A Wounded Name | Page 6

caught at
any cost, Loring," said the colonel. "No one begins to know the extent
of his rascalities, and you and Blake must catch him."
For answer the engineer took out his watch--it was just a quarter to

one--stepped out into the glare of the sunshine and gazed to the far
horizon. The plain to the east was flat as a board for many a mile and
well nigh as barren. Then he turned sharply on Sancho. "Dinner
ready?" he asked.
"In one--two minutes, Señor Capitan," responded the ranchman gravely,
conferring on the officer the brevet of courtesy.
Out in front of the ranch the old red stage, long since faded to a dun
color, stood baking in the burning rays. The mules had been taken into
the corral for water, fodder and shade. The driver was regaling himself
within the bar. The few loungers, smoking, but silent, seemed dozing
the noontide away. Loring stepped to the side of the vehicle and drew
forth a leather valise, swung it to his shoulder and strode back to where
the colonel stood pondering under the canvas screen.
"Good hefting power in that right arm of his," muttered one of the
loungers to a mate sprawled full length on the sand beneath the shelter
of the tent fly, and watching the officer from under his half-closed lids.
A grunt of assent was the only reply.
"Know what regiment he belongs to?" queried number one.
"No, but it's cavalry," was the murmured answer. "Saw him straddling a
broncho at Maricopa Wells last week. He knows how."
Somewhere within the ranch a triangle began to jangle. "Quim-a-do!"
shrilled little Pete, and three or four lazy, drowsing forms began slowly
to get to their feet and to shuffle away toward the doorless aperture in
the adobe wall, the entrance to the dining-room of the stage and ranch
people. Two men lingered, the two who were speculating as to the
military connections of the young officer. One of them, after a quiet
glance about the neighborhood, strolled out toward the stage, hands
deep in the pockets of his wide trousers. There he seemed casually to
repeat his leisurely survey of the surroundings, then he lounged back.
"No go," said he, in low tones, "both of 'em there yet. Young feller
changing his dress. Their dinner's ready though. The colonel's writing."

Presently Sancho, grave and deliberate as became his race, emerged
from the shadows of the bar and came close before he spoke.
"He goes to ride--that youth. Know you whither? And he has no horse."
And, as though to confirm this statement, with his quick, elastic step,
Loring came forth to the side gate, dumped his valise into the stage,
turned and looked keenly over the group, then as quickly approached
them. He had discarded his linen coat and trousers in favor of a pair of
brown cord breeches with Hualpai leggings and light spurs. A broad
belt with knife and revolver was buckled to his waist. A silk
handkerchief was loosely knotted at his throat. A light-colored felt hat
was pulled down to his eyebrows, and dust-colored gantlets were drawn
upon his hands. "Sancho," said he, "have that roan of yours saddled in
ten minutes. How much if I keep him a week?"
"Everything in my house is at the service of the Señor Capitan," began
Sancho grandiloquently, "but as to that horse----"
"No other will do. How much a week? though I may keep him only a
day."
"Señor, he is the horse of my brother, and my brother is not here. If
harm should come----"
"Full value will be paid. Here!" and a glittering gold piece, a double
eagle, flashed in the sun. "Waste no talk now. Take this and saddle
him."
Slowly, gingerly, with thumb and finger tips the ranchman plucked the
coin from the open and extended palm, then bowed with the same
native grace and gravity.
"Come, Loring," growled the colonel impatiently, "dinner," and Sancho
caught the name.
"The Señor Loreeng--will not ride him hard--or far? It is to the camp of
the major he goes?"

But, turning on his heel, not another word would Loring say. Ten
minutes later, his hunger appeased with bacon, frijoles and chocolate,
he mounted and rode quietly away eastward until Sancho's ranch was
two miles behind, then gave the roan both rein and spur and sped like
the wind up the Gila, two of Sancho's oldest customers vainly lashing
on his trail.
CHAPTER III.
Three days later, just at sundown, the loungers at Sancho's were treated
to a sensation. Up from the south--the old Tucson trail--came, dusty,
travel-stained and weary, half a troop of cavalry, escorting, apparently,
some personage of distinction, for he was an object of the utmost care
and attention on part of the lieutenant commanding