_The Return of Waring_
The interior of the little desert hotel at Stacey, Arizona, atoned for
its bleached and weather-worn exterior by a refreshing neatness that was
almost startling in contrast to the warped board front with its painted
sign scaled by the sun.
The proprietress, Mrs. Adams, a rosy, dark-haired woman, had heard the
Overland arrive and depart. Through habit she listened until the distant
rumble of the train diminished to a faint purr. No guests had arrived on
the Overland. Stacey was not much of a town, and tourists seldom stopped
there. Mrs. Adams stepped from the small office to the dining-room and
arranged some flowers in the center of the long table. She happened to
be the only woman in the desert town who grew flowers.
The Overland had come and gone. Another day! Mrs. Adams sighed, patted
her smooth black hair, and glanced down at her simple and neat attire.
She rearranged the flowers, and was stepping back to view the effect
when something caused her to turn and glance toward the office. There
had been no sound, yet in the doorway stood a man--evidently a rider. He
was looking at the calendar on the office wall. Mrs. Adams stepped
toward him. The man turned and smiled. She gazed with awakening
astonishment at the dusty, khaki-clad figure, the cool gray eyes beneath
the high-crowned sombrero, and last at the extended hand. Without
meeting the man's eyes, she shook hands.
"Jim! How did you know?" she queried, her voice trembling.
"I heard of you at Nogales. I wasn't looking for you--then. You have a
right pleasant place here. Yours?"
She nodded.
"I came to see the boy," he said. "I'm not here for long."
"Oh, Jim! Lorry is so big and strong--and--and he's working for the
Starr outfit over west of here."
"Cattle, eh? Is he a good boy?"
"A nice question for you to ask! Lorry rides a straighter trail than his
father did."
The man laughed and patted her shoulder affectionately. "You needn't
have said that, Annie. You knew what I was when I married you. And no
man ever said I wasn't straight. Just what made you leave Sonora without
saying a word? Didn't I always treat you well?"
"I must say that you did, Jim. You never spoke a rough word to me in
your life. I wish you had. You'd be away for weeks, and then come back
and tell me it was all right, which meant that you'd 'got your man,' as
they say down there. At first I was too happy to care. And when the baby
came and I tried to get you to give up hiring out to men who wanted
killing done,--for that's what it was,--you kept telling me that some
day you would quit. Maybe they did pay big, but you could have been
anything else you wanted to. You came of good folks and had education.
But you couldn't live happy without that excitement. And you thought I
was happy because you were. Why, even up here in Arizona they sing
'Waring of Sonora-Town.' Our boy sings it, and I have to listen, knowing
that it is you he sings about. I was afraid of you, Jim, and afraid our
boy would grow up to be like you."
Waring nodded. "I'm not blaming you, Annie. I asked why you left
me--without a word or an address. Do you think that was square?"
Mrs. Adams, flushed, and the tears came to her eyes. "I didn't dare
think about that part of it. I was afraid of you. I got so I couldn't
sleep, worrying about what might happen to you when you were away. And
you always came back, but you never said where you'd been or what you'd
done. I couldn't stand it. If you had only told me--even about the
men--that you were paid to kill, I might have stood it. But you never
said a word. The wives of the American folks down there wouldn't speak
to me. And the Mexican women hated me. I was the wife of Jim Waring,
'the killer.' I think I went crazy."
"Well, I never did believe in talking shop, Annie."
"That's just it. You were always polite--and calling what you did,
'shop'! I don't believe you ever cared for a single person on this
earth!"
"You ought to know, Annie. But we won't argue that. Don't act as though
you had to defend yourself. I am not blaming you--now. You have
explained. I did miss the boy, though. Are you doing well here?"
"It was hard work at first. But I never did write to father to help me."
"You might have written to me. When did the boy go to work? He's
eighteen, isn't he?"
Mrs. Adams smiled despite herself. "Yes, this fall. He started in with
the Starr people at the spring round-up."
