ON THE CAÑON TRAIL
The Loring homestead, a group of low-roofed adobe buildings blending
with the abrupt red background of the hill which sheltered it from the
winter winds, was a settlement in itself, providing shelter and comfort
for the wives and children of the herders. Each home maintained a
small garden of flowers and vegetables. Across the somber brown of the
'dobe walls hung strings of chiles drying in the sun. Gay blossoms,
neatly kept garden rows, red ollas hanging in the shade of cypress and
acacia, the rose-bordered plaza on which fronted the house of the
patron, the gigantic windmill purring lazily and turning now to the
right, now to the left, to meet the varying breeze, the entire prospect
was in its pastoral quietude a reflection of Señora Loring's sweet and
placid nature. Innuendo might include the windmill, and justly so, for
the Señora in truth met the varying breeze of circumstance and
invariably turned it to good uses, cooling the hot temper of the patron
with a flow of soft Spanish utterances, and enriching the simple lives
of the little colony with a charity as free and unvarying as the flow
of the clear, cool water.
Far to the east, where the mesas sloped gently to the hills, grazed the
sheep, some twenty bands of a thousand each, and each band guarded and
cared for by a herder and an assistant who cooked and at times
journeyed with the lazy burros to and from the hacienda for supplies
and provisions.
David Loring, erstwhile plainsman and scout, had drifted in the early
days from New Mexico to Arizona with his small band of sheep, and
settled in the valley of the Concho. He had been tolerated by the
cattle-men, as his flock was but a speck on the limitless mesas. As
his holdings increased, the ranchers awakened to the fact that he had
come to stay and that some boundary must be established to protect
their grazing. The Concho River was chosen as the dividing line, which
would have been well enough had Loring been a party to the agreement.
But he declined to recognize any boundary. The cattle-men felt that
they had given him fair warning in naming the Concho as the line of
demarcation. He, in turn, considered that his right to graze his sheep
on any part or all of the free range had not been circumscribed.
His neighbor--if cattle-men and sheep-men may under any circumstances
be termed neighbors--was John Corliss. The Corliss rancho was just
across the river opposite the Loring homestead. After the death of
their parents the Corliss boys, John and his younger brother Will, had
been constant visitors at the sheep-man's home, both of them enjoying
the vivacious companionship of Eleanor Loring, and each, in his way, in
love with the girl. Eventually the younger brother disappeared without
any apparent reason. Then it was that John Corliss's visits to the
Loring rancho became less frequent and the friendliness which had
existed between the rival ranches became a kind of tolerant
acquaintanceship, as that of neighbors who have nothing in common save
the back fence.
Fernando, the oldest herder in Loring's employ, stood shading his eyes
from the glare of noon as he gazed toward the distant rancho. His son
was with the flock and the old man had just risen from preparing the
noon meal. "The Señorita," he murmured, and his swart features were
lighted by a wrinkled smile. He stepped to his tent, whipped a gay
bandanna from his blankets and knotted it about his lean throat. Then
he took off his hat, gazing at it speculatively. It was beyond
reconstruction as to definite shape, so he tossed it to the ground, ran
his fingers through his silver-streaked hair, and stepped out to await
his Señorita's arrival.
The sunlight flashed on silver spur and bit as the black-and-white
pinto "Challenge" swept across the mesa toward the sheep-camp. Into
the camp he flung, fretting at the curb and pivoting. His rider,
Eleanor Loring, about to dismount, spoke to him sharply. Still he
continued to pivot uneasily. "Morning, Fernando! Challenge is fussy
this morning. I'll be right back!" And she disciplined Challenge with
bit and spur, wheeling him and loping him away from the camp. Down the
trail she checked him and brought him around on his hind feet. Back
they came, with a rush. Fernando's deep-set eyes glowed with
admiration as the girl "set-up" the pinto and swung to the ground with
a laugh. "Made him do it all over again, si. He is the big baby, but
he pretends he is bronco. Don't you, Challenge?" She dropped the
reins and rubbed his nose. The pony laid back his ears in simulated
anger and nipped at her sleeve. "Straighten your ears up, pronto!" she
commanded, nevertheless laughing. Then a strain of her father's blood
was apparent as she seized the reins and stood back from the horse.
