_Spring Lamb_
Mrs. Adams had decided to have roast spring lamb for dinner that
evening. Instead, her guests had to content themselves with canned
salmon and hot biscuit. And because ...
Lorry appeared at the breakfast table in overalls and jumper. He had
purposely waited until the Westons had gone downstairs. He anticipated
an invitation to ride to the hills with them. He would decline, and
smile as he did so. If that girl thought he cared anything about _her_!
He answered their greeting with a cheery "Good-mornin'," and immediately
turned his whole attention to bacon and eggs.
Alice Weston wondered that his eyes should be so clear and care-free,
knowing what she did of last night's escapade.
Mrs. Adams was interested in the girl's riding-habit. It made her own
plain riding-skirt and blouse appear rather countrified. And after
breakfast Lorry watched the preparations for the ride with a critical
eye. No one would know whether or not he cared to go. They seemed to
have taken it for granted that he would. He whistled softly, and shook
his head as his mother suggested that he get ready.
"Of course you're coming with us," said Alice Weston.
"I got to look after the hotel," he said with conclusive emphasis.
Lorry disappeared, and in the bustle of preparation and departure Mrs.
Adams did not miss him until they were some distance out on the mesa.
"Where's Lorry?" she queried.
"He said he had to look after the hotel," said Alice Weston.
"Well, he didn't. I had everything arranged for. I don't know what's got
into him lately."
Back at the hotel Lorry was leaning against the veranda rail, talking to
Mrs. Weston. "I reckon it will be kind of tame for you, ma'am. I was
wondering, now, if you would let me look over that machine. I've helped
fix 'em up lots of times."
"Why, I don't know. It wouldn't do any harm to look, would it?"
"I guess not."
Mrs. Weston gazed at Lorry curiously. He had smiled, and he resembled
Waring so closely that Mrs. Weston remarked it aloud.
Lorry flushed. "I think Mr. Waring is a right good-lookin' man, don't
you?"
Mrs. Weston laughed. "Yes, I do."
"Yes, ma'am. But honest, Mrs. Weston, I never did see a finer-lookin'
girl than your girl. I seen plenty of magazine pictures like her. I'd
feel some proud if I was her mother."
The morning was not so dull, after all. Mrs. Weston was not used to such
frankness, but she was not displeased. "I see you have on your working
clothes. If you really think you can repair the car--"
"I got nothin' else to do. The sun is gettin' round to the front. If you
would like to sit in the car and watch, I would look her over; there, in
the shade."
"I'll get a hat," said Mrs. Weston, rising.
"Your hair is right pretty without a hat. And besides you would be in
the shade of the top."
It had been some time since any one had complimented Mrs. Weston about
her hair, and especially a man young enough to be her son. What was the
cowboy going to say next?
Mrs. Weston stepped into the car, which was parked on the south side of
the building. Lorry, whistling blithely, searched until he found a
wrench in one of the forward-door pockets. He disappeared beneath the
car. Mrs. Weston could hear him tinkering at something. She leaned back,
breathing deep of the clean, thin air. She could not recall having felt
so thoroughly content and keenly alive at the same time. She had no
desire to say or do anything.
Presently Lorry appeared, his face grimy and his hands streaked with
oil. "Nothin' busted," he reported cheerfully. "We got a car over to
the ranch. She's been busted a-plenty. I fixed her up more times than I
can remember. Cars is like horses ma'am; no two just alike, but kind of
generally the same. The steering-knuckle ain't broke. It's the left axle
that's sprung. That won't take long to straighten."
Mrs. Weston smiled. Lorry thought she was actually pretty. She saw this
in his eyes, and flushed slightly.
"And I'll just block her up and take off the wheel, and I reckon the
blacksmith can straighten that axle easy."
"It's very nice of you. But I am wondering why you didn't go on the
picnic--with the others."
"Well, who'd 'a' kept you company, ma'am? Anita, she's busy. Anyhow, I
seen plenty of scenery. I'd rather be here."
"Talking to a woman old enough to be your mother?"
"Huh! I never thought of you like that. I'm only eighteen. Anyhow, what
difference does it make how old a lady is, if she is pretty?"
