Jim Waring of Sonora-Town; Or, Tang of Life

by Henry Herbert Knibbs

  CHAPTER XX

  _City Folks_

  Bud Shoop's new duties kept him exceedingly busy. As the days went by hefound himself more and more tied to office detail. Fortunately Torrancehad left a well-organized corps of rangers, each with his own specialwork mapped out, work that Shoop understood, with the exception ofseeding and planting experiments, which Lundy, the expert, attended toas though the reserve were his own and his life depended upon successfulresults along his special line.

  Shoop had long since given up trying to dictate letters. Instead hewrote what he wished to say on slips of paper which his clerk cast intoconventional form. The genial Bud's written directions were brief and tothe point.

  Among the many letters received was one from a writer of Westernstories, applying for a lease upon which to build a summer camp. Hisdaughter's health was none too good, and he wanted to be in themountains. Shoop studied the letter. He had a vague recollection ofhaving heard of the writer. The request was legitimate. There was noreason for not granting it.

  Shoop called in his stenographer. "Ever read any of that fella'sbooks?"

  "Who? Bronson? Yes. He writes bang-up Western stories."

  "He does, eh? Well, you get hold of one of them stories. I want to readit. I've lived in the West a few minutes myself."

  A week later Shoop had made his decision. He returned a shiny, newvolume to the clerk.

  "I never took to writin' folks reg'lar," he told the clerk. "Mebby I gotthe wrong idee of 'em. Now I reckon some of them is human, same as youand me. Why, do you know I been through lots of them things he writesabout. And, by gollies, when I read that there gun-fight down in Texas,I ketched myself feelin' along my hip, like I was packin' a gun. Andwhen I read about that cowboy's hoss,--the one with the sarko eye andthe white legs,--why, I ketched myself feelin' for my ole bandanna toblow my nose. An' I seen dead hosses a-plenty. But you needn't to saynothin' about that in the letter. Just tell him to mosey over and we'lltalk it out. If a man what knows hosses and folks like he does wa'n'traised in the West, he ought to been. Heard anything from Adams?"

  "He was in last week. He's up on Baldy. Packed some stuff up to thelookout."

  "Uh-uh. Now, the land next to my shack on the Blue ain't a bad place forthis here writer. I got the plat, and we can line out the five acresthis fella wants from my corner post. But he's comin' in kind of late tobuild a camp."

  "It will be good weather till December," said the clerk.

  "Well, you write and tell him to come over. Seen anything of Hardy andhis men lately?"

  "Not since last Tuesday."

  "Uh-uh. They're millin' around like a lot of burros--and gettin'nowhere. But Jim Waring's out after that bunch that got Pat. If I wasn'tso hefty, I'd 'a' gone with him. I tell you the man that got Pat ain'tgoin' to live long to brag on it."

  "They say it was the Brewster boys," ventured the stenographer.

  "They say lots of things, son. But Jim Waring _knows_. God help the manthat shot Pat when Jim Waring meets up with him. And I want to tell yousomethin'. Be kind of careful about repeatin' what 'they say' toanybody. You got nothin' to back you up if somebody calls your hand.'They' ain't goin' to see you through. And you named the Brewster boys.Now, just suppose one of the Brewster boys heard of it and come overaskin' you what you meant? I bet you a new hat Jim Waring ain't saidBrewster's name to a soul--and he _knows_. I'm goin' over to Stacey. Anymail the stage didn't get?"

  "Letter for Mrs. Adams."

  "Uh-uh. Lorry writes to his ma like he was her beau--reg'lar andplenty. Funny thing, you can't get a word out of him about wimmin-folk,neither. He ain't that kind of a colt. But I reckon when he sees the galhe wants he'll saddle up and ride out and take her." And Bud chuckled.

  Bondsman rapped the floor with his tail. Bondsman never failed toexpress a sympathetic mood when his master chuckled.

  "Now, look at that," said Shoop, grinning. "He knows I'm goin' over toStacey. He heard me say it. And he says I got to take him along, 'causehe knows I ain't goin' on a hoss. That there dog bosses me aroundsomethin' scandalous."

  The stenographer smiled as Shoop waddled from the office with Bondsmanat his heels. There was something humorous, almost pathetic, in thegaunt and grizzled Airedale's affection for his rotund master. AndShoop's broad back, with the shoulders stooped slightly and the setstride as he plodded here and there, often made the clerk smile. Yetthere was nothing humorous about Shoop's face when he flashed to angeror studied some one who tried to mask a lie, or when he reprimanded hisclerk for naming folk that it was hazardous to name.

