_A Tune for Uncle Bud_
Lorry had ridden to Jason, delivered his reports to the office, and
received instructions to ride to the southern line of the reservation.
He would be out many days. He had brought down a pack-horse, and he
returned to camp late that night with provisions and some mail for the
Bronsons.
The next day he delayed starting until Dorothy had appeared. Bronson
told him frankly that he was sorry to see him go, especially for such a
length of time.
"But I'm glad," said Dorothy.
Lorry stared at her. Her face was grave, but there was a twinkle of
mischief in her eyes. She laughed.
"Because it will be such fun welcoming you home again."
"Oh, I thought it might be that piano--"
"Now I shan't touch it!" she pouted, making a deliberate face at him.
He laughed. She did such unexpected things, did them so unaffectedly.
Bronson put his arms about her shoulders.
"We're keeping Mr. Adams, Peter Pan. He is anxious to be off. He has
been ready for quite a while and I think he has been waiting till you
appeared so that he could say good-bye."
"Are you anxious to be off?" she queried.
"Yes, ma'am. It's twenty miles over the ridge to good grass and water."
"Why, twenty miles isn't so far!"
"They's considerable up and down in them twenty miles, Miss Bronson.
Now, it wouldn't be so far for a turkey. He could fly most of the way.
But a horse is different, and I'm packin' a right fair jag of stuff."
"Well, good-bye, ranger man. Good-bye, Gray Leg,--and you two poor
horses that have to carry the packs. Don't stay away all winter."
Lorry swung up and started the pack-horses. At the edge of the timber he
turned and waved his hat. Dorothy and her father answered with a hearty
Good-bye that echoed through the slumbering wood lands.
One of Bronson's horses raised his head and nickered. "Chinook is saying
'Adios,' too. Isn't the air good? And we're right on top of the world.
There is Jason, and there is St. Johns, and 'way over there ought to be
the railroad, but I can't see it."
Bronson smiled down at her.
She reached up and pinched his cheek. "Let's stay here forever, daddy."
"We'll see how my girl is by September. And next year, if you want to
come back--"
"Come back! Why, I don't want to go away--ever!"
"But the snow, Peter Pan."
"I forgot that. We'd be frozen in tight, shouldn't we?"
"I'm afraid we should. Shall we look at the mail? Then I'll have to go
to work."
"Mr. Adams thinks quite a lot of his horses, doesn't he?" she queried.
"He has to. He depends on them, and they depend on him. He has to take
good care of them."
"I shouldn't like it a bit if I thought he took care of them just
because he had to."
"Oh, Adams is all right, Peter. I have noticed one or two things about
him."
"Well, I have noticed that he has a tremendous appetite," laughed
Dorothy.
"And you're going to have, before we leave here, Peter Pan."
"Then you'd better hurry and get that story written. I want a new saddle
and, oh, lots of things!"
Bronson patted her hand as she walked with him to the cabin. He sat down
to his typewriter, and she came out with a book.
She glanced up occasionally to watch the ponies grazing on the mesa. She
was deeply absorbed in her story when some one called to her. She jumped
up, dropping her book.
Bud Shoop was sitting his horse a few paces away, smiling. He had ridden
up quietly to surprise her.
"A right lovely mornin', Miss Bronson. I reckon your daddy is busy."
"Here I am," said Bronson, striding out and shaking hands with the
supervisor. "Won't you come in?"
"About that lease," said Shoop, dismounting. "If you got time to talk
business."
"Most certainly. Dorothy will excuse us."
"Is Adams gone?"
"He left this morning."
"Uh-uh. Here, Bondsman, quit botherin' the young lady."
"He isn't bothering. I know what he wants." And she ran to the kitchen.
Shoop's face grew grave. "I didn't want to scare the little lady,
Bronson, but Lorry's father--Jim Waring--has been shot up bad over to
Criswell. He went in after that Brewster outfit that killed Pat. I
reckon he got 'em--but I ain't heard."
"Adams's father!"
"Yes, Jim Waring. Here comes the little missy. I'll tell you later. Now
Bondsman is sure happy."
And Bud forced a smile as Dorothy gave the dog a pan of something that
looked suspiciously like bones and shreds of turkey meat.