Mrs. Weston's eyes twinkled. "Do you ever pay compliments to yourself
when you are combing your hair or tying your scarf?"
"Me! Why, not so anybody could hear 'em. Now, I think my mother is right
pretty, Mrs. Weston."
"So do I. And it was nice of you to say it."
"But I don't see anything wrong in sayin' what's so," he argued. "I seen
you kind of raise your eyebrows, and I thought mebby I was bein' took as
a joke."
"Oh, no, indeed!"
Lorry disappeared again. As he worked he wondered just how long it would
be before Buck Hardy would look for him. Lorry knew that some one must
have taken food and water to the prisoner by this time, or to where the
prisoner was supposed to be. But he did not know that Hardy and his
deputy had questioned Anita, and that she had told the sheriff the folks
had all gone on a picnic to the hills. The car, at the back of the
hotel, was not visible from the street.
With some pieces of timber Lorry jacked up the front of the machine and
removed the damaged wheel and axle.
He took the bent axle to the blacksmith, and returned to the hotel.
Nothing further offered just then, so he suggested that he clean the
car. Mrs. Weston consented, deciding that she would not pay him until
her daughter returned.
He attached the hose to a faucet, and suggested that Mrs. Weston take a
chair, which he brought from the veranda. He hosed the car, and as he
polished it, Mrs. Weston asked him about Waring.
"Why, he's a friend of ours," replied Lorry.
"Of course. But I was wondering what he did."
Lorry hesitated. "Didn't you ever hear that song about Waring of
Sonora-Town? It's a whizzer. Well, that's him. All the cowboys sing that
song."
"I have never heard it."
"Well, mebby dad wouldn't like that I sing it. He's kind of funny that
way. Now you wouldn't think he was the fastest gunman in the Southwest,
would you?"
"Gunman! Your father?"
Lorry straightened up from polishing the car. "I clean forgot what I was
sayin'. I guess my foot slipped that time."
"I am sorry I asked," said Mrs. Weston. "It really doesn't matter."
"Oh, it ain't your fault. But I wasn't aimin' to tell. Dad he married my
mother, and they went to live in Sonora, down in Mexico. Some of the
minin' outfits down there hired him regular to--to protect their
interests. I guess ma couldn't stand that kind of life, for after a few
years she brought me up here. I was just a kid then. Ma she built up a
good trade at this hotel. Folks call her Mrs. Adams. Her name was Adams
afore she got married. We been here ten years. Dad didn't know where she
was till last week he showed up here. I reckon she thought he got killed
long ago. Folks would talk about it if they knowed he was her husband,
so I guess she asked dad to say nothin' about that. He said he came up
to see me. I guess he don't aim to stay long."
"I think I understand," said Mrs. Weston.
"Well, it ain't none of my business, long as ma is all right. Say, she
shines like a new hack, eh?"
"You have cleaned the car beautifully."
"Oh, I dunno. Now, if it was a hoss--And say, I guess you'll be startin'
to-morrow. That axle will be all right in about an hour."
Just then Anita came to call them to luncheon. She had heard them
talking at the rear of the hotel shortly after Sheriff Hardy had
inquired for Lorry. Several townsfolk came in, ate, and departed on
their several ways.
After luncheon Mrs. Weston went to her room. She thought she would lie
down and sleep for an hour or so, but the noon heat made the room rather
close. She picked up a book and came down, where she found it
comfortably cool on the veranda.
The town was quiet. A hand-car with its section crew of Mexicans clicked
past, and hummed on down the glittering rails. A stray burro meandered
about, and finally came to a stop in the middle of the street, where he
stood, stoically enduring the sun, a veritable long-eared statue of
dejection. Mrs. Weston turned a page, but the printed word was flat and
insignificant.
She felt as though she were in a kind of twilight valley, midway between
the hills of slumber and wakefulness. For the moment she forgot the name
of the town itself. She knew that she could recall it if she tried. A
dog lay asleep beneath the station platform opposite, one relaxed paw
over his nose. Some one was calling to some one in the kitchen. A figure
passed in the street; a young man who smiled and nodded. It was the boy,
Lorry. He had been working on the car that morning. She had watched him
work, rather enjoying his energy. A healthy young animal as
unsophisticated as a kitten, and really innately kind and innocent of
intent to flatter. He was not at all like the bright young savage who
had roped and almost choked to death that awful man.
