CAROCA
As Sandy had promised, there was a wide-bottomed canyon where great oaks
grew on the flats beside the unfailing stream. The trees were only vast
shapes in the starlight, the long grass was wet and clinging, the creek
spouted and tore along as Sandy led the way on the mare to a shelving
bench, a place where he had camped once long before and, with his
out-of-doors-man's craft, never forgotten. Molly was tired almost to
insensibility as to what might be going on, soaked and chilled to
limpness. Sandy got her out of the saddle and into a shallow cave in a
sandy bank. The next thing she knew a fire was leaping and sending light
and warmth into her nook.
She heard Sandy talking to his mare. Between the range rider and his
mount there is always an understanding born of loneliness, close
companionship and mutual appreciation. Sandy was certain that his ponies
understood most of what he said, and they were very sure that Sandy
understood them thoroughly.
"Used yore brains, you did, li'l' old lady," said Sandy. "Sure did.
Can't do much fo' you now. There's a li'l' grain left fo' you an' the
bay, an' we'll dry out these blankets a bit. Can't let you stay long or
we'll git all stiffened up, but Chuck Goodwin, down to Caroca, he knows
hawses an' he's a pal of mine. He'll fix you with a hot mash an', after
that, anything on the menu from alfalfy to sugar. The pair of you. You
bay, you, dern me if you ain't a reg'lar goat! A couple o' pie-eatin',
grain-chewin', antelope-eyed, steel-legged cayuses, that's what you
are!"
Molly listened drowsily to the affection in his voice. It was nice to be
spoken to that way, she thought. Nice to be looked after. Her dad had
been fond of her, but his words had lacked the silk, the caress that
savored the strength, as it did with Sandy. She snuggled into the warm
heat-reflecting sand like a rabbit in its burrow.
"Eat this, Molly, an' we got to be on our way." Sandy was handing her a
cupful of hot savory stew, made for the trip, warmed up hastily, the
best kind of a meal after their strenuous experience, though Sandy
bemoaned its quality.
"Figgered you an' me 'ud eat on the Pullman ter-night," he said. "But
this snack'll do us no harm. We'll git a cup of coffee in Caroca if
there's a chance."
She gulped the reviving food gratefully, strength coming back with the
fuel that gave both warmth and motive power. Soon they were jogging on
down the wide trough of the canyon beneath the white, steady stars,
through scrub oak and chaparral, the air sweet scented with wild spice,
through slopes set with sleeping folded poppies and Mariposa lilies,
past cactus groves, columnar, stately, mystic; the mesa slopes
receding, its great bulk dim mass, the twin notches that marked the
Pass of the Goats hardly discernible against the sky. They crossed a
white road, unfenced but evidently a main source of travel though now
deserted.
"County line runs plumb down the middle of the road," announced Sandy.
"There's the lights of Caroca blinkin' away to the left. Too bad we
missed the train. Sleepy?"
"Some," she admitted.
"Me too," lied Sandy companionably.
Coming down from the mesa he had talked with her about Barbara Redding,
how welcome she would make Molly and what she would do for her. Molly
had listened silently. Only once she had spoken.
"Why didn't you marry her 'stead of that Redding?" she asked.
Sandy laughed, whole-heartedly.
"Don't believe she'd have had me. Never figgered on marryin' anybody.
I'm a privateerin' sort of a person, Molly, sailin' under my own colors,
that means. I've allus had the saddle itch till Mormon an' Sam an' me
settled down to the ranch. Never had time enough in one place to fool
round the gels."
"Sam says yo're woman-shy?" queried Molly.
"Mebbe I am. But it ain't the way a dawg is gun-shy. Must be the
horrible example Mormon's set up."
"Don't you like wimmen?"
"Sure do. Admire 'em pow'ful. Never met the one I'd want to tie to,
that's all, Molly."
"None of 'em pritty enough?"
