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

by Henry Herbert Knibbs

  CHAPTER XXXV

  _The High Trail_

  Black-edged against the silvery light of early dawn the rim of the worldlay dotted with far buttes and faint ranges fading into the spaces ofthe north and south. The light deepened and spread to a great crimsonpool, tideless round the bases of magic citadels and mighty towers.Golden minarets thrust their slender, fiery shafts athwart the widepathway of the ascending sun. The ruddy glow palpitated like a liveember naked to the wind. The nearer buttes grew boldly beautiful. Slowlytheir molten outlines hardened to rigid bronze. Like ancient castles ofsome forgotten land, isolated in the vast mesa, empty of life, theyseemed to await the coming of a host that would reshape their fallenarches and their wind-worn towers to old-time splendor, and perfecttheir imageries.

  But the marching sun knew no such sentiment. Pitilessly he pierced theirenchanted walls, discovering their pretense, burning away their shadowyglory, baring them for what they were--masses of jumbled rock andsplintered spires; rain-gutted wraiths of clay, volcanic rock, thetumbled malpais and the tufa of the land.

  Black shadows shifted. That which had been the high-arched entrance toa mighty fortress was now a shallow hollow in a hill. Here and there onthe western slope of the mounds cattle grazed in the chill morning air.Enchantments of the dawn reshaped themselves to local landmarks.

  From his window Lorry could discern the distant peak of Mount Baldyglimmering above the purple sea of forest. Not far below the peak laythe viewless level of the Blue Mesa. The trail ran just below that patchof quaking asp.

  The hills had never seemed so beautiful, nor had the still mesas,carpeted with the brown stubble of the close-cropped bunch-grass.

  Arizona was his country--his home. And yet he had heard folk say thatArizona was a desert, But then such folk had been interested chiefly inguide-posts of the highways or the Overland dining-car menu.

  And he had been offered a fair holding in this land--twenty thousandacres under fence on a long-term lease; a half-interest in the cattleand their increase. He would be his own man, with a voice in themanagement and sale of the stock. A year or two and he could afford tomarry--if Dorothy would have him. He thought she would. And to keep ingood health she must always live in the West. What better land thanArizona, on the high mesa where the air was clean and clear; where thekeen August rains refreshed the sunburned grasses; where the lightsnows of winter fell but to vanish in the retrieving sun? If Dorothyloved this land, why should she leave it? Surely health meant more toher than the streets and homes of the East?

  And Lorry had asked nothing of fortune save a chance to make good. Andfortune had been more than kind to him. He realized that it was throughno deliberate effort of his own that he had acquired the opportunitywhich offered. Why not take advantage of it? It would give him prestigewith Bronson. A good living, a good home for her. Such luck didn't cometo a man's door every day.

  He had slept soundly that night, despite his intent to reason withhimself. It was morning, and he had made no decision--or so he thought.There was the question of enlisting. Many of his friends had alreadygone. Older men were now riding the ranges. Even the clerk in thegeneral store at Stacey's had volunteered. And Lorry had considered himanything but physically competent to "make a fight." But it wasn't allin making a fight. It was setting an example of loyalty andunselfishness to those fellows who needed such an impulse to stir themto action. Lorry thought clearly. And because he thought clearly and forhimself, he realized that he, as an individual soldier in the Great War,would amount to little; but he knew that his going would affect others;that the mere news of his having gone would react as a sort of endlesschain reaching to no one knew what sequestered home.

  And this, he argued, was his real value: the spirit ever more potentthan the flesh. Why, he had heard men joke about this war! It was a longway from home. What difference did it make to them if those people overthere were being starved, outraged, murdered? That was their ownlookout. Friends of his had said that they were willing to fight to afinish if America were threatened with invasion, but that could neverhappen. America was the biggest and richest country in the world. Sheattended to her own business and asked nothing but that the othernations do likewise.

  And those countries over there were attending to their own business. Ifour ships were blown up, it was our own fault. We had been warned.Anyway, the men who owned those ships were out to make money and willingto take a chance. It wasn't our business to mix in. We had troublesenough at home. As Lorry pondered the shallow truths a great light cameto him. "_Troubles enough at home_," that was it! America had alreadybeen invaded, yet men slumbered in fancied security. He had been atSterling--

  Lorry could hear Ramon stirring about in the kitchen. The rhythmicallymuffled sound suggested the mixing of flapjacks. Lorry could smell thethin, appetizing fragrance of coffee.

  With characteristic abruptness, he made his decision, but with nospoken word, no gesture, no emotion. He saw a long day's work beforehim. He would tackle it like a workman.

