_Young Life_
Ramon was busy that afternoon transferring mattresses and blankets from
the ranch-house to the new, low-roofed bunk-house that Waring had built.
Ramon fitted up three beds--one for the cook, one for an old range-rider
that Waring had hired when his men had left to enlist, and one for
himself.
The partitions of the ranch-house had been taken down, the interior
rearranged, and the large living-room furnished in a plain, comfortable
way.
As Ramon worked he sang softly. He was happy. The señora was coming to
live with them, and perhaps Señor Jim's son. Señor Jim had been more
active of late. His lameness was not so bad as it had been. It was true
the Señor Jim did not often smile, but his eyes were kindly.
Ramon worked rapidly. There was much to do in the other house. The bale
of Navajo blankets was still unopened. Perhaps the Señor Jim would help
to arrange them in the big room with the stone fireplace. The señora
would not arrive until to-morrow, but then the home must be made ready,
that she would find it beautiful. And Ramon, accustomed to the meagerly
furnished adobes of old Mexico, thought that the ranch-house was
beautiful indeed.
Waring ate with the men in the new bunk-house that evening. After supper
he went over to the larger building and sat alone in the living-room,
gazing out of the western window. His wounds ached, and in the memory of
almost forgotten trails he grew young again. Again in Old Mexico, the
land he loved, he saw the blue crest of the Sierras rise as in a dream,
and below the ranges a tiny Mexican village of adobe huts gold in the
setting sun. Between him and the village lay the outlands, ever
mysterious, ever calling to him. Across the desert ran a thin trail to
the village. And down the trail the light feet of Romance ran swiftly as
he followed. He could even recall the positions of the different adobes;
the strings of chiles dark red in the twilight; the old black-shawled
señora who had spoken a guttural word of greeting as he had ridden up.
Back in Sonora men had said, "Waring has made his last ride." They had
told each other that a white man was a fool to go alone into that
country. Perhaps he had been a fool. But the thrill of those early days,
when he rode alone and free and men sang of him from Sonora to the
Sweetgrass Hills! And on that occasion he had found the fugitive he
sought, yet he had ridden back to Sonora alone. He had never forgotten
the face of the young Mexican woman who had pleaded with him to let her
lover go. Her eyes were big and velvet black. Her mouth was the mouth
of a Madonna.
Waring had told her that it was useless to plead. He remembered how her
eyes had grown dull and sullen at his word. He told her that he was
simply doing his duty. She had turned on him like a panther, her little
knife glittering in the dusk as she drove it at his breast. The Mexican
lover had jerked free and was running toward the foothills. Waring
recalled his first surprise at the wiry strength of her wrist as he had
twisted the knife from her. If the Mexican lover had not turned and shot
at him--The black figure of the Mexican had dropped just where the road
entered the foothills. The light had almost gone. The vague bulk of the
Sierras wavered. Outlines vanished, leaving a sense of something
gigantic, invisible, that slumbered in the night. The stars were big and
softly brilliant as he had ridden north.
The old wound in his shoulder ached. The Mexican had made a good
shot--for a Mexican.
Out on the Arizona mesa, against the half disk of gold, was the black
silhouette of a horseman. Waring stepped to the doorway. Ramon was
seated just outside the door, smoking a cigarette. The southern stars
were almost visible. Each star seemed to have found its place, and yet
no star could be seen.
"It is Lorry," said Ramon. "He has ridden far."
Waring smiled. Fifty miles had not been considered a big day's ride in
his time. _In his time!_ But his day was past. The goddess he had
followed had left him older than his years, crippled, unable to ride
more than a few hours at a time; had left him fettered to the monotony
of the far mesa levels and the changeless hills. Was this his
punishment, or simply a black trick of fate, that the tang of life had
evaporated, leaving a stagnant pool wherein he gazed to meet the blurred
reflection of a face weary with waiting for--what end?
Unused to physical inactivity, Waring had grown somber of mind these
latter days. Despite the promise of more comfortable years, he had never
felt more lonely. With the coming of Lorry the old order would change.
Young blood, new life would have its way.
The sound of pattering hoofs grew louder. Waring heard the old familiar,
"Hi! Yippy! Yip!" of the range rider. Young blood? New life? It was his
own blood, his own life reincarnate in the cheery rider that swung down
and grasped his hand. Nothing had changed. Life was going on as it
always had.
"Hello, dad! How's the leg?"
