The Taylor ranch, by its brand name the Double Bar 8, was one of the
old-time ranches. The ranch-house was a two-story adobe, closely
resembling the Hopi in architecture, as the roof of the first story
was used as a porch of the second. The bunk-house was one story, on
the opposite side of the patio, and a semicircle adobe wall, three
feet thick, extended from each end of the bunk-house, and circled the
ranch-house. At the front was a huge gate, arched over with adobe, and
at the two sides of the patio were entrances. In the center of the
patio was an old well. The stables, sheds and corrals were at the rear
of the bunk-house.
Earlier residents had planted oaks, pepper trees and flowering
eucalyptus, which had grown into big trees, shading the patio, where
grape-vines clambered over the old walls, tangled with the climbing
roses. From afar it appeared an oasis in the gray and purple of the
hills.
[Illustration: Map of Blue Wells showing nearby mines and ranches.]
It was the following day after the train robbery. Marion Taylor lifted
a bucket of water from the old well and poured it into a trough, while
she held the lead-rope of a blue-black horse, a tall, rangy animal, a
few degrees better bred than the average range animal.
The girl was bareheaded, the sleeves of her white waist rolled to her
elbows. She wore a divided skirt of brown material, and a serviceable
pair of tan riding-boots. Her hair was twisted in braids around her
well-shaped head, and held in place with a hammered silver comb set
with turquoise.
She was of average height and rather slim, with the olive tint from
the desert sun. Her eyes were wide and blue, and her well-shaped lips
parted in a smile, showing a flash of white teeth, when the horse
snorted at the splash of water in the trough.
“Somebody must ’a’ pinned yore ears back, Spike,” she said softly. “Or
are yuh tryin’ to make me think yo’re a bad horse?”
The ears of the blue-black snapped ahead, as if he understood, and he
plunged his muzzle into the clear water, drinking gustily, while the
girl drew another bucket and gently poured it into the trough. A burro
came poking in through the patio gate, an old ancient of the Arizona
hills. His right ear had been broken and looped down over his eye, and
his long, scraggly gray hair carried an accumulation of almost
everything that grew and wore spines.
“Hello, Apollo,” called the girl. The burro lifted his one good ear,
thrust out his whiskered muzzle and sniffed like a pointer dog. Then
he brayed raucously, shook himself violently and came slowly up to the
trough.
The horse drew aside, being either through drinking or too proud to
drink with such an object. The burro looked at the horse, decided not
to be particular, and proceeded to drink deeply.
Marion leaned against the curbing and laughed at the burro. That was
the one reason the ancient was tolerated around the ranch—to make them
laugh. His goatlike appetite was a constant provoker of profanity.
Shirts, boots, straps, bedding, anything eatable or uneatable went
into his maw. And as a result the inhabitants of the Double Bar 8 were
careful not to leave anything lying around loose.
And Apollo was not to be tampered with. In spite of his age he was
quick to resent any familiarity, and to feel the caress of his heels
left nothing to be desired in the way of shocks. At one time Buck
Taylor and Peeler had roped Apollo and clipped him closely, and so
heavy was his coat that he almost died from chills, with the
thermometer at 115 degrees in the shade.
As Marion turned away from the well and started leading the horse back
toward the gate, three horsemen rode up. They were Apostle Paul, Buck
and Peeler, who had left the ranch the morning previous to search for
Double Bar 8 cattle, which had been reported thirty miles away on the
Yellow Horn mesa.
Marion continued out of the patio and met them just outside the gate.
With them was a strange dog, which came up to her, acting very
friendly. It was the missing Geronimo.
“Where did you get the dog?” asked Marion, after greetings had been
exchanged.
“He picked us up,” smiled her father. “I dunno who owns him. There was
a piece of rope dragging and we took it off, ’cause it was always
gettin’ hung up on somethin’. Friendly cuss, ain’t he.”
Geronimo danced around, as if he knew what was being said about him.
Apostle Paul Taylor was a tall, skinny, lean-faced man, with a hooked
nose, wide mouth and deep-set gray eyes. His hair was fast turning
gray, and he stooped a trifle.
Buck Taylor was almost replica of his father, except that he was
bow-legged, had a mop of brown hair, and did not stoop. The
half-breed, Peeler, was heavy-set, deep-chested, typically Indian in
features, and showing little of his white blood. The two Taylors were
dressed in blue calico shirts, overalls, chaps, high-heeled boots and
sombreros. The half-breed’s raiment was practically the same, except
that he wore a faded red shirt, scarlet muffler, and his hat-band was
a riot of colored beads.
All three men wore belts and holstered guns, and in addition to this
the two Taylors had rifles hung to their saddles. They were dusty,
weary from their long ride. The Apostle Paul dismounted and handed his
reins to Peeler.
“Did yuh find any stock on the mesa?” asked Marion.
“About thirty head,” replied her father. “Wild as hawks, too. We
brought ’em in as far as Buzzard Springs. Anythin’ new?”
“Not a thing, Dad.”
“You ain’t tried ridin’ Spike, have yuh?”
Marion shook her head and looked at the blue-black.
“Then yuh better let Buck or Peeler fork him first. He ain’t been
saddled for three months.”
“Yeah, and the last time I climbed him he piled me quick,” laughed
Buck. “Let Peeler do it.”
“After pay-day,” grinned Peeler. “I don’t want to die with money
comin’ to me.”
“Pshaw, I’ll ride him myself,” said Marion.
Her father laughed and turned toward the gate when two men rode around
from behind the bunk-house and came up to them. It was Scotty Olson,
the sheriff, and Al Porter, the deputy. Porter was a big man,
dark-featured, with a nose entirely too large for the rest of his
face, and very flat cheekbones.
“Hyah, Sheriff,” greeted Taylor. “Howdy.”