"Couldn't he help you here?"
"He did. But he's not the kind to hang round a hotel. He's all man--if I
do say it." And Mrs. Adams glanced at her husband. In his lithe,
well-set-up figure she saw what her son would be at forty. "Yes, Jim,
he's man size--and I've raised him to go straight."
Waring laughed. "Of course you have! What name will I sign, Annie?"
"Folks here call me Mrs. Adams."
"So you're Annie Adams again! Well, here's your husband's name, if you
don't mind." And he signed the register, "James Waring, Sonora, Mexico."
"Isn't that risky?" she queried.
"No one knows me up here. And I don't intend to stay long. I'd like to
see the boy."
"Jim, you won't take him away!"
"You know me better than that. You quit me down there, and I won't say
that I liked it. I wondered how you'd get along. You left no word. When
I realized that you must have wanted to leave me, that settled it.
Following you would have done no good, even if I had known where you had
gone. I was free. And a gunman has no business with a family."
"You might have thought about that before you came courting me."
"I did. Didn't you?"
"You're hard, Jim. I was just a girl. Any woman would have been glad to
marry you then. But when I got sense enough to see how you earned your
money--I just had to leave. I was afraid to tell you--"
"There, now, Annie; we'll let that go. I won't say that I don't care,
but I've been mighty busy since you left. I didn't know where you were
until I hit Nogales. I wanted to see you and the boy. And I'm as hungry
as a grizzly."
"Anita is getting supper. Some of the folks in town board here. They'll
be coming in soon."
"All right. I'm a stranger. I rode over. I'd like to wash up."
"You _rode_ over?"
"Yes. Why not? I know the country."
Mrs. Adams turned and gestured toward the stairway. She followed him and
showed him to a room. So he hadn't come in on the Overland, but had
ridden up from Sonora. Why had he undertaken such a long, weary ride?
Surely he could have taken the train! She had never known him to be
without money. But he had always been unaccountable, coming and going
when he pleased, saying little, always serene. And now he had not said
why he had ridden up from Sonora. "Why not?" was all that he had said in
explanation.
He swung out of his coat and washed vigorously, thrusting his fingers
through his short, curly hair and shaking his head in boyish enjoyment
that was refreshing to watch. She noticed that he had not aged much. He
seemed too cool, too self-possessed always, to show even the ordinary
trace of years. She could not understand him; yet she was surprised by a
glow of affection for him now that he had returned. As he dried his head
she saw that his hair was tinged with gray, although his face was lined
but little and his gray eyes were as keen and quick as ever. If he had
only shared even that part of his life with her--down there!
"Jim!" she whispered.
He turned as he took up his coat. "Yes, Annie?"
"If you would only promise--"
He shook his head. "I won't do that. I didn't come to ask anything of
you except to see the boy But if you need money--"
"No. Not that kind of money."
"All right, girl." And his voice was cheery. "I didn't come here to make
you feel bad. And I won't be here long. Can't we be friends while I'm
here? Of course the boy will know. But no one else need know. And--you
better see to the folks downstairs. Some one just came in."
She turned and walked down the hall, wondering if he had ever cared for
her, and wondering if her boy, Lorry, would ever come to possess that
almost unhuman quality of intense alertness, that incomprehensible
coolness that never allowed him to forget what he was for an instant.
When Waring came down she did not introduce him to the boarders, a fact
that sheriff Buck Hardy, who dined at the hotel, noted with some
interest. The men ate hastily, rose, and departed, leaving Hardy and
Waring, who called for a second cup of coffee and rolled a cigarette
while waiting.
Hardy had seen the stranger ride into town on the big buckskin. The
horse bore a Mexican brand. The hotel register told Hardy who the
stranger was. And the sheriff of Stacey County was curious to know just
what the Sonora gunman was doing in town.
Waring sat with his unlighted cigarette between his fingers. The sheriff
proffered a match. Their eyes met. Waring nodded his thanks and blew a
smoke-ring.