"Because you're bluffing this morning, I'm going to make you do your
latest trick. Down!" she commanded. The pony extended his foreleg and
begged to shake hands. "No! Down!" With a grunt the horse dropped to
his knees, rolled to his side, but still kept his head raised. "Clear
down! Dead, Challenge!" The horse lay with extended neck, but
switched his tail significantly. "Don't you dare roll!" she said, as
he gave evidence of getting up. Then, at her gesture, he heaved
himself to his feet and shook himself till the stirrups clattered. The
girl dropped the reins and turned to the old herder. "I taught him
that, Fernando. I didn't make him do it just to show off. He
understands now, and he'll behave."
Old Fernando grinned. "He always have the good manner, being always
with the Señorita," he said bowing.
"Thanks, Fernando. You always say something nice. But I can't let you
get ahead of me. What a pretty scarf. It's just right. Do you wear
it always, Fernando?"
"It is--I know--what the vaquero of the Concho call the 'josh' that you
give me, but I am yet not too old to like it. It is muy pleasure, si!
to be noticed when one is old--by the Señorita of especial."
The girl's dark eyes flashed and she laughed happily. "It's lots of
fun, isn't it--to 'josh'? But I came to see if you needed anything."
"Nothing while still the Señorita is at thees camp."
"Well, you'd better think up something, for I'm going in a minute.
Have to make the rounds. Dad is down with the rheumatism and as cross
as a grizzly. I was glad to get away. And then, there's Madre."
Fernando smiled and nodded. He was not unfamiliar with the patron's
temper when rheumatism obliged him to be inactive. "He say nothing,
the patron--that we cross the sheep to the west of the river, Señorita?"
"No. Not lately. I don't know why he should want to. The feed is
good here."
"I have this morning talk with the vaquero Corlees. He tell me that
the South Fork is dry up."
"John Corliss is not usually interested in our sheep," said the girl.
"No. Of the sheep he knows nothing." And the old herder smiled. "But
many times he look out there," he added, pointing toward the Loring
rancho.
"He was afraid father would catch him talking to one of the herders,"
laughed the girl.
"The vaquero Corlees he afraid of not even the bear, I think, Señorita."
Eleanor Loring laughed. "Don't you let father catch you calling him a
bear!" she cautioned, provoking the old herder to immediate apology and
a picturesque explanation of the fact that he had referred not to the
patron, but the grizzly.
"All right, Fernando. I'll not forget to tell the patron that you
called him a bear."
The old herder grinned and waved farewell as she mounted and rode down
the trail. Practical in everyday affairs, he untied his bandanna and
neatly folded and replaced it among his effects. As he came out of the
tent he picked up his hat. He was no longer the cavalier, but a
stoop-shouldered, shriveled little Mexican herder. He slouched out
toward the flock and called his son to dinner. No, it was not so many
years--was not the Señorita but twenty years old?--since he had wooed
the Señora Loring, then a slim dark girl of the people, his people, but
now the wealthy Señora, wife of his patron. Ah, yes! It was good that
she should have the comfortable home and the beautiful daughter. He
had nothing but his beloved sheep, but did they not belong to his
Señorita?
At the ford the girl took the trail to the uplands, deciding to visit
the farthest camp first, and then, if she had time, to call at one or
two other camps on her way back to the rancho. As the trail grew
steeper, she curbed the impatient Challenge to a steadier pace and rode
leisurely to the level of the timber. On the park-like level,
clean-swept between the boles of the great pines, she again put
Challenge to a lope until she came to the edge on the upper mesa. Then
she drew up suddenly and held the horse in.
Far out on the mesa was the figure of a man, on foot. Toward him came
a horse without bridle or saddle. She recognized the figure as that of
John Corliss, and she wondered why he was on foot and evidently trying
to coax a stray horse toward him. Presently she saw Corliss reach out
slowly and give the horse something from his hand. Still she was
puzzled, and urging Challenge forward, drew nearer. The stray, seeing
her horse, pricked up its ears, swung round stiffly, and galloped off.
