Jim Waring of Sonora-Town; Or, Tang of Life. Henry Herbert Knibbs
you get caught, don't say that you saw me. Sabe?"
The wounded man raised himself on his elbow, glaring up at Waring with feverish eyes. "You give me my life. I shall not speak."
"Bueno! And you said in the house of Pedro Salazar?"
"Si! Near the acequia."
"The Placeta Burro. I know the place. You'll find your horse and a saddle when you are able to ride."
The bandit's eyes glistened as he watched Waring depart. If the gringo entered the house of Pedro Salazar, he would not find the gold and he would not come out alive. The gringo gunman had killed the brother of Pedro Salazar down in the desert country years ago. And Salazar had had nothing to do with the Ortez Mine robbery. Vaca thought that the gold was still safe in his tapaderas. The gringo was a fool.
Waring led the two saddled horses to the house. Ramon, coming from the kitchen, blinked in the sunlight.
"It is my horse, but not my saddle, señor."
"You are an honest man," laughed Waring. "But we won't change saddles.
Come on!"
Ramon mounted and rode beside Waring until they were out of sight of the ranch-house, when Waring reined up.
"Where is that money?" he asked suddenly.
"I do not know, señor."
"Did you know where it was yesterday?"
Ramon hesitated. Was this a trap? Waring's level gaze held the young
Mexican to a straight answer.
"Si, señor. I knew—yesterday."
"You knew; but you didn't talk up when your uncle tried to run me into
Pedro Salazar."
"I—he is of my family."
"Well, I don't blame you. I see that you can keep from talking when you have to. And now is your chance to do a lot of keeping still. I'm going to ride into Sonora ahead of you. When you get in, go home and forget that you made this journey. If your folks ask where your uncle is, tell them that he rode south and that you turned back. Because you did didn't lie to me, and because you did didn't show yellow, I'm going to give you a chance to get out of this. I let your uncle go because he would have given you away to save himself the minute I jailed him in Sonora. It's up to you to keep out of trouble. You've had a scare that ought to last you. Take your time and hit Sonora about sundown. Adios."
"But—señor!"
Waring whirled his horse. "A good rider shoves his foot clear home," he called as he loped away.
Ramon sat his horse, gazing at the little puffs of dust that shot from the hoofs of the big buckskin. Surely the gringo was mad! Yet he was a man of big heart. Perplexed, stunned by the realization that he was alone and free, the young Mexican gazed about him. Waring was a tiny figure in the distance. Ramon dismounted and examined the empty tapaderas.
Heretofore he had considered subtlety, trickery, qualities to be desired, and not incompatible with honor. In a flash he realized the difference, the distinction between trickery and keenness of mind. He had been awed by his uncle's reputation and proud to name him of this family. Now he saw him for what he was. "My Uncle José is a bad man," he said to himself. "The other—the gringo whom men call 'The Killer,'—he is a hard man, but assuredly he is not bad."
When Ramon spoke to his horse his voice trembled. His hand drifted up to the little silver crucifix on his breast. A vague glimmer of understanding, a sense of the real significance of the emblem heartened him to face the journey homeward and the questions of his kin. And, above all, he felt an admiration for the gringo that grew by degrees as he rode on. He could follow such a man to the end of the world, even across the border of the Great Unknown, for surely such a leader would not lose the way.
* * * * *
Three men sat in the office of the Ortez Mines, smoking and saying little. Donovan, the manager; the paymaster, Quigley; and the assistant manager, a young American fresh from the East. Waring's name was mentioned. Three days ago he had ridden south after the bandits. He might return. He might not.
"I'd like to see him ride in," said Donovan, turning to the paymaster.
"And you hate him at that," said Quigley.
"I don't say so. But if he was paymaster here, he'd put the fear of God into some of those greasers."
Quigley flushed. "You didn't hire me to chase greasers, Donovan. I'm no gunman."
"No," said Donovan slowly. "I had you sized up."
"Oh, cut out that stuff!" said the assistant manager, smiling. "That won't balance the pay-roll."
"No. But I'm going to cut down expenses." And Donovan eyed Quigley. "Jim Waring is too dam' high and mighty to suit me. Every time he tackles a job he is the big boss till it's done. If he comes back, all right. If he don't—we'll charge it up to profit and loss. But his name goes off the pay-roll to-day."
Quigley grinned. He knew that Donovan was afraid of Waring. Waring was the one man in Donovan's employ that he could not bully. Moreover, the big Irishman hated to pay Waring's price, which was stiff.
"How about a raise of twenty-five a month, then?" queried Quigley.
To his surprise, Donovan nodded genially. "You're on, Jack. And that goes the minute Waring shows up with the money. If he doesn't show up—why, that raise can wait."
"Then I'll just date the change to-day," said Quigley. "Take a look down the street."
Donovan rose heavily and stepped to the window. "By God, it's Waring, all right! He's afoot. What's that he's packing?"
"A canteen," said the assistant manager. "This is a dry country."
Donovan returned to his desk. "Get busy, at something. We don't want to sit here like a lot of stuffed buzzards. We're glad to see Waring back, of course. You two can drift out when I get to talking business with him."
Quigley nodded and took up his pen. The assistant manager studied a map.
Waring strode in briskly. The paymaster glanced up and nodded, expecting Donovan to speak. But Donovan sat with his back toward Waring, his head wreathed in tobacco smoke. He was apparently absorbed in a letter.
The gunman paused halfway across the office. Quigley fidgeted. The assistant superintendent stole a glance at Donovan's broad back and smiled. All three seemed waiting for Waring to speak. Quigley rather enjoyed the situation. The assistant superintendent's scalp prickled with restrained excitement.
He rose and stepped to Donovan. "Mr. Donovan, Mr. Waring is here."
"Thanks," said Waring, nodding to the assistant.
Donovan heaved himself round. "Why, hello, Jim! I didn't hear you come in."
Waring's cool gray eyes held Donovan with a mildly contemptuous gaze.
Still the gunman did not speak.
"Did you land 'em?" queried Donovan.
Waring shook his head.
"Hell!" exclaimed Donovan. "Then, what's the answer?"
"Bill, you can't bluff worth a damn!"
Quigley laughed. The assistant mopped his face with an immaculate handkerchief. The room was hot.
"Bill," and Waring's voice was softly insulting, "you can't bluff worth a damn."
Donovan's red face grew redder. "What are you driving at, anyway?"
Quigley stirred and rose. The assistant got to his feet.
"Just a minute," said Waring, gesturing to them to sit down. "Donovan's got something on his mind. I knew it the minute I came in. I want you fellows to hear it."
Donovan flung his half-smoked