Part 59 (1/2)

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

_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 part.i.tions 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 senora was coming to live with them, and perhaps Senor Jim's son. Senor Jim had been more active of late. His lameness was not so bad as it had been. It was true the Senor 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 Senor Jim would help to arrange them in the big room with the stone fireplace. The senora 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 senora 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 Sweetgra.s.s 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 G.o.ddess 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.

”h.e.l.lo, 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.”