_Lorry_
In the low hills west of Stacey, Lorry was looking for strays. He worked
alone, whistling as he rode, swinging his glasses on this and that
arroyo and singling out the infrequent clumps of greasewood for a touch
of brighter color in their shadows. He urged his pony from crest to
crest, carelessly easy in the saddle, alive to his work, and quietly
happy in the lone freedom of thought and action.
He felt a bit proud of himself that morning. Only last night he had
learned that he was the son of Waring of Sonora; a name to live up to,
if Western standards meant anything, and he thought they did.
The fact that he was the son of James Waring overcame for the time being
the vague disquietude of mind attending his knowledge that his mother
and father had become estranged. He thought he understood now why his
mother had made him promise to go unarmed upon the range. His
companions, to the last man, "packed a gun."
Heretofore their joshing had not bothered him. In fact, he had rather
enjoyed the distinction of going unarmed, and he had added to this
distinction by acquiring a skill with the rope that occasioned much
natural jealousy among his fellows. To be top-hand with a rope among
such men as Blaze Andrews, Slim Trivet, Red Bender, and High-Chin Bob,
the foreman, was worth all the patient hours he had given to persistent
practice with the reata.
But to-day he questioned himself. His mother had made him promise to go
unarmed because she feared he would become like his father. Why hadn't
she told him more about it all? He felt that she had taken a kind of
mean advantage of his unwavering affection for her. He was a man, so far
as earning his wage was concerned. And she was the best woman in the
world--but then women didn't understand the unwritten customs of the
range.
On a sandy ridge he reined up and gazed at the desert below. The bleak
flats wavered in the white light of noon. The farthest hills to the
south seemed but a few miles away.
For some time he focused his gaze at the Notch, from which the road
sprang and flowed in slow undulations to a vanishing point in the blank
spaces of the west. His pony, Gray Leg, head up and nostrils working,
twitched back one ear as Lorry spoke: "You see it, too?"
Gray Leg continued to gaze into the distance, occasionally stamping an
impatient forefoot, as though anxious to be off. Lorry lowered his glass
and raised it again. In the circle of the binoculars he saw a tiny,
distant figure dismount from a black horse and walk back and forth
across the road directly below the Notch. Lorry wiped his glasses and
centered them on the Notch again. The horseman had led his horse to a
clump of brush. Presently the twinkling front of an automobile
appeared--a miniature machine that wormed slowly through the Notch and
descended the short pitch beyond. Suddenly the car swerved and stopped.
Lorry saw a flutter of white near the machine. Then the concealed
horseman appeared on foot. Lorry slipped the glass in his shirt.
"We'll just mosey over and get a closer look," he told his pony. "Things
don't look just right over there."
Gray Leg, scenting a new interest, tucked himself together. The sand
sprayed to little puffs of dust as he swung to a lope.
Lorry was curious--and a bit elated at the promise of a break in the
monotony of hunting stray cattle. Probably some Eastern tourist had
taken the grade below the Notch too fast and ditched his machine. Lorry
would ride over and help him to right the car and set the pilgrim on his
way rejoicing. He had helped to right cars before. Last month, for
instance; that big car with the uniformed driver and the wonderfully
gowned women. He recalled the fact that one of them had been absolutely
beautiful, despite her strange mufflings. She had offered to pay him for
his trouble. When he refused she had thanked him eloquently with her
fine eyes and thrown him a kiss as he turned to go. She had thrown that
kiss with two hands! There was nothing stingy about that lady!
But possibly the machine toward which he rode carried nothing more
interesting than men; fat, well-dressed men who smoked fat cigars and
had much to say about "high" and "low," but didn't seem to know a great
deal about "Jack" and "The Game." If _they_ offered to pay him for
helping them--well, that was a different matter.
The pony loped toward the Notch, quite as eager as his rider to attend a
performance that promised action. Within a half-mile of the Notch, Lorry
pulled the pony to a walk. Just beyond the car he had seen the head and
ears of a horse. The rider was afoot, talking to the folks in the car.
This didn't look quite right.
He worked his pony through the shoulder-high brush until within a few
yards of the other man, who was evidently unwelcome. One of the two
women stood in front of the other as though to shield her.
Lorry took down his rope just as the younger of the two women saw his
head above the brush. The strange horseman, noting her expression,
turned quickly. Lorry's pony jumped at the thrust of the spurs. The rope
circled like a swallow and settled lightly on the man's shoulders. The
pony wheeled. The blunt report of a gun punctured the silence, followed
by the long-drawn ripping of brush and the snorting of the pony.
The man was dragging and clutching at the brush. He had dropped his gun.
Lorry dug the spurs into Gray Leg. The rope came taut with a jerk. The
man rolled over, his hands snatching at the noose about his neck. Lorry
dismounted and ran to him. He eased the loop, and swiftly slipped it
over the man's feet.
Gray Leg, who knew how to keep a rope taut better than anything else,
slowly circled the fallen man. Lorry picked up the gun and strode over
to the car. One of the women was crouching on the running-board. In
front of her, pale, straight, stiffly indignant, stood a young woman
whose eyes challenged Lorry's approach.
"It's all right, miss. He won't bother you now."
"Is he dead?" queried the girl.
"I reckon not."
"I heard a shot. I thought you killed him."
"No, ma'am. He took a crack at me. I don't pack a gun."
"You're a cowboy?" And the girl laughed nervously, despite her effort to
hold herself together.
"I aim to be," said Lorry, a trifle brusquely.
The elder woman peered through her fingers. "Another one!" she moaned.
"No, mother. This one is a cowboy. It's all right."
"It sure is. What was his game?"
"He told us to give him our money."
"Uh-uh. This is the second holdup here at the Notch this summer."
"He's trying to get up!" exclaimed the girl.
"My hoss'll take care of him."
"But your horse might drag him to death."
"Well, it's his own funeral, ain't it?"
The girl's eyes grew big. She stepped back. If she had only said
something Lorry would have felt better. As it was he felt decidedly
uncomfortable.
"If you'll say what is right, ma'am, I'll do it. You want me to turn him
loose?"
"I--No. But can't you do something for him?"
Lorry laughed. "I reckon you don't sabe them kind, miss. And mebby you
want to get that car on the road again."
"Yes," said the girl's mother. "I think this young man knows what he is
about."
Lorry stepped to the car to examine it.
The girl followed him. "I think there is nothing broken. We just turned
to come down that hill. We were coasting when I saw a rope stretched
across the road. I didn't know what to do. I tried to stop. We slid off
the edge."
"Uh-uh. He had it all ribbed up to stop you. Now if you had kept on
goin'--"
"But I didn't know what the rope meant. I was frightened. And before I
knew what had happened he stepped right on the running-board and told
us to give him our money."
"Yes, ma'am. If you can start her up, I'll get my rope on the axle and
help."
"But the man might get up!" said the girl.
Lorry grinned. A minute or two ago she had been afraid that the man
wouldn't get up. Lorry slipped the rope from the man's ankles and tied
it to the front axle. The girl got in the car. The pony buckled to his
work. The machine stuttered and purred. With a lurch it swung back into
the road. The girl's mother rose, brushed her skirt, and stepped to the
car. Lorry unfastened the rope and reined to one side.
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."