Jim Waring of Sonora-Town | Page 2

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. Dex
munched contentedly. When the horse had finished eating the grain,
Waring picketed him in a fresh spot and climbed back to the ledge,
where he sat watching the western wall of the cañon, occasionally
glancing up as some dim star burned through the deepening dusk and
bloomed to a silvery maturity.
Presently a faint pallor overspread the cañon till it lay like a ghostly sea

dotted with strange islands of brush and rock; islands that seemed to
waver and shift in a sort of vague restlessness, as though trying to
evade the ever-brightening tide of moonlight that burned away their
shrouds of dusk and fixed them in still, tangible shapes upon the cañon
floor.
Across the cañon the farther trail ran past a broad, blank wall of rock.
No horseman could cross that open space unseen. Waring, seated upon
the ledge, leaned back against the wall, watching the angling shadows
shorten as the moon drew overhead. Toward morning he became
drowsy. As the white radiance paled to gray, he rose and paced back
and forth upon the narrow ledge to keep himself awake. In a few
minutes the moon would disappear behind the farther rim of the world;
the cañon would sink back into its own night, all its moonlit imageries
melting, vanishing. In the hour before dawn Waring would be unable to
see anything of the farther wall save a wavering blur.
Just below him he could discern the outline of his horse, with head
lowered, evidently dozing. Having in mind the keenness of desert-bred
stock, he watched the horse. The minutes drifted by. The horse seemed
more distinct. Waring thought he could discern the picket rope. He
endeavored to trace it from horse to picket. Foot by foot his eyes
followed its slack outline across the ground. The head of the metal
picket glimmered faintly. Waring closed his eyes, nodded, and caught
himself. This time he traced the rope from picket to horse. It seemed a
childish thing to do, yet it kept him awake. Did he imagine it, or had
the rope moved?
Dex had lifted his head. He was sniffing the cool morning air. Slowly
the tawny-golden shape of the big buckskin turned, head up and nostrils
rounded in tense rings. Waring glanced across the cañon. The farther
wall was still dim in the half-light. In a few minutes the trail would
become distinct. Dropping from the ledge, he stepped to his saddle.
Dex evidently heard him, for he twitched back one ear, but maintained
his attitude of keen interest in an invisible something--a something that
had drawn him from drowsy inanition to a quietly tense statue of
alertness. The ash gray of the farther wall, now visible, slowly changed

to a faint rose tint that deepened and spread.
Waring stooped and straightened up, with his glasses held on the far
trail. A tiny rider appeared in the clear blue circle of the binoculars, and
another, who led two horses without saddles or packs. The men were
headed south. Presently they disappeared behind a wall of brush.
Waring saddled Dex, and, keeping close to the eastern wall, rode
toward the arroyo.
The morning sun traced clean, black shadows of the chaparral on the
sand. The bloom of cacti burned in red and yellow blotches of flame
against its own dull background of grayish-green. At the mouth of the
arroyo, Waring dismounted and dropped the reins. 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. He had a peculiar aversion
to running such a risk when there was half a chance of doing his work
on foot.
Moreover, certain Americans in Sonora who disliked Waring had said
recently that no man was quick enough to get an even break with the
gunman, which tentatively placed him as a "killer," whereas he had
never given a thought to the hazard when going into a fight. He had
always played the game to win, odds either way. The men he sought
would be mounted. He would be on foot. This time the fugitives would
have more than a fair chance. They would blunder down the pitch into
the