"Pritty? Shucks! Looks don't count so all-fired much. The woman I most
admired was the wife of ol' Pete Holden, a desert prospector an'
drifter, like yore dad, Molly. She was old an' tough an' wiry, like he
was. I don't figger she'd ever have taken a blue ribbon in a beauty
contest, but she was like first-grade linoleum, the pattern wore clean
through an' the stuff was top quality. She'd drifted with Pete over most
of Idaho, Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, Arizony, Nevada and paht of New
Mexico an' Texas, an' she warn't jest his wife, she was his pal an'
fifty-fifty partner. Pete said the on'y time he ever knew her to hold
out on him was once in the Canyon Pintada when he woke up in the night
and saw her pourin' water out of her canteen into his. Nothin' pritty
about Kate Holden, but she was full woman-size from foot callus to gray
ha'r, back to back with Pete all the time she wasn't standin' side of
him."
"She warn't eddicated?" asked Molly.
"She was. Some thought it funny, for Pete was no scholar. I've listened
with him, more'n once when she'd tell us things about plants and
insects, or about the stars, things we'd never dreamed of. They say she
c'ud play the pianny an' she sure c'ud sing. Ask Sam about that. But
Pete was her man an' she was his woman, so they trailed fine together."
"I see," said Molly. "She loved him."
There was a peculiar quality to the tone of the girl's voice. It was not
the first time that Sandy had noticed it, lately wondering a little, not
realizing that his own observation was a recognition based upon
response. Now he figured that the low softness of her speech was due to
her tired condition and a little wave of tenderness swept him, blent
with admiration of her pluck. Saddle-racked, nerve-tried, she had never
murmured, never mentioned the trials of the trail.
They entered the little town, once a cattle station, now renamed in
musical Spanish, Caroca,--A Caress--a spot where fruits were grown and
shipped and flowers bloomed the year round wherever the water caressed
the earth. Sandy rode the mare into the livery where the last skirmish
between hoof and rim, iron and rubber tire was being fought, and called
for "Chuck" Goodwin.
A stout man came out, not so heavy, not so big as Mormon, but sheathed
in flesh with the armor of ease and good living. He peered up at Sandy,
then let out a shout.
"You long-legged, ornery, freckle-faced, gun-packin' galoot, Sandy
Bourke! Light off'n that cayuse, you an' yore lady friend. Where in time
did you-all drop from?"
"Come across the mesa. Like to git washed across through Paso Cabras,"
said Sandy. "Miss Casey, let me make you 'quainted with Chuck Goodwin,
one time the best hawss-shoer in the seven Cactus States, now sellin'
oil an' gasoline at fancy prices, not to mention machines fo' which he
is agent."
"Got a few oats left fo' yore hawsses, Sandy. Miss, won't you come
inside the office? Where you bound, Sandy?"
"We was aimin' to catch the seven o'clock train east, makin' fo' New
Mexico an' the Redding Ranch, where Miss Casey is to visit fo' a spell,
but we found the trail bad an' a cloud-bu'st finally set us back so we
quit hurryin' an' loafed in. Chuck, have you got a machine you c'ud rent
us, with a driver?"
"You can have anything I got in the place with laigs or wheels, an'
welcome. Goin' to the old Redding Ranch? Give my howdedo to Miss
Barbara, or Mrs. Barbara as she is now. But--" He looked at the wall
clock. "It's a quarter of ten. Yore train's been altered to suit main
line schedules. She don't come through till nine-thirty an' she's
gen'ally late makin' the grade. I ain't heard her whistle yet. I
wouldn't wonder but what you can make it. Not that I'm aimin' none to
hurry you."
The ex-blacksmith reached for the telephone and got his connection.
"Runnin' twenty minutes late," he announced. "Hop in my car an' we'll
jest about make her. She don't do much more'n hesitate at Caroca when
she's behind time."
He hurried them out on the street to where a car stood by the curb.
Molly and her few belongings got in behind, Sandy mounted with Goodwin.
"You'll take good care of the hawsses, Chuck?" he said. "I'll probably
be back for 'em myse'f in three-fo' days."
"Seguro." Goodwin stepped on his starter and the flywheel whirred to
sputtering explosions. Another car came limping down the street, flat
on both rims of one side, its paint plastered with mud, one light out,
the other dimmed with mire. The driver called to Goodwin.