It was impossible to judge a person at first sight and especially under
unusual circumstances. And he seemed not at all chagrined that he had
not gone with the others to the hills. Alice had enjoyed reading about
Westerners--rough, boisterous beings intolerable to Mrs. Weston even in
print. And Mrs. Weston thought that proper environment and association
might bring out their better qualities, even as the boy, Lorry, seemed
to have improved--well, since yesterday morning. Perhaps he was on his
good behavior because they were there.
It seemed past comprehension that anything startling could happen in
that drowsy atmosphere.
The young cowboy was coming back down the street, some part of the car
over his shoulder. Mrs. Weston anticipated his nod, and nodded lazily as
he passed. She could hear him tinkering at the car.
A few blocks up the street, Buck Hardy was seated in his office talking
with the undersheriff. The undersheriff twisted the end of his black
mustache and looked wise.
"They told me at the hotel that he had gone riding with them
Easterners," said Hardy. "And now you say he's been in town all day
working on that automobile."
"Yep. He's been to the blacksmith twice to-day. I didn't say anything to
him, seein' you was over to Larkins's, and said he was out of town. I'd
hate to think he done anything like that."
"That hobo was gone when I went to talk to him this morning. The lock
was busted. I can't figure it out. Young Lorry stood to win the reward,
and he could use the money."
"Hear anything by wire?" queried the undersheriff.
"Nothing. The man didn't get by on any of the trains. I notified both
stations. He's afoot and he's gone."
"Well, I guess the kid loses out, eh?"
"That ain't all. This county will jump me for letting that guy get away.
It won't help us any next election."
"Well, my idea is to have a talk with Adams," said the undersheriff.
"I'm going to do that. I like the kid, and then there's his mother--"
"And you'd hold him for lettin' the guy loose, eh?"
"I would. I'd hold my own brother for playing a trick like that."
"Well, I don't sabe it," asserted the undersheriff. "Lorry Adams always
had a good name."
"We'll have a talk with him, Bill."
"Are you sure Adams did it, Buck?"
"No, not sure, but I'm going to find out. I'll throw a scare into him
that'll make him talk."
"Mebby he won't scare."
"Then I'll run him in. He's some enterprising, if I do say it. He put
High-Chin Bob out of business over by the water-hole yesterday."
"High Chin! The hell you say!"
"That's what I thought when I heard it. High was beating up the hobo,
and Lorry claimed him as his prisoner. Jim Waring says the kid walloped
High on the head and knocked him stiff."
"Whew! Bob will get his hide for that."
"I don't know. Jim Waring is riding the country just now."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"More than I'm going to tell you, Bill. But take it from me, he's
interested in young Adams a whole lot."
* * * * *
When Hardy and his deputy rode over to the hotel there was a pause in
the chatter. Alice Weston was describing their journey to her mother and
calling upon Waring to substantiate her vivid assertions of the
wonderful adventure. The saddle-horse still stood at the hitching-rail,
and Hardy, who had an eye for a good horse, openly admired the big
buckskin. Waring was talking with Lorry. Mrs. Adams had gone in. Hardy
indicated that he wanted to speak to Lorry, and he included Waring in
his gesture. Lorry rose and glanced quickly at Alice Weston. She was
leaning forward in her chair, suddenly aware of a subtle undercurrent of
seriousness. The undersheriff was patting the nose of the big buckskin.
The men stepped down from the veranda, and stood near the horses.
"That hobo got away," said the sheriff. "Do you know anything about it?"
"I turned him loose," said Lorry, without hesitation.
"What for?"
"I changed my mind. I didn't want any blood-money for arrestin' a
tramp."
"That's all right. But you can't change the law so easy. That man was my
prisoner. Why didn't you come to me?"
"Well, if you want to know, in company," said Lorry, "High Chin and the
boys had it framed up to give that hobo a goin'-over for stealin' a
Starr horse. They figured to bust in the jail, same as I did. I got that
straight; I didn't aim to let High Chin get his hands on my prisoner."
"Well, Lorry, I don't like to do it, but I got to hold you till we get
him."
