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JIM WARING
OF SONORA-TOWN
OR, TANG OF LIFE
BY
HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS
AUTHOR OF OVERLAND RED, ETC.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
E. BOYD SMITH
August 1918
To
Robert Frothingham
Waring of Sonora-Town]
Waring of Sonora-Town
_The heat acrost the desert was a-swimmin' in the sun, When Waring of Sonora-Town, Jim Waring of Sonora-Town,From Salvador come ridin' down, a-rollin' of his gun.
He was singin' low and easy to his pony's steady feet, But his eye was live and driftin' Round the scenery and siftin'All the crawlin' shadows shiftin' in the tremblin' gray mesquite.
Eyes was watchin' from a hollow where a outlaw Chola lay; Two black, snaky eyes a-yearnin' For Jim's hoss to make the turnin',Then to send a bullet burnin' through his back--the Chola way.
And Jim Waring's gaze, a-rovin' round the desert as he rode, Settled quick--without him seemin' To get wise and quit his dreamin'--On a shiny ring a-gleamin' where no ring had ever growed.
The lightnin' don't give warnin'; just a lick and she is through; Waring set his gun to smokin' Playful like, like he was jokin',And--a Chola lay a-chokin' ... and a buzzard cut the blue._
Contents
I. The Canon
II. Jose Vaca
III. Donovan's Hand
IV. The Silver Crucifix
V. The Tang of Life
VI. Arizona
VII. The Return of Waring
VIII. Lorry
IX. High-Chin Bob
X. East and West
XI. Spring Lamb
XII. Bud Shoop and Bondsman
XIII. The Horse Trade
XIV. Bondsman's Decision
XV. John and Demijohn
XVI. Play
XVII. Down the Wind
XVIII. A Piece of Paper
XIX. The Fight in the Open
XX. City Folks
XXI. A Slim Whip of a Girl
XXII. A Tune for Uncle Bud
XXIII. Like One Who Sleeps
XXIV. The Genial Bud
XXV. The Little Fires
XXVI. Idle Noon
XXVII. Waco
XXVIII. A Squared Account
XXIX. Bud's Conscience
XXX. In the Hills
XXXI. In the Pines
XXXII. Politics
XXXIII. The Fires of Home
XXXIV. Young Life
XXXV. The High Trail
Illustrations
Waring of Sonora-Town
A huddled shape near a boulder
"I came over--to tell you--that it was Pat's gun"
They made coffee and ate the sandwiches she had prepared
_From drawings by E. Boyd Smith_
TANG OF LIFE
Chapter I
_The Canon_
Waring picketed his horse in a dim angle of the Agua Fria Canon, spreadhis saddle-blanket to dry in the afternoon sun, and, climbing to anarrow ledge, surveyed the canon from end to end with a pair ofhigh-power glasses. He knew the men he sought would ride south. He wasreasonably certain that they would not ride through the canon indaylight. The natural trail through the Agua Fria was along the westernwall; a trail that he had avoided, working his toilsome way down theeastern side through a labyrinth of brush and rock that had concealedhim from view. A few hundred yards below his hasty camp a sandy arroyocrossed the canon's mouth.
He had planned to intercept the men where the trail crossed this arroyo,or, should the trail show pony tracks, to follow them into the desertbeyond, where, sooner or later, he would overtake them. They had a startof twelve hours, but Waring reasoned that they would not do much ridingin daylight. The trail at the northern end of the canon had shown nofresh tracks that morning. His problem was simple. The answer would bedefinite. He returned to the shelter of the brush, dropped the glassesinto a saddle-pocket, and stretched himself wearily.
A few yards below him, on a brush-dotted level, his horse, Dexter,slowly circled his picket and nibbled at the scant bunch-grass. Thewestern sun trailed long shadows across the canon; shadows that driftedimperceptibly farther and farther, spreading, commingling, softening thebroken outlines of ledge and brush until the walled solitude was brimmedwith dusk, save where a red shaft cleft the fast-fading twilight,burning like a great spotlight on a picketed horse and a man asleep, hishead pillowed on a saddle.
As the dusk drew down, the horse ceased grazing, sniffed the comingnight, and nickered softly. Waring rose and led the horse to water, and,returning, emptied half the grain in the morral on a blanket. Dexmunched contentedly. When the horse had finished eating the grain,Waring picketed him in a fresh spot and climbed back to the ledge, wherehe sat watching the western wall of the canon, occasionally glancing upas some dim star burned through the deepening dusk and bloomed to asilvery maturity.
Presently a faint pallor overspread the canon till it lay like a ghostlysea dotted with strange islands of brush and rock; islands that seemedto waver and shift in a sort of vague restlessness, as though trying toevade the ever-brightening tide of moonlight that burned away theirshrouds of dusk and fixed them in still, tangible shapes upon the canonfloor.
Across the canon the farther trail ran past a broad, blank wall of rock.No horseman could cross that open space unseen. Waring, seated upon theledge, leaned back against the wall, watching the angling shadowsshorten as the moon drew overhead. Toward morning he became drowsy. Asthe white radiance paled to gray, he rose and paced back and forth uponthe narrow ledge to keep himself awake. In a few minutes the moon woulddisappear behind the farther rim of the world; the canon would sink backinto its own night, all its moonlit imageries melting, vanishing. In thehour before dawn Waring would be unable to see anything of the fartherwall save a wavering blur.