  And immediately he felt buoyantly himself again. The matter was settled.

  He washed vigorously. The cold water brought a ruddy glow to his face.He whistled as he strode to the kitchen. He slapped the gentle-eyedRamon on the shoulder. Pancake batter hissed as it slopped over on thestove.

  "Cheer up, amigo!" he cried! "Had a good look at the sun this mornin'?"

  "No, senor. I have made the breakfast, si."

  "Well, she's out there, shinin' right down on Arizona."

  "The senora?" queried Ramon, puzzled.

  "No; the sun. Don't a mornin' like this make you feel like jumpin' cleanout of your boots and over the fence?"

  "Not until I have made the flapcake, Senor Lorry."

  "Well, go the limit. Guess I'll roust out dad."

  * * * * *

  Bud Shoop scowled, perspired, and swore. Bondsman, close to Shoop'schair, blinked and lay very still. His master was evidently beyond anyproffer of sympathy or advice. Yet he had had no argument with any onelately. And he had eaten a good breakfast. Bondsman knew that. Whateverthe trouble might be, his master had not consulted him about it. It wasevidently a matter that dogs could not understand, and hence, verygrave. Bondsman licked his chops nervously. He wanted to go out and liein the sunshine, but he could not do that while his master suffered suchtribulation of soul. His place was close to his master now, if ever.

  Around Shoop were scattered pieces of paper; bits of letters written andtorn up.

  "It's a dam' sight worse resignin' than makin' out my application--andthat was bad enough," growled Shoop. "But I got to do this personal.This here pen is like a rabbit gone loco. Now, here I set like a bag ofbeans, tryin' to tell John Torrance why I'm quittin' this here jobwithout makin' him think I'm glad to quit--which I am, and I ain't. It'slike tryin' to split a flea's ear with a axe; it can't be did withoutmashin' the flea. Now, if John was here I could tell him in three jumps.The man that invented writin' must 'a' been tongue-tied or had sorethroat some time when he wanted to talk awful bad. My langwidge ain'tbroke to pull no city rig--or no hearse. She's got to have the road andplenty room to sidestep.

  "Now, how would I say it if John were here? Would I start off with 'DearJohn' or 'Dear Old Friend'? I reckon not. I'd just say: 'John, I'm goin'to quit. I tried to do by you what I said I would. I got a chanct tobust into the State House, and I got a good reason for bustin' in. Ibeen nominated for Senator, and I got to live up to the name. I'ma-goin' to run for Senator--and mebby I'll keep on when I get started,and end up somewhere in Mexico. I can't jine the reg'lars account of myphysical expansibility and my aige, so I got to do my fightin' to home.I'm willin' to stick by this job if you say the word. Mebby some folkswould be dissap'inted, but I can stand that if they can. What do youreckon I better do?'

  "Now, that's what I'd say if John was here. Why in tarnation can't I sayit on paper? Lemme see."

  Bud filled a sheet with his large, outdoor script. When he had finished,he
tucked the letter in an envelope hurriedly. He might reconsider hisattempt if he re-read the letter.

  He was carefully directing the envelope when Lorry strode in.

  '"Bout time you showed up," said Shoop.

  Lorry dropped his hat on the floor and pulled up a chair. He was a bitnervous. Preamble would make him more so. He spoke up quickly.

  "Bud, I want to resign."

  "Uh-uh. You tired of this job?"

  "Nope; I like it."

  "Want more pay?"

  "No; I get all I'm worth."

  "Ain't you feelin' well?"

  "Bully! I'm going to enlist."

  "Might 'a' knowed it," said Bud, leaning back and gazing at the newlyaddressed envelope on his desk. "Got your reports all in?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, seem' you're quittin' for the best reason I know, I'm right glad.You done your work like I expected. Your mother knows you're goin' tojine the army?"

  "I told her yesterday. I've been at the ranch."

  "Uh-uh. How's your dad?"

  "He ain't so spry. But he is better."

  "Uh-uh. That young Mexican stayin' at the ranch with him?"

  "You couldn't chase Ramon away with a gun."

  "Uh-uh. Well, Lorry, I just been sweatin' out a letter tellin' JohnTorrance that I've quit. I'm goin' to run for State Senator."

  "I knew they would land you. Everybody knew it."

  "So we're both leavin' the Service. And we're leavin' a mighty good job;mebby not such big pay, but a man's job, that has been the makin' ofsome no-account boys. For no fella can work for the Service withoutsettin' up and ridin' straight. Now, when I was a young buster chasin'cow-tails over the country I kind of thought the Forestry Service was ajoke. It ain't. It's a mighty big thing. You're leaving it with a cleanrecord. Mebby some day you'll want to get back in it. Were you goin' onup?"

