Henry Herbert Knibbs

“ With an armful of firewood, Lorry returned to the spring. The ponies nodded in the heat of noon. Dorothy, spreading their modest luncheon on a bright new Navajo blanket, seemed daintier than ever against the background of the forest. They made coffee and ate the sandwiches she had prepared. After luncheon Lorry smoked, leaning back against the granite rock, his hat off, and his legs crossed in lazy content.
"If it could only be like this forever," sighed Dorothy.
Lorry promptly shook his head. "We'd get hungry after a spell."
"Men are always hungry. And you've just eaten." ”

“ The western sun trailed long shadows across the cañon; shadows that drifted imperceptibly farther and farther, spreading, commingling, softening the broken outlines of ledge and brush until the walled solitude was brimmed with dusk, save where a red shaft cleft the fast-fading twilight, burning like a great spotlight on a picketed horse and a man asleep, his head pillowed on a saddle.
As the dusk drew down, the horse ceased grazing, sniffed the coming night, and nickered softly. Waring rose and led the horse to water, and, returning, emptied half the grain in the morral on a blanket. ”

“ 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 señora 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. ”

“ Long before Bronson ventured to return to his mountain camp, Lorry was riding the hill trails again as spring loosened the upland snows and filled the cañons and arroyos with a red turbulence of waters bearing driftwood and dead leaves. With a companion ranger he mended trail and rode along the telephone lines, searching for sagging wires; made notes of fresh down timber and the effect of the snow-fed torrents on the major trails.
Each day the air grew warmer. ”

“ For the moment she forgot the name of the town itself. She knew that she could recall it if she tried. A dog lay asleep beneath the station platform opposite, one relaxed paw over his nose. Some one was calling to some one in the kitchen. A figure passed in the street; a young man who smiled and nodded. It was the boy, Lorry. He had been working on the car that morning. She had watched him work, rather enjoying his energy. A healthy young animal as unsophisticated as a kitten, and really innately kind and innocent of intent to flatter. ”

“ The lank man yawned, and, rising, strode to the window. The assistant sauntered to the inner office and drew up to his desk. "Pablo's whiskey is rotten!" he called over his shoulder. The lank collector smiled.
The talk about Waring and Las Cruces had stirred slumbering memories; memories of night rides in New Mexico, of the cattle war, of blazing noons on the high mesas and black nights in huddled adobe towns; Las Cruces, Albuquerque, Caliente, Santa Fé—and weary ponies at the hitching-rails. ”

“ To ride these wooded uplands, eight thousand feet above the world, with a sprightly Peter Pan clad in silver-gray corduroys and chatting happily, is an enchantment. In such companionship, when the morning sunlight dapples the dun forest carpet with pools of gold, when vista after vista unfolds beneath the high arches of the rusty-brown giants of the woodlands; when somewhere above there is the open sky and the marching sun, the twilight underworld of the green-roofed caverns is a magic land. ”

“ But he had set his face toward the High Trail. He could not turn back.
Dorothy stood in the doorway, her finger at her lips. Bronson was busy writing. Lorry rose and stepped out. He stooped and lifted her to Gray Leg. She sat sideways in the saddle as he led the pony across the mesa to the veritable rim of the world.
Far below lay the open country, veiled by the soft haze of distance. He gave 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 drew close to him and touched his arm. ”

“ Dex nosed him inquiringly. He patted the horse, and, turning, strode swiftly down the dry river-bed. He walked upright, knowing that he could not be seen from the trail. He could even have ridden down the arroyo unseen, and perhaps it was a senseless risk to hunt men afoot in this land. The men he hunted were Mexicans of Sonora; fugitives. They would fight blindly, spurred by fear. Waring's very name terrorized them. And were they to come upon the gringo mounted, Waring knew that there was more than a chance his horse would be shot. ”

“ Bud Shoop, astride a big bay horse, passed down the street. For a moment Torrance forgot office detail in a general appreciation of the Western rider, who, once in the saddle, despite age or physical attributes, bears himself with a subconscious ease that is a delight to behold, be he lean Indian, lithe Mexican, or bed-rock American with a girth, say, of fifty-two inches and weighing perhaps not less than two hundred and twenty pounds.
"He'll make good," soliloquized the supervisor. "He likes horses and dogs, and he knows men. He's all human—and there's a lot of him. ”

“ Arizona was his country—his home. And yet he had heard folk say that Arizona was a desert, But then such folk had been interested chiefly in guide-posts of the highways or the Overland dining-car menu.
And he had been offered a fair holding in this land—twenty thousand acres under fence on a long-term lease; a half-interest in the cattle and their increase. He would be his own man, with a voice in the management and sale of the stock. A year or two and he could afford to marry—if Dorothy would have him. He thought she would. And to keep in good health she must always live in the West. ”