Just below him he could discern the outline of his horse, with headlowered, evidently dozing. Having in mind the keenness of desert-bredstock, he watched the horse. The minutes drifted by. The horse seemedmore distinct. Waring thought he could discern the picket rope. Heendeavored to trace it from horse to picket. Foot by foot his eyesfollowed its slack outline across the ground. The head of the metalpicket glimmered faintly. Waring closed his eyes, nodded, and caughthimself. This time he traced the rope from picket to horse. It seemed achildish thing to do, yet it kept him awake. Did he imagine it, or hadthe rope moved?
Dex had lifted his head. He was sniffing the cool morning air. Slowlythe tawny-golden shape of the big buckskin turned, head up and nostrilsrounded in tense rings. Waring glanced across the canon. The fartherwall was still dim in the half-light. In a few minutes the trail wouldbecome distinct. Dropping from the ledge, he stepped to his saddle. Dexevidently heard him, for he twitched back one ear, but maintained hisattitude of keen interest in an invisible something--a something thathad drawn him from drowsy inanition to a quietly tense statue ofalertness. The ash gray of the farther wall, now visible, slowly changedto a faint rose tint that deepened and spread.
Waring stooped and straightened up, with his glasses held on the fartrail. A tiny rider appeared in the clear blue circle of the binoculars,and another, who led two horses without saddles or packs. The men wereheaded south. Presently they disappeared behind a wall of brush. Waringsaddled Dex, and, keeping close to the eastern wall, rode toward thearroyo.
The morning sun traced clean, black shadows of the chaparral on thesand. The
bloom of cacti burned in red and yellow blotches of flameagainst its own dull background of grayish-green. At the mouth of thearroyo, Waring dismounted and dropped the reins. Dex nosed himinquiringly. He patted the horse, and, turning, strode swiftly down thedry river-bed. He walked upright, knowing that he could not be seen fromthe trail. He could even have ridden down the arroyo unseen, and perhapsit was a senseless risk to hunt men afoot in this land. The men hehunted were Mexicans of Sonora; fugitives. They would fight blindly,spurred by fear. Waring's very name terrorized them. And were they tocome upon the gringo mounted, Waring knew that there was more than achance his horse would be shot. He had a peculiar aversion to runningsuch a risk when there was half a chance of doing his work on foot.
Moreover, certain Americans in Sonora who disliked Waring had saidrecently that no man was quick enough to get an even break with thegunman, which tentatively placed him as a "killer," whereas he had nevergiven a thought to the hazard when going into a fight. He had alwaysplayed the game to win, odds either way. The men he sought would bemounted. He would be on foot. This time the fugitives would have morethan a fair chance. They would blunder down the pitch into the arroyo,perhaps glancing back, fearful of pursuit, but apprehending noambushment.
Waring knew they would kill him if they could. He knew that not even afighting chance would have been his were they in his place and he intheirs. He was deputized and paid to do just what he was doing. The menwere bandits who had robbed the paymaster of the Ortez Mines. To Waringthere was nothing complicated about the matter. It was his day's work.The morning sun would be in their faces, but that was not his fault.
As Waring waited in the arroyo the faint clatter of shod hoofs came fromabove. He drew close to a cutbank, leaning his shoulder against iteasily. With a slither of sand, the first horse took the pitch, legsangled awkwardly as he worked down. The second rider followed, the ledhorses pulling back.
At the bottom of the arroyo, the Mexicans reined up. The elder, squat,broad of back, a black handkerchief tied round his thick neck, reachedinto his pocket and drew out tobacco and cigarette papers. The other,hardly more than a boy, urged that they hasten. Fear vibrated in hisvoice. The squat Mexican laughed and began to roll a cigarette.
None had overtaken them, he said. And were they not now in the LandWhere No Man Lived?
"Si!" said Waring softly.
The half-rolled cigarette fluttered to the ground. The Mexican's heavylip sagged, showing broken teeth. His companion dropped the lead-ropeand turned to gaze at Waring with eyes wide, wondering, curious. The ledhorses plunged up the back trail. Waring made no movement toward hisgun, but he eyed the elder Mexican sharply, paying little attention tothe youth. The horse of the squat Mexican grew restless, sidling towardthe other.
Waring's lips tightened. The bandit was spurring his horse on the offside to get behind his companion. Evidently the numbness of surprise hadgiven way to fear, and fear meant action. Waring knew that the elderMexican would sacrifice his companion for the sake of a chance ofkilling the gringo.
Waring held out his left hand. "Give me your gun," he said to the youth."And hand it down butt first."
The youth, as though hypnotized, pulled out his gun and handed it toWaring. Waring knew that if the other Mexican meant to fight it would beat that instant. Even as the butt of the gun touched Waring's hand itjumped. Two shattering reports blended and died echoless in theclose-walled arroyo.
The Mexican's gun slipped slowly from his fingers. He rocked in thesaddle, grasped the horn, and slid to the ground. Waring saw him reachfor the gun where it lay on the sand. He kicked it aside. The Mexicanyouth leaped from the saddle and stood between Waring and the fallenman. Waring stepped back. For an instant his eyes drew fine. He wastempted to make an end of it right there. The youth dropped to hisknees. A drift of wind fluttered the bandanna at his throat. Waring sawa little silver crucifix gleaming against the smooth brown of his chest.
"If it is that I am to die, I am not afraid," said the youth. "I havethis!" And his fingers touched the crucifix. "But you will not kill myuncle!"
Waring hesitated. He seemed to be listening. And as though in a dream,yet distinct--clear as though he had spoken himself came the words: "Itis enough!"
"Not this journey," said Waring.
The Mexican youth gazed at him wonderingly. Was the gringo mad?
Waring holstered his gun with a jerk. "Get up on your hind legs and quitthat glory stuff! We ride north," he growled.
Jim Waring of Sonora-Town; Or, Tang of Life Page 1