Corliss turned and held up his hand, palm toward her. It was their old
greeting; a greeting that they had exchanged as boy and girl long
before David Loring had become recognized as a power to be reckoned
with in the Concho Valley.
"Peace?" she queried, smiling, as she rode up.
"Why not, Nell?"
"Oh, cattle and sheep, I suppose. There's no other reason, is there?"
Corliss was silent, thinking of his brother Will.
"Unless--Will--" she said, reading his thought.
He shook his head, "That would be no reason for--for our quarreling,
would it?"
She laughed. "Why, who has quarreled? I'm sure I haven't."
"But you don't seem the same--since Will left."
"Neither do you, John. You haven't called at the rancho for--well,
about a year."
"And then I was told to stay away even longer than that."
"Oh, you mustn't mind Dad. He growls--but he won't bite."
Corliss glanced up at her. His steady gray eyes were smiling, but his
lips were grave. "Would it make any difference if I did come?"
The girl's dark face flushed and her eyes sparkled. "Lots! Perhaps
you and Dad could agree to stop growling altogether. But we won't talk
about it. I'd like to know what you are doing up here afoot?"
"Wouldn't tell you for a dollar," he replied, smiling. "My horse is
over there--near the timber. The rest of the band are at the
waterhole."
"Oh, but you will tell me!" she said. "And before we get back to the
cañon."
"I wasn't headed that way--" he began; but she interrupted quickly.
"Of course. I'm not, either." Then she glanced at him with mischief
scintillating in her dark eyes. "Fernando told me you were talking
with him this morning. I don't see that it has done you much good."
His perplexity was apparent in his silence.
"Fernando is--is polite," she asserted, wheeling her horse.
Corliss stood gazing at her unsmilingly. "I want to be," he said
presently.
"Oh, John! I--you always take things so seriously. I was just
'joshing' you, as Fernando says. Of course you do! Won't you shake
hands?"
He strode forward. The girl drew off her gauntlet and extended her
hand. "Let's begin over again," she said as he shook hands with her.
"We've both been acting."
Before she was aware of his intent, he bowed his head and kissed her
fingers. She drew her hand away with a little cry of surprise. She
was pleased, yet he mistook her expression.
He flushed and, confused, drew back. "I--I didn't mean it," he said,
as though apologizing for his gallantry.
The girl's eyes dilated for an instant. Then she laughed with all the
joyous _abandon_ of youth and absolute health. "You get worse and
worse," she said, teasingly. "Do go and have another talk with
Fernando, John. Then come and tell me all about it."
Despite her teasing, Corliss was beginning to enjoy the play. As a
rule undemonstrative, he was when moved capable of intense feeling, and
the girl knew it. She saw a light in his eyes that she recognized; a
light that she remembered well, for once when they were boy and girl
together she had dared him to kiss her, and had not been disappointed.
"You are cross this morning," she said, making as though to go.
"Well, I've begun over again, Nell. You wait till I get Chinook and
we'll ride home together."
"Oh, but I'm--you're not going that way," she mocked.
"Yes, I am--and so are you. If you won't wait, I'll catch you up,
anyway. You daren't put Challenge down the cañon trail faster than a
walk."
"I daren't? Then, catch me!"
She wheeled her pony and sped toward the timber. Corliss, running
heavily in his high-heeled boots, caught up his own horse and leaped to
the saddle as Chinook broke into a run. The young rancher knew that
the girl would do her best to beat him to the cañon level. He feared
for her safety on the ragged trail below them.
Chinook swung down the trail taking the turns without slackening his
speed and Corliss, leaning in on the curves, dodged the sweeping
branches.
Arrived at the far edge of the timber, he could see the girl ahead of
him, urging Challenge down the rain-gutted trail at a lope. As she
pulled up at an abrupt turn, she waved to him. He accepted the
challenge and, despite his better judgment, set spurs to Chinook.