  "I figured to straighten up things at the cabin."

  "All right. When you come down you can get your check. Give my regardsto Bronson and the little missy."

  "You bet I will!"

  Bud rose and proffered his hand. Lorry, rather embarrassed, shook handsand turned to go. "See you later," he said.

  "I was going over to Stacey," said Shoop. "Mebby I'll be out when youget back. But your check'll be here all right. You sure look like youwas walkin' on sunshine this mawnin'. Gosh, what a whoopin' fine placethis here world is when you are young--and--kind of slim! Now, Bondsmanand me--we was young onct. When it comes to bein' young or StateSenator--you can have the politics and give me back my ridin' legs.You're ridin' the High Trail these days.

  "If I could just set a hoss onct, with twenty years under my hide, andlook down on this here country, and the sage a-smellin' like it used toand the sunshine a-creepin' across my back easy and warm, with a sniffof the timber comin' down the mawnin' breeze; and 'way off the cattlea-lookin' no bigger'n flies on a office map--why, I wouldn't trade thatthere seat in the saddle for a million in gold. But I reckon I would 'a'done it, them days. Sometimes I set back and say 'Arizona' just tomyself. I'm a-lovin' that name. Accordin' to law, I'm livin' single, andif I ain't married to Arizona, she's my best gal, speakin' general.'Course, a little lady give me a watch onct. And say, boy, if she sets alot of store by you--why, you--why, git out of this here office afore Imake a dam' fool of myself!"

  And the genial Bud waved his arm, blustering and swearing heartily.

  Bondsman leaped up. A ridge of hair rose along his neck. For someunknown reason his master had ordered Lorry to leave the office--and atonce. But Lorry was gone, and Bud was patting the big Airedale. It wasall right. Nothing was going to happen. And wasn't it about time for thestage to arrive?

  Bondsman trotted to the doorway, gazed up and down the street, and cameback to Shoop. The stage had arrived, and Bondsman was telling Shoop soby the manner in which he waited for his master to follow him into thesunlight. Bud grinned.

  "You're tellin' me the stage is in--and I got a letter to send."

  Bud picked up his hat. Bondsman had already preceded him to the doorway,and stood waiting. His attitude expressed the extreme patience of age,but that the matter should be attended to without unreasonable delay.Shoop sighed heavily.

  "That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous."

  Halfway across the Blue Mesa, Dorothy met her ranger man. She had beenwatching the trail. Lorry dismounted and walked with her to the cabin.Bronson was glad to see him. They chatted for a while. Lorry would havespoken of his father's offer--of his plans, of many things he wishedBronson to know, yet he could not speak of these things until he hadtalked with Dorothy. He would see Bronson again. Meanwhile--

  A little later Lorry went to his cabin to take stock of the implementsand make his final report. He swept the cabin, picked up the loose oddsand ends, closed the battered piano gently, and sat down to think.

  He had made his decision, and yet--he had seen Dorothy again; touchedher hand, talked with her, and watched her brown eyes while he talked.The Great War seemed very far away. And here he was at home. This washis country. But he had set his face toward the High Trail. He could notturn back.

  Dorothy stood in the doorway, her finger at her lips. Bronson was busywriting. Lorry rose and stepped out. He stooped and lifted her to GrayLeg. She sat sideways in the saddle as he led the pony across the mesato the veritable rim of the world.

  Far below lay the open country, veiled by the soft haze of distance. Hegave her his hand, and she slipped to the ground and stood beside him.For the first time the tremendous sweep of space appalled her. She drewclose to him and touched his arm.

  "What is it, Lorry?"

  "You said--once--that you would wait for me."

  "Yes. And now you are here, I'll never be lonesome again."

  "Were you lonesome?"

  "A little. I had never really waited--like that--before."

  He frowned and gazed into the distances. It had been easy todecide--when alone. Then he faced her, his gray eyes clear anduntroubled.

  "I'm going to enlist," he said simply.

  She had hoped that he would. She wanted to think that of him. And yet,now that he had spoken, now that he was actually going--Her eyes grewbig. She wanted to say that she was glad. Her lips trembled.

  He held out his arms. She felt their warm strength round her. On theinstant she thought of begging him not to go. But his eyes were shiningwith a high purpose, that shamed her momentary indecision. She pressedher cheek to his.

  "I will wait for you," she whispered, and her face was wet with tears ofhappiness.

  She was no longer the little mother and he her boy, for in that momenthe became to her the man strength of the race, his arms her refuge andhis eyes her courage for the coming years.

  THE END