"How do you figure that?"
"You've aided a prisoner to escape. You broke the law."
"What right had you to hold him?"
"Your own story. You brought him in yourself."
"I sure did. But supposin' I say I ain't got nothin' against him, and
the folks over there won't appear against him, how could you prove
anything?"
"He's under suspicion. You said yourself he was holding up them
tourists."
"But you can't make me swear that in court."
Buck Hardy glared at the younger man. "See here, Lorry, I don't
understand your game. Suppose the man ain't guilty. He was locked
up--and by me, representing this county. You can't prove that the Starr
boys would have done anything to him. And you can't monkey with the law
to suit yourself as long as I'm sheriff. Am I right?" And Hardy turned
to Waring.
"You're right, Hardy."
Lorry's gray eyes shone with a peculiar light. "What you goin' to do
about it, Buck?"
"Two of my boys are out looking for the man. You're under arrest till he
is brought in."
"You aim to lock me in that calaboose?"
"No. But, understand, you're under arrest. You can't leave town."
"Say, now, Buck, ain't you kind of crowdin' me into the fence?"
"I'd arrest my own brother for a trick like that."
Lorry gazed at the ground for a minute. He glanced up. Alice Weston sat
watching them. She could not hear what they were saying, but their
attitudes confirmed her apprehension.
"I'd like to speak to ma a minute," said Lorry.
"Go ahead. There's no hurry."
Waring, who had been watching his son closely, strolled to the veranda
steps and sat down.
Hardy lighted a cigar. "I hate to do this, Waring," he told the other.
"That's all right, Hardy."
The sheriff leaned close. "I figured to bluff him into telling which way
the hobo went. Mebby he'll talk later."
Waring smiled. "You have a free hand so far as I am concerned," he said.
Alice Weston was talking with her mother when she heard a cautious step
on the stairway behind her. She turned her head slightly. Lorry, booted
and spurred, stood just within the doorway. He had something in his
hand; a peculiarly shaped bundle wrapped loosely in a newspaper. Hardy
was talking to Waring. The undersheriff was standing close to Waring's
horse. Alice Weston had seen the glint in Lorry's eyes. She held her
breath.
Without a word of warning, and before the group on the veranda knew what
was happening, Lorry shot from the doorway, leaped from the edge of the
veranda rail, and alighted square in the saddle of Waring's horse, Dex.
The buckskin whirled and dashed down the road, one rein dragging. Lorry
reached down, and with a sinuous sweep of his body recovered the loose
rein. As he swung round the first corner he waved something that looked
strangely like a club in a kind of farewell salute.
Alice Weston had risen. The undersheriff grabbed the reins of the horse
nearest him and mounted. Hardy ran to the other horse. Side by side they
raced down the street and disappeared round a corner.
"What is it?" queried Alice Weston.
Waring still sat on the steps. He was laughing when he turned to answer
the girl's question.
"Lorry and the sheriff had a little argument. Lorry didn't wait to
finish it. It was something about that hobo that bothered you
yesterday."
Alice crushed her handkerchief to her mouth. "I--shall we get ready for
dinner?" she stammered.
Mrs. Weston rose. "It's nothing serious, I hope. Do you think your--Mr.
Adams will be back to-night?"
"Not this evening," replied Waring.
"You mean that he won't be back at all?"
"Not unless he changes his mind. He's riding my horse."
"He took your horse?"
"Yes. I think he made a mistake in leaving so suddenly, but he didn't
make any mistake about the best horse."
"Aren't you worried about him?" queried Mrs. Weston.
"Why, no. The boy will take care of himself. Did you happen to notice
what he had in his hand when he ran across the veranda?"
"No. It happened so suddenly. Was it a pistol?"
Waring grinned. "No. It was a shoulder of lamb. The next town is thirty
miles south, and no restaurants on the way."
"But his mother--" began Alice Weston.
"Yes," said Waring. "I think that leg of lamb was for dinner to-night."
Alice Weston said nothing further, but as she got ready for dinner she
confessed to herself that the event of Lorry's escape would have been
much more thrilling, in retrospect at least, had he chosen to wave his
hasty farewell with a silken bandanna, or even a pistol. To ride off
like that, waving a leg of lamb!