  The typewriter clicked; a fly buzzed on the screen door; a beam ofsunlight flickered through the window. The letter ran:--

  Yours of the 4th inst. received and contents noted. In answer would state that Supervisor Shoop would be glad to have you call at your earliest convenience in regard to leasing a camp-site on the White Mountain Reserve.

  Essentially a business letter of the correspondence-school type.

  But the stenographer was not thinking of style. He was wondering whatthe girl would be like. There was to be a girl. The writer had said thathe wished to build a camp to which he could bring his daughter, who wasnot strong. The clerk thought that a writer's daughter might be aninteresting sort of person. Possibly she was like some of the heroinesin the writer's stories. It would be interesting to meet her. He hadwritten a poem once himself. It was about spring, and had been publishedin the local paper. He wondered if the writer's daughter liked poetry.

  In the meantime, Lorry, with two pack-animals and Gray Leg, rode thehills and canons, attending to the many duties of a ranger.

  And as he caught his stride in the work he began to feel that he was hisown man. Miles from headquarters, he was often called upon to make aquick decision that required instant and individual judgment. He mademistakes, but never failed to report such mistakes to Shoop. Lorrypreferred to give his own version of an affair that he had mishandledrather than to have to explain some other version later. He was noepitome of perfection. He was inclined to be arbitrary when he knew hewas in the right. Argument irritated him. He considered his "Yes" or"No" sufficient, without explanation.

  He made Shoop's cabin his headquarters, and spent his spare time cordingwood. He liked his occupation, and felt rather independent with thecomfortable cabin, a good supply of food, a corral and pasture for theponies, plenty of clear, cold water, and a hundred trails to ride eachday from dawn to dark as he should choose. Once unfamiliar with thetimber country, he grew to love the twinkling gold of the aspens, thetwilight vistas of the spruce and pines, and the mighty sweep of thegreat purple tides of forest that rolled down from the ranges into asheer of space that had no boundary save the sky.

  He grew a trifle thinner in the high country. The desert tan of hischeeks and throat deepened to a ruddy bronze.

  Aside from pride in his work, he took special pride in his equipment,keeping his bits and conchas polished and his leather gear oiled.Reluctantly he discarded his chaps. He found that they hindered him whenworking on foot. Only when he rode into Jason for supplies did he wearhis chaps, a bit of cowboy vanity quite pardonable in his years.

  If he ever thought of women at all, it was when he lounged and smoked bythe evening fire in the cabin, sometimes recalling "that Eastern girlwith the jim-dandy mother." He wondered if they ever thought of him, andhe wished that they might know he was now a full-fledged ranger withman-size responsibilities. "And mebby they think I'm ridin' south yet,"he would say to himself. "I must have looked like I didn't aim to pullup this side of Texas, from the way I lit out." But, then, women didn'tunderstand such things.

  Occasionally he confided something of the kind to the spluttering fire,laughing as he recalled the leg of lamb with which he had waved hishasty farewell.

  "And I was scared, all right. But I wasn't so scared I forgot I'd gethungry." Which conclusion seemed to satisfy him.

  When he learned that a writer had leased five acres next to Bud's cabin,he was sk
eptical as to how he would get along with "strangers." He likedelbow-room. Yet, on second thought, it would make no difference to him.He would not be at the cabin often nor long at a time. The evenings werelonely sometimes.

  But when camped at the edge of the timber on some mountain meadow, withhis ponies grazing in the starlit dusk, when the little, leaping flameof his night fire flung ruddy shadows that danced in giant mimicry inthe cavernous arches of the pines; when the faint tinkle of the belledpack-horse rang a faery cadence in the distance; then there was no suchthing as loneliness in his big, outdoor world. Rather, he was content ina solid way. An inner glow of satisfaction because of work well done, asense of well-being, founded upon perfect physical health and ease,kept him from feeling the need of companionship other than that of hishorses. Sometimes he sat late into the night watching the pine gum oozefrom a burning log and swell to golden bubbles that puffed into tinyflames and vanished in smoky whisperings. At such times a companionwould not have been unwelcome, yet he was content to be alone.

  Later, when Lorry heard that the writer was to bring his daughter intothe high country, he expressed himself to Shoop's stenographer briefly:"Oh, hell!" Yet the expletive was not offensive, spoken gently andmerely emphasizing Lorry's attitude toward things feminine.

  While Lorry was away with the pack-horses and a week's riding ahead ofhim, the writer arrived in Jason, introduced himself and hisdaughter,--a rather slender girl of perhaps sixteen or eighteen,--andlater, accompanied by the genial Bud, rode up to the Blue Mesa andinspected the proposed camp-site. As they rode, Bud discoursed upon theclimate, ways of building a log cabin, wild turkeys, cattle, sheep,grazing, fuel, and water, and concluded his discourse with adissertation upon dogs in general and Airedales in particular. Thewriter was fond of dogs and knew something about Airedales. Thisappealed to Shoop even more than had the writer's story of the West.