“ The gunman had been merciful for the moment, only to turn his captives over to the merciless men of the mines; men who held a Mexican's life worth no more than a dog's. The wounded man, stiff in the saddle, turned his head. Round a bend in the dry river-bed, his neck held sideways that the reins might drag free, came Waring's big buckskin horse, Dexter. The horse stopped as he saw the group. Waring spoke to him. The big buckskin stepped forward and nosed Waring, who swung to the saddle and gestured toward the back trail. ”

“ Lorry drove the pack-animals toward Bronson's cabin. He dismounted to tighten the cinch on Chinook's saddle.
The little cavalcade moved out across the mesa. Dorothy rode behind the pack-animals, who knew their work too well to need a lead-rope. It was her adventure. At the Big Spring, she would graciously allow Lorry to take charge of the expedition.
Lorry, riding behind her, turned as they entered the forest, and waved farewell to Bronson.
To ride the high trails of the Arizona hills is in itself an unadulterated joy. ”

“ 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. ”

“ And Alice Weston is lovely. I know you'll like her."
"Alice who, did you say?"
"Weston. Alice and her mother are touring overland from Los Angeles. I know you will admire Alice."
"Mebby. If she's as pretty as you."
"Oh, fudge! You like my new suit. And Alice isn't like me at all. She is nearly as tall as you, and big and strong and really pretty. Bud Shoop told me I wasn't bigger than a minute."
"A minute is a whole lot sometimes," said Lorry.
"You're not so practical as you were, are you?"
"More. I meant that."
Dorothy rose and began to roll the Navajo blanket. ”

“ But possibly the machine toward which he rode carried nothing more interesting than men; fat, well-dressed men who smoked fat cigars and had much to say about "high" and "low," but didn't seem to know a great deal about "Jack" and "The Game." If they offered to pay him for helping them—well, that was a different matter.
The pony loped toward the Notch, quite as eager as his rider to attend a performance that promised action. Within a half-mile of the Notch, Lorry pulled the pony to a walk. Just beyond the car he had seen the head and ears of a horse. ”

“ Waring, his hand gripping the stirrup, was dragging across the sand beside the horse that stepped sideways and carefully as Waring urged him on. Dex worked nearer to High Chin, but so slowly that High Chin thought it was some horrible phantasy sent to awaken fear in his dulled brain. But that dragging figure, white-faced and terrible—that was real! Within a few paces of High Chin, Dex stopped and turned his head to look down at Waring. ”

“ Shoop when she saw him.
She had read of Waring's fight in the desert and of his slow recovery, and that Waring was Lorry's father; matters that she could not speak of to Lorry, but the knowledge of them lent a kind of romance to her ranger man. At times she studied Lorry, endeavoring to find in him some trace of his father's qualities. She had not met Waring, but she imagined much from what she had heard and read. And could Lorry, who had such kind gray eyes and such a pleasant face, deliberately go out and kill men as his father had done? Why should men kill each other? ”

“ The girl listened, occasionally stealing a glance at the man's profile in the dusk. She thought the boy Lorry looked exceedingly like Mr. Waring.
And the person who looked exceedingly like Mr. Waring sat at the far end of the veranda, talking to Buck Hardy, the sheriff. And Lorry was not altogether happy. His interest in the capture and reward had waned. He had never dreamed that a girl could be so captivating as Alice Weston. ”

“ Hardly had the report of his gun startled them to silence when they saw that his hands were empty. A roar of laughter shook the crowd. Some one pointed toward the sheepman. The laughter died down. He held a scant two inches of cigar in his fingers. Then they understood, and were silent again. They gathered round the sheepman. He held up his arms. Shoop's bullet had nipped the cigar in two before they had realized that he intended to shoot.
"You're havin' the luck," said High.
"You're right," said Shoop. "And luck, if she keeps steady gait, is just as good a hoss to ride as they is." ”

“ Waring was startled by his own voice. He thrust the gun in his waistband. The twilight deepened rapidly. Rocks and ridges in the arroyo assumed peculiar shapes like those of men crouching; men prone; men with heads up, listening, watching, waiting. Yet Waring's instinct for hidden danger told him that there was no living thing in the arroyo—unless—Suddenly he sprang forward and dropped to his knees beside a huddled shape near a boulder.
"Pat!" he whispered.
Then he knew; saw it all as clearly as though he had witnessed it—the ambushment in the blinding sandstorm; the terror-stricken Waco ”

“ While Mrs. Adams was arranging things, Alice Weston gazed out of the window. Below in the street a cowboy passed jauntily. A stray burro crossed the street and nosed among some weeds. Then a stolid Indian stalked by.
"Why, that is a real Indian!" exclaimed the girl.
"A Navajo," said Mrs. Adams. "They come in quite often."
"Really? And—oh, I forgot—the young man who rescued us told us that he was your son."
"Lorry! Rescued you?"
"Yes." And the girl told Mrs. Adams about the accident and the tramp.
"I'm thankful that he didn't get killed," was Mrs. Adams's comment when the girl had finished. ”