Round the next turn he reined up and leaped from his horse. Below him
he saw Challenge, riderless, and galloping along the edge of the
hillside. On the trail lay Eleanor Loring, her black hair vivid
against the gray of the shale. He plunged toward her and stooping
caught her up in his arms. "Nell! Nell!" he cried, smoothing back her
hair from her forehead. "God, Nell! I--I didn't mean it."
Her eyelids quivered. Then she gasped. He could feel her trembling.
Presently her eyes opened and a faint smile touched her white lips.
"I'm all right. Challenge fell--and I jumped clear. Struck my head.
Don't look at me like that! I'm not going to die."
"I'm--I'm mighty glad, Nell!" he said, helping her to a seat on the
rock against which she had fallen.
Her hands were busy with her hair. He found her hat and handed it to
her. "If my head wasn't just splitting, I'd like to laugh. You are
the funniest man alive! I couldn't speak, but I heard you call to me
and tell me you didn't mean it! Then you say you are mighty glad I'm
alive. Doesn't that sound funny enough to bring a person to life
again?"
"No, it's not funny. It was a close call."
She glanced at his grave, white face. "Guess you were scared, John. I
didn't know you could be scared at anything. Jack Corliss as white as
a sheet and trembling like a--a girl!"
"On account of a girl," said Corliss, smiling a little.
"Now, _that_ sounds better. What were you doing up on the mesa this
afternoon?"
"I took some lump-sugar up for my old pony, Apache. He likes it."
"Well, I'll never forget it!" she exclaimed. "How the boys would laugh
if they heard _you'd_ been feeding sugar to an old broken-down
cow-pony! You! Why, I feel better already."
"I'm right glad you do, Nell. But you needn't say anything about the
sugar. I kind of like the old hoss. Will you promise?"
"I don't know. Oh, my head!" She went white and leaned against him.
He put his arm around her, and her head lay back against his shoulder.
"I'll be all right--in a minute," she murmured.
He bent above her, his eyes burning. Slowly he drew her close and
kissed her lips. Her eyelids quivered and lifted. "Nell!" he
whispered.
"Did you mean it?" she murmured, smiling wanly.
He drew his head back and gazed at her up-turned face. "I'm all
right," she said, and drew herself up beside him. "Serves me right for
putting Challenge down the trail so fast."
As they rode homeward Corliss told her of the advent of Sundown and
what the latter had said about the wreck and the final disappearance of
his "pal," Will Corliss.
The girl heard him silently and had nothing to say until they parted at
the ford. Then she turned to him. "I don't believe Will was killed.
I can't say why, but if he had been killed I think I should have known
it. Don't ask me to explain, John. I have always expected that he
would come back. I have been thinking about him lately."
"I can't understand it," said Corliss. "Will always had what he
wanted. He owns a half-interest in the Concho. I can't do as I want
to, sometimes. My hands are tied, for if I made a bad move and lost
out, I'd be sinking Will's money with mine."
"I wouldn't make any bad moves if I were you," said the girl, glancing
at the rancher's grave face.
"Business is business, Nell. We needn't begin that old argument.
Only, understand this: I'll play square just as long as the other side
plays square. There's going to be trouble before long and you know
why. It won't begin on the west side of the Concho."
"Good-bye, John," said the girl, reining her pony around.
He raised his hat. Then he wheeled Chinook and loped toward the ranch.
Eleanor Loring, riding slowly, thought of what he had said. "He won't
give in an inch," she said aloud. "Will would have given up the cattle
business, or anything else, to please me." Then she reasoned with
herself, knowing that Will Corliss had given up all interest in the
Concho, not to please her but to hurt her, for the night before his
disappearance he had asked her to marry him and she had very sensibly
refused, telling him frankly that she liked him, but that until he had
settled down to something worth while she had no other answer for him.
She was thinking of Will when she rode in to the rancho and turned her
horse over to Miguel. Suddenly she flushed, remembering John Corliss's
eyes as he had held her in his arms.