mebby."

"Waco, eh? Well, that's an insult to Texas. What's your idea in holdin'

up wimmin-folk, anyhow?"

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

"Think I believe that?"

"Suit yourself. You got me down."

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

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

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

The trail meandered down the hillside and out across a barren flat.

Halfway across the flat the trail forked. Lorry had ceased to whistle.

At the fork his pony stopped of its own accord. The man turned questioningly. Lorry gestured toward the right-hand trail. The man staggered on. The horses fretted at the slow pace. Keen to antic.i.p.ate some trickery, Lorry hardened himself to the other's condition. Perhaps the man was hungry, sick, suffering. Well, a mile beyond was the water-hole. The left-hand trail led directly to Stacey, but there was no water along that trail.

They moved on across a stretch of higher land that swept in a gentle, sage-dotted slope to the far hills. Midway across the slope was a bare spot burning like white fire in the desert sun. It was the water-hole.

The trail became paralleled by other trails, narrow and rutted by countless hoofs.

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