"Which way to the depot?"
Goodwin, his hand on the lever, foot on the clutch, was astounded to
hear Sandy hissing out.
"Don't tell 'em. Scoot ahead full speed." Then, over his shoulder to the
girl, "Crouch down there, Molly." Goodwin was still a man of action and
he knew Sandy Bourke of old. Out came the pedal, the gears engaged and
the car shot ahead, beneath a swinging arc light. Sandy's hat-rim did
not sufficiently shade his face or Molly's action had not been swift
enough. There came a yell and a string of curses from the crippled car
which backed and turned and followed, its torn treads flapping.
Goodwin asked no questions of Sandy. If the latter wanted ever to tell
him why he required a quick exit out of Caroca, or why he was followed,
he could. If not, never mind. He slid his gears into high and dodged
around corners recklessly. A red lantern showed ahead in the middle of
the road. They crashed through a light obstruction of boards and
trestles, overturning the lantern and plowed on over rough stones.
"I'm mayor," said Goodwin with a grin. "Breakin' my own rules but I
figger that broken stone'll bother 'em some. We'll chance it."
They lunged through, regardless of tires and, behind them, the pursuing
car rattled, lurched, skidded. A third tire blew out and as Goodwin
swung a corner with two wheels in the air the sheriff's machine smashed
viciously across the sidewalk, poking its crumpling radiator into a
cottonwood.
"Brazen bulls!" shouted Goodwin. "There she blows! You got to run."
The depot was ahead, to one side of the road-crossing. The train, its
clanging bell slowing for the stop, ground to a halt, the conductor
swinging from a platform to glance at the "clear" board. He waved
"ahead" as Sandy and Molly raced up and clambered to the platform from
which the trainman had dropped off. Now the latter remounted while the
train restarted, gathered speed.
"Where to?" he asked Sandy, surveying the pair of them curiously.
Sandy did not answer. He was watching four running figures coming down
the street. A star flashed on the breast of one of them, a star dulled
with mud. Goodwin had disappeared. Jordan pulled up, Plimsoll close
behind him, and the depot building shut off Sandy's view.
"Where to?" asked the conductor again. "Got reservations?"
"Bound for Boville, New Mexico. On the El Paso and Southwestern. What's
the charges? No reservations, but we rode fifty mile' across the mesa to
make the train."
Sandy produced his roll and at the same time he grinned in the light of
the conductor's lantern. And Sandy's smile was worth much more than
ordinary currency. It stamped him bona-fide, certified his character.
The conductor's profession made him apt at such endorsements.
"We take you to Phoenix," he said. "Change there for El Paso. I can give
you a spare upper for the lady."
Molly, all eyes, tired though they were, was staring at the Pullman
Afro-American, flashing eyes and teeth and buttons at her and even more
at Sandy.
"Fine!" said Sandy. "Smoker's good enough fo' me. He's got a bed for
you, Molly. See you in the morning."
He waited, countenancing her while she climbed the short ladder to the
already curtained berth. Molly's system might be aquiver with wonder but
she never showed loss of wits or poise. She might have traveled so a
hundred times. Back of the curtain she curled up half-undressed but,
even as Sandy registered to himself with a low chuckle: "She never
turned a hair or shied."
He found the smoking-room empty and rolled cigarettes. Presently the
conductor came in to go over his batch of tickets and accounts.
"Cattle?" he asked Sandy.
"Yes, sir. Three Star Ranch, nigh to Hereford."
"Business good these days? Beef's high enough in the city."
"It's fair in the main," answered Sandy. "Sometimes we seem right happy
an' prosperous an' then ag'in," he added with a twinkle in his eyes,
"we're jest a jump ahead of the sheriff."
"Boss," said the porter to the conductor, later, "Ah reckon that's a bad
man fo' suah. Carryin' two of them six-guns. You figgah he's elopin' wiv
that gal?"
The conductor surveyed his aide disdainfully.
"You've been seeing too many cheap picture-shows lately, Clem," he said.
"Eloping with that young girl? I wouldn't hint it to him if I were you.
Don't you know a he-man when you see one?"