  Arrived at the mesa, tentative lines were run and corners marked. Thenext day two Mormon youths from Jason started out with a load of lumberand hardware. The evening of the second day following they arrived atthe homestead, pitched a tent, and set to work. That night they unloadedthe lumber. Next morning they cleared a space for the cabin. By the endof August the camp was finished. The Mormon boys, to whom freightingover the rugged hills was more of a pastime than real work, brought in afew pieces of furniture--iron beds, a stove, cooking-utensils, and thehardware and provisions incidental to the maintenance of a home in thewilderness.

  The writer and his daughter rode up from Jason with the final load ofsupplies. Excitement and fatigue had so overtaxed the girl's slenderstore of strength that she had to stay in bed for several days.Meanwhile, her father put things in order. The two saddle-horses,purchased under the critical eye of Bud Shoop, showed an inclination tostray back to Jason, so the writer turned them into Lorry's corral eachevening, as his own lease was not entirely fenced.

  Riding in from his long journey one night, Lorry passed close to the newcabin. It loomed strangely raw and white in the moonlight. He hadforgotten that there was to be a camp near his. The surprise ratherirritated him. Heretofore he had considered the Blue Mesa was his by akind of natural right. He wondered how he would like the city folks.They had evidently made themselves at home. Their horses were in hiscorral.

  As he unsaddled Gray Leg, a light flared up in the strange camp. Thedoor opened, and a man came toward him.

  "Good-evening," said the writer. "I hope my horses are not in your way."

  "Sure not," said Lorry as he loosened a pack-rope.

  He took off the packs and lugged them to the veranda. The tired horsesrolled, shook themselves, and meandered toward the spring.

  "I'm Bronson. My daughter is with me. We are up here for the summer."

  "My name is Adams," said Lorry, shaking hands.

  "The ranger up here. Yes. Well, I'm glad to meet you, Adams. My daughterand I get along wonderfully, but it will be rather nice to have aneighbor. I heard you ride by, and wanted to explain about my horses."

  "That's all right, Mr. Bronson. Just help yourself."

  "Thank you. Dorothy--my daughter--has been under the weather for a fewdays. She'll be up to-morrow, I think. She has been worrying about ourusing your corral. I told her you would not mind."

  "Sure not. She's sick, did you say?"

  "Well, over-tired. She is not very strong."

  "Lungs?" queried Lorry, and immediately he could have kicked himself forsaying it.

  "I'm afraid so, Adams. I thought this high country might do her good."

  "It's right high for some. Folks got to take it easy at first;'specially wimmin-folk. I'm right sorry your girl ain't well."

  "Thank you. I shouldn't have mentioned it. She is really curious to knowhow you live, what you do, and, in fact, what a real live ranger lookslike. Mr. Shoop told her something about you while we were in Jason.They became great friends while the camp was building. She says sheknows all about you, and tries to tease me by keeping it to herself."

  "Bud--my boss--is some josher," was all that Lorry could think of to sayat the time.

  Bronson went back to his cabin. Lorry, entering his camp, lighted thelamp and built a fire. The camp looked cozy and cheerful after a week onthe trail.

  When he had eaten he sat down to write to his mother. He would tell herall about the new cabin and the city folks. But before he had writtenmore than to express himself "that it was too darned bad a girl had tostay up in the woods without no other wimmin-folks around," he becamedrowsy. The letter remained unfinished. He would finish it to-morrow. Hewould smoke awhile and then go to bed.

  A healthy young animal himself, he could not understand what sicknessmeant. And as for lungs--he had forgotten there were such things in aperson's make-up. And sick folks couldn't eat "regular grub." It must bepretty tough not to be able to eat heartily. Now, there was that wildturkey he had shot near the Big Spring. He tiptoed to the door. Thelights were out in the other cabin. It was closed season for turkey, butthen a fellow needed a change from bacon and beans once in a while.

  He had hidden the turkey in a gunny-sack which hung from a kitchenrafter. Should he leave it in the sack, hang it from a rafter of theirveranda, out of reach of a chance bobcat or coyote, or--it would be muchmore of a real surprise to hang the big bird in front of their door inall his feathered glory. The sack would spoil the effect.

  He took off his boots and walked cautiously to the other cabin. Thefirst person to come out of that cabin next morning would actually bumpinto the turkey. It would be a good joke.

  "And if he's the right kind of a hombre he won't talk about it," thoughtLorry as he returned to his camp. "And if he ain't, I am out one finebird, and I'll know to watch out for him."