_High-Chin Bob_
The man's rusty black coat was torn and wrinkled. His cheap cotton shirt
was faded and buttonless. His boots were split at the sole, showing part
of a bare foot. He was grimy, unshaven, and puffed unhealthily beneath
the eyes. Lorry knew that he was but an indifferent rider without seeing
him on a horse. He was a typical railroad tramp, turned highwayman.
"Got another gun on you?" queried Lorry.
The man shook his head.
"Where'd you steal that horse?"
"Who says I stole him?"
"I do. He's a Starr horse. He was turned out account of goin' lame. Hop
along. I'll take care of him."
The man plodded across the sand. Lorry followed on Gray Leg, and led the
other horse. Flares of noon heat shot up from the reddish-gray levels.
Lorry whistled, outwardly serene, but inwardly perturbed. That girl had
asked him to let the man go and she had said "please." But, like all
women, she didn't understand such things.
They approached a low ridge and worked up a winding cattle trail. On the
crest Lorry reined up. The man sat down, breathing heavily.
"What you callin' yourself?" asked Lorry.
"A dam' fool."
"I knew that. Anything else?"
"Waco--mebby."
"Waco, eh? Well, that's an insult to Texas. What's your idea in holdin'
up wimmin-folk, anyhow?"
"Mebby you'd hold up anybody if you hadn't et since yesterday morning."
"Think I believe that?"
"Suit yourself. You got me down."
"Well, you can get up and get movin'."
The man rose. He shuffled forward, limping heavily. Occasionally he
stopped and turned to meet a level gaze that was impersonal; that
promised nothing. Lorry would have liked to let the other ride. The man
was suffering--and to ride would save time. But the black, a rangy,
quick-stepping animal, was faster than Gray Leg. But what if the man did
escape? No one need know about it. Yet Lorry knew that he was doing
right in arresting him. In fact, he felt a kind of secret pride in
making the capture. It would give him a name among his fellows. But was
there any glory in arresting such a man?
Lorry recalled the other's wild shot as he was whirled through the
brush. "He sure tried to get me!" Lorry argued. "And any man that'd hold
up wimmin ought to be in the calaboose--"
The trail meandered down the hillside and out across a barren flat.
Halfway across the flat the trail forked. Lorry had ceased to whistle.
At the fork his pony stopped of its own accord. The man turned
questioningly. Lorry gestured toward the right-hand trail. The man
staggered on. The horses fretted at the slow pace. Keen to anticipate
some trickery, Lorry hardened himself to the other's condition. Perhaps
the man was hungry, sick, suffering. Well, a mile beyond was the
water-hole. The left-hand trail led directly to Stacey, but there was no
water along that trail.
They moved on across a stretch of higher land that swept in a gentle,
sage-dotted slope to the far hills. Midway across the slope was a bare
spot burning like white fire in the desert sun. It was the water-hole.
The trail became paralleled by other trails, narrow and rutted by
countless hoofs.
Within a hundred yards of the water-hole the prisoner collapsed. Lorry
dismounted and went for water.
The man drank, and Lorry helped him up and across the sand to the rim of
the water-hole. The man gazed at the shimmering pool with blurred eyes.
Lorry rolled a cigarette. "Roll one?" he queried.
The man Waco took the proffered tobacco and papers. His weariness seemed
to vanish as he smoked. "That pill sure saved my life," he asserted.
"How much you reckon your life's worth?"
Waco blew a smoke-ring and nodded toward it as it dissolved. Lorry
pondered. The keen edge of his interest in the capture had worn off,
leaving a blunt purpose--a duty that was part of the day's work. As he
realized how much the other was at his mercy a tinge of sympathy
softened his gray eyes. Justice was undeniably a fine thing. Folks were
entitled to the pursuit of happiness, to life and liberty he had read
somewhere. He glanced up. Waco, seated opposite, had drifted back into a
stupor, head sunk forward and arms relaxed. The stub of his cigarette
lay smouldering between his feet. Lorry thought of the girl's appeal.
"Just what started you to workin' this holdup game?" he queried.
Waco's head came up. "You joshin' me?"
"Nope."
"You wouldn't believe a hard-luck story, so what's the use?"
"Ain't any. I was just askin' a question. Roll another?"
Waco stuck out his grimy paw. His fingers trembled as he fumbled the
tobacco and papers.
Lorry proffered a match. "It makes me sick to see a husky like you all
shot to pieces," said Lorry.
"Did you just get wise to that?"
"Nope. But I just took time to say it."