Waring smiled in the dusk. "Pretty fair, Lorry. You didn't waste any
time getting here."
"Well, not much. I rode down with Bronson and Dorothy."
"Do you call her 'Dorothy'?"
"Ever since she calls me 'Lorry.'"
"Had anything to eat?"
"Nope. I cut across. How's mother?"
"She will be here to-morrow. We have been getting things ready. Let
Ramon take your horse--"
"Thanks. I'll fix him in two shakes."
And in two shakes bridle and saddle were off, and Gray Leg was rolling
in the corral.
While Lorry ate, Ramon laid a fire in the big stone fireplace. Alter
supper Lorry and his father sat gazing at the flames. Lorry knew why he
had been sent for, but waited for his father to speak.
Presently Waring turned to him. "I sent for you because I need some one
to help. And your mother wants you here. I won't urge you, but I can
offer you Pat's share in the ranch. I bought his share last week. You'll
have a working interest besides that. You know something about cattle.
Think it over."
"That's a dandy offer," said Lorry. "I'm right obliged, dad. But there's
something else. You put your proposition straight, and I'm going to put
mine straight. Now, if you was in my boots, and she liked you enough,
would you marry her?"
"You haven't told me who she is."
"Why--Dorothy Bronson. I thought you knew."
Waring smiled. "You're pretty young, Lorry."
"But you married young, dad."
"Yes. And I married the best woman in the world. But I can't say that I
made your mother happy."
"I guess ma never cared for anybody but you," said Lorry.
"It isn't just the caring for a person, Lorry."
"Well, I thought it was. But I reckon you know. And Dorothy is the
prettiest and lovin'est kind of a girl _you_ ever seen. I was wishin'
you was acquainted."
"I should like to meet her. Are you sure she is your kind of girl,
Lorry? Now, wait a minute; I know how you feel. A girl can be
good-looking and mighty nice and think a lot of a man, and yet not be
the right girl for him."
"But how is he goin' to find that out?"
"If he must find out--by marrying her."
"Then I aim to find out, if she is willin'. But I wanted to tell
you--because you made me that offer. I was askin' your advice because
you been through a lot."
"I wish I could advise you. But you're a man grown, so far as taking
care of yourself is concerned. And when a man thinks of getting married
he isn't looking for advice against it. Why don't you wait a year or
two?"
"Well, mebbe I got to. Because--well, I didn't ask Dorothy yet. Then
there's somethin' else. A lot of the fellas up in the high country have
enlisted in the regulars, and some have gone over to Canada to join the
Foreign Legion. Now, I don't want to be the last hombre on this mesa to
go."
"There has been no call for men by the Nation."
"But it's comin', dad. Any fella can see that. I kind of hate to wait
till Uncle Sam says I got to go. I don't like going that way."
"What do you think your mother will say?"
"Gosh! I know! That's why I wanted to talk to you first. If I'm goin', I
want to know it so I can say to her that I _am_ goin' and not that I aim
to go."
"Well, you will have to decide that."
"Well, I'm goin' to--before ma comes. Dog-gone it! You know how it is
tryin' to explain things to a woman. Wimmin don't understand them kind
of things."
"I don't know about that, Lorry."
Lorry nodded. "I tell you, dad--you kind of set a pace for me. And I
figure I don't want folks to say: 'There goes Jim Waring's boy.' If
they're goin' to say anything, I want it to be: 'There goes Lorry
Waring.'"
Waring knew that kind of pride if he knew anything. He was proud of his
son. And Waring's most difficult task was to keep from influencing him
in any way. He wanted the boy to feel free to do as he thought best.
"You were in that fight at Sterling," said Waring, gesturing toward the
south.
"But that was different," said Lorry. "Them coyotes was pluggin' at us,
and we just nacherally had to let 'em have it. And besides we was
workin' for the law."
"I understand there wasn't any law in Sterling About that time."
"Well, we made some," asserted Lorry.
"And that's just what this war means. It's being fought to make law."
"Then I'm for the law every time, big or little. I seen enough of that
other thing."
"Think it over, Lorry. Remember, you're free to do as you want to. I
have made my offer. Then there is your mother--and the girl. It looks as
though you had your hands full."
"You bet! Business and war and--and Dorothy is a right big order. I'm
gettin' a headache thinkin' of it!"
Waring rose. "I'm going to turn in. I have to live pretty close to the
clock these days."
"See you in the mornin'," said Lorry, giving his hand. "Good-night,
dad."
"Good-night, boy."