"How are things down in Sonora?" queried Hardy.
"Quiet."
Mrs. Adams questioned Waring with her eyes. He nodded. "This is Mr.
Waring," she said, rising. "This is Mr. Hardy, our sheriff."
The men shook hands. "Mrs. Adams is a good cook," said Waring.
A clatter of hoofs and the sound of a cheery voice broke the silence.
A young cowboy jingled into the room. "Hello, Buck! Hello, mother!" And
Lorry Adams strode up and kissed his mother heartily. "Got a runnin'
chance to come to town and I came--runnin'. How's everything?"
Mrs. Adams murmured a reply. Buck Hardy was watching Waring as he
glanced up at the boy. The sheriff pulled a cigar from his vest and
lighted it. In the street he paused in his stride, gazing at the end of
his cigar. Lorry Adams looked mighty like Jim Waring, of Sonora. Hardy
had heard that Waring had been killed down in the southern country. Some
one had made a mistake.
Waring had risen. He stood with one hand touching the table, the tips of
his fingers drumming the rhythm of a song he hummed to himself. The
boy's back was toward him. Waring's gaze traveled from his son's head to
his boot-heel.
Lorry noticed that his mother seemed perturbed. He turned to Waring
with a questioning challenge in his gray eyes.
Mrs. Adams touched the boy's arm. "This is your father, Lorry."
Lorry glanced from one to the other.
Waring made no movement, offered no greeting, but stood politely
impassive.
Mrs. Adams spoke gently: "Lorry!"
"Why, hello, dad!" And the boy shook hands with his father.
Waring gestured toward a chair. Lorry sat down. His eyes were warm with
mild astonishment.
"Smoke?" said Waring, proffering tobacco and papers.
Lorry's gaze never left his father's face as he rolled a cigarette and
lighted it. Mrs. Adams realized that Waring's attitude of cool
indifference appealed to the boy.
Lorry remembered his father dimly. He was curious to know just what kind
of man he was. He didn't talk much; that was certain. The boy remembered
that his mother had not said much about her husband, answering Lorry's
childish questionings with a promise to tell him some day. He recalled a
long journey on the train, their arrival at Stacey, and the taking over
of the run-down hotel that his mother had refurnished and made a place
of neatness and comfort. And his mother had told him that she would be
known "Mrs. Adams." Lorry had been so filled with the newness of things
that the changing of their name was accepted without question. Slowly
his recollection of Sonora and the details of their life there came back
to him. These things he had all but forgotten, as he had grown to love
Arizona, its men, its horses, its wide ranges and magic hills.
Mrs. Adams remembered that her husband had once told her he could find
out more about a man by watching his hands than by asking questions. She
noticed that Waring was watching his son's hands with that old,
deliberate coldness of attitude. He was trying to find out just what
sort of a man his boy had grown to be.
Lorry suddenly straightened in his chair. Mrs. Adams, anticipating his
question, nodded to Waring.
"Yes," said Waring; "I am the Waring of Sonora that you are thinking
about."
Lorry flushed. "I--I guess you are," he stammered. "Mother, you never
told me _that_."
"You were too young to understand, Lorry."
"And is that why you left him?"
"Yes."
"Well, maybe you were right. But dad sure looks like a pretty decent
hombre to me."
They laughed in a kind of relief. The occasion had seemed rather
strained.
"Ask your mother, Lorry. I am out of it." And, rising Waring strode to
the doorway.
Lorry rose.
"I'll see you again," said Waring. And he stepped to the street, humming
his song of "Sonora and the Silver Strings."
Mrs. Adams put her arm about her son's shoulders. "Your father is a hard
man," she told him.
"Was he mean to you, mother?"
"No--never that."
"Well, I don't understand it. He looks like a real man to me. Why did he
come back?"
"He said he came back to see you."
"Well, he's my father, anyway," said Lorry.