A little later Bud found excuse to call Bronson aside to show him a good
place to fence-in the corral. Dorothy was playing with Bondsman.
"Jim's been shot up bad. I was goin' to tell you that Annie Adams, over
to Stacey, is his wife. She left him when they was livin' down in
Mexico. Lorry is their boy. Now, Jim is as straight as a ruler; I don't
know just why she left him. But let that rest. I got a telegram from the
marshal of Criswell. Reads like Jim was livin', but livin' mighty clost
to the edge. Now, if I was to send word to Lorry he'd just nacherally
buckle on a gun and go after them Brewster boys, if they's any of 'em
left. He might listen to me if I could talk to him. Writin' is no good.
And I ain't rigged up to follow him across the ridge. It's bad country
over there. I reckon I better leave word with you. If he gets word of
the shootin' while he's out there, he'll just up and cut across the
hills to Criswell a-smokin'. But if he gets this far back he's like to
come through Jason--and I can cool him down, mebby."
"He ought to know; if his father is--"
"That's just it. But I'm thinkin' of the boy. Jim Waring's lived a big
chunk of his life. But they ain't no use of the kid gettin' shot up. It
figures fifty that I ought to get word to him, and fifty that I ought to
keep him out of trouble--"
"I didn't know he was that kind of a chap: that is, that he would go out
after those men--"
"He's Jim Waring's boy," said Bud.
"It's too bad. I heard of that other killing."
"Yes. And I've a darned good mind to fly over to Criswell myself. I
knowed Pat better than I did Jim. But I can't ride like I used to.
But"--and the supervisor sighed heavily--"I reckon I'll go just the
same."
"I'll give your message to Adams, Mr. Shoop."
"All right. And tell him I want to see him. How's the little lady these
days?"
"She seems to be much stronger, and she is in love with the hills and
cañons."
"I'm right glad of that. Kind of wish I was up here myself. Why, already
they're houndin' me down there to go into politics. I guess they want to
get me out of this job, 'cause I can't hear crooked money jingle. My
hands feels sticky ever' time I think of politics. And even if a fella's
hands ain't sticky--politics money is. Why, it's like to stick to his
feet if he ain't right careful where he walks!"
"I wish you would stay to dinner, Mr. Shoop."
"So I'll set and talk my fool notions--and you with a writin' machine
handy? Thanks, but I reckon I'll light a shuck for Jason. See my piano?"
"Yes, indeed. Dorothy was trying it a few nights ago."
"Then she can play. Missy," and he called to Dorothy, who was having an
extravagant romp with Bondsman, "could you play a tune for your Uncle
Bud?"
"Of course." And she came to them.
They walked to the cabin. Bondsman did not follow. He had had a hard
play, and was willing to rest.
Dorothy drew up the piano stool and touched the keys. Bud sank into his
big chair. Bronson stood in the doorway. By some happy chance Dorothy
played Bud's beloved "Annie Laurie."
When she had finished, Bud blew his nose sonorously. "I know that tune,"
he said, gazing at Dorothy in a sort of huge wonderment. "But I never
knowed all that you made it say."
He rose and shuffled to the doorway, stopping abruptly as he saw
Bondsman. Could it be possible that Bondsman had not recognized his own
tune? Bud shook his head. There was something wrong somewhere. Bondsman
had not offered to come in and accompany the pianist. He must have been
asleep. But Bondsman had not been asleep. He rose and padded to Shoop's
horse, where he stood, a statue of rugged patience, waiting for Shoop to
start back toward home.
"Now, look at that!" exclaimed Bud. "He's tellin' me if I want to get
back to Jason in time to catch the stage to-morrow mornin' I got to
hustle. That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous."
When Shoop had gone, Dorothy turned to her father. "Mr. Shoop didn't ask
me to play very much. He seemed in a hurry."
"That's all right, Peter Pan. He liked your playing. But he has a very
important matter to attend to."
"He's really just delicious, isn't he?"
"If you like that word, Peter. He is big and sincere and kind."
"Oh, so were some of the saints for that matter," said Dorothy, making a
humorous mouth at her father.