Waco breathed deep, inhaling the smoke. "I been crooked all my life," he
asserted.
"I can believe that. 'Course you know I'm takin' you to Stacey."
"The left-hand trail was quicker," ventured the tramp.
"And no water."
"I could ride," suggested Waco.
Lorry shook his head. "If you was to make a break I'd just nacherally
plug you. I got your gun. You're safer afoot."
"I'll promise--"
"Nope. You're too willin'."
"I'm all in," said Waco.
"I got to take you to Stacey just the same."
"And you're doin' it for the money--the reward."
"That's my business."
"Go ahead," said the tramp. "I hope you have a good time blowin' in the
dough. Blood-money changes easy to booze-money when a lot of cow-chasers
get their hooks on it."
"Don't get gay!" said Lorry. "I aim to use you white as long as you work
gentle. If you don't--"
"That's the way with you guys that do nothin' but chase a cow's tail
over the country. You handle folks the same as stock--rough stuff and to
hell with their feelin's."
"You're feelin' better," said Lorry. "Stand up and get to goin'."
As Waco rose, Lorry's pony nickered. A rider was coming down the
distant northern hillside. In the fluttering silken bandanna and the
twinkle of silver-studded trappings Lorry recognized the foreman of the
Starr Rancho; Bob Brewster, known for his arrogance as "High-Chin Bob."
"Guess we'll wait a minute," said Lorry.
Waco saw the rider, and asked who he was.
"It's High Chin, the foreman. You been ridin' one of his string of
horses--the black there."
"He's your boss?"
"Yes. And I'm right sorry he's ridin' into this camp. You was talkin' of
feelin's. Well, he ain't got any."
Brewster loped up and dismounted. "What's your tally, kid?"
Lorry shook his head. "Only this," he said jokingly.
Brewster glanced at Waco. "Maverick, all right. Where'd you rope _him_?"
"I run onto him holdin' up some tourists down by the Notch. I'm driftin'
him over to Stacey."
High Chin's eyes narrowed. "Was he ridin' that horse?" And he pointed to
the black.
Lorry admitted that he had found the horse tied in the brush near the
Notch.
High Chin swung round. "You fork your bronc and get busy. There's eighty
head and over strayin' in here, and the old man ain't payin' you to
entertain hobos. I'll herd this hombre to camp."
With his arm outflung the tramp staggered up to the foreman. "I come
back--to tell you--that I'm going to live to get you right. I got a
hunch that all hell can't beat out. I'll get you!"
"We won't have any trouble," said Waring.
High Chin whirled his horse round. "What's it to you? Who are you,
buttin' in on this?"
"My name is Waring. I used to mill around Sonora once."
High Chin blinked. He knew that name. Slowly he realized that the man on
the big buckskin meant what he said when he asserted that there would be
no trouble.
"Well, I'm foreman of the Starr, and you're fired!" he told Lorry.
"That's no news," said Lorry, grinning.
"And I'm goin' to herd this hoss-thief to camp," he continued, spurring
toward Waco, who had started to walk away.
"Not this journey," said Waring, pushing his horse between them. "The
boy don't pack a gun. I do."
"You talk big--knowin' I got no gun," said High Chin.
Lorry rode over to the foreman. "Here's your gun, High. I ain't no
killer."
The foreman holstered the gun and reined round toward Waring. "Now do
your talkin'," he challenged.
Waring made no movement, but sat quietly watching the other's gun hand.
"You have your gun?" he said, as though asking a question. "If you mean
business, go ahead. I'll let you get your gun out--and then I'll get
you--and you know it!" And with insulting ease he flicked his burned-out
cigarette in the foreman's face.
Without a word High Chin whirled his horse and rode toward the hills.
Waring sat watching him until Lorry spoke.
"They say he's put more than one man across the divide," he told his
father.
"But not on an even break," said Waring. "Get that hombre on his horse.
He's in bad shape."
Lorry helped Waco to mount. They rode toward Stacey.
Waring rode with them until the trail forked. "I was on my way to the
Starr Ranch," he told Lorry. "I think I can make it all right with
Starr, if you say the word."
"Not me," said Lorry. "I stand by what I do."
Waring tried to conceal the smile that crept to his lips. "All right,
Lorry. But you'll have to explain to your mother. Better turn your man
over to Buck Hardy as soon as you get in town. Where did you pick him
up?"
"He was holdin' up some tourists over by the Notch. He changed his mind
and came along with me."
Waring rode down the west fork, and Lorry and the tramp continued their
journey to Stacey.