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 Cañon
II. José 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 Cañon_
Waring picketed his horse in a dim angle of the Agua Fria Cañon, spread
his saddle-blanket to dry in the afternoon sun, and, climbing to a
narrow ledge, surveyed the cañon 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 cañon 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 cañon'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 cañon 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 cañon; 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 cañon, occasionally glancing up
as some dim star burned through the deepening dusk and bloomed to a
silvery maturity.
Presently a faint pallor overspread the cañon 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 cañon
floor.
Across the cañon 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 cañon 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 cañon. 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.