Jim Waring of Sonora-Town | Page 3

arroyo, perhaps glancing back, fearful of pursuit, but apprehending
no ambushment.
Waring knew they would kill him if they could. He knew that not even
a fighting chance would have been his were they in his place and he in
theirs. He was deputized and paid to do just what he was doing. The
men were bandits who had robbed the paymaster of the Ortez Mines.

To Waring there was nothing complicated about the matter. It was his
day's work. The morning sun would be in their faces, but that was not
his fault.
As Waring waited in the arroyo the faint clatter of shod hoofs came
from above. He drew close to a cutbank, leaning his shoulder against it
easily. With a slither of sand, the first horse took the pitch, legs angled
awkwardly as he worked down. The second rider followed, the led
horses pulling back.
At the bottom of the arroyo, the Mexicans reined up. The elder, squat,
broad of back, a black handkerchief tied round his thick neck, reached
into his pocket and drew out tobacco and cigarette papers. The other,
hardly more than a boy, urged that they hasten. Fear vibrated in his
voice. The squat Mexican laughed and began to roll a cigarette.
None had overtaken them, he said. And were they not now in the Land
Where No Man Lived?
"Si!" said Waring softly.
The half-rolled cigarette fluttered to the ground. The Mexican's heavy
lip sagged, showing broken teeth. His companion dropped the
lead-rope and turned to gaze at Waring with eyes wide, wondering,
curious. The led horses plunged up the back trail. Waring made no
movement toward his gun, but he eyed the elder Mexican sharply,
paying little attention to the youth. The horse of the squat Mexican
grew restless, sidling toward the other.
Waring's lips tightened. The bandit was spurring his horse on the off
side to get behind his companion. Evidently the numbness of surprise
had given way to fear, and fear meant action. Waring knew that the
elder Mexican would sacrifice his companion for the sake of a chance
of killing the gringo.
Waring held out his left hand. "Give me your gun," he said to the youth.
"And hand it down butt first."

The youth, as though hypnotized, pulled out his gun and handed it to
Waring. Waring knew that if the other Mexican meant to fight it would
be at that instant. Even as the butt of the gun touched Waring's hand it
jumped. Two shattering reports blended and died echoless in the
close-walled arroyo.
The Mexican's gun slipped slowly from his fingers. He rocked in the
saddle, grasped the horn, and slid to the ground. Waring saw him reach
for the gun where it lay on the sand. He kicked it aside. The Mexican
youth leaped from the saddle and stood between Waring and the fallen
man. Waring stepped back. For an instant his eyes drew fine. He was
tempted to make an end of it right there. The youth dropped to his
knees. A drift of wind fluttered the bandanna at his throat. Waring saw
a little silver crucifix gleaming against the smooth brown of his chest.
"If it is that I am to die, I am not afraid," said the youth. "I have this!"
And his fingers touched the crucifix. "But you will not kill my uncle!"
Waring hesitated. He seemed to be listening. And as though in a dream,
yet distinct--clear as though he had spoken himself came the words: "It
is enough!"
"Not this journey," said Waring.
The Mexican youth gazed at him wonderingly. Was the gringo mad?
Waring holstered his gun with a jerk. "Get up on your hind legs and
quit that glory stuff! We ride north," he growled.

Chapter II
_José Vaca_
The young Mexican's face was beaded with sweat as he rose and stared
down at the wounded man. Clumsily he attempted to help Waring, who
washed and bandaged the shattered shoulder. Waring had shot to kill,
but the gun was not his own, and he had fired almost as it had touched

his hand.
"Get your uncle on his horse," he told the youth. "Don't make a break.
We're due at Juan Armigo's ranchito about sundown."
So far as he was concerned, that was all there was to it for the time
being. He had wounded and captured José Vaca, notorious in Sonora as
leader in outlawry. That there were no others of Vaca's kind with him
puzzled Waring. The young Ramon, Vaca's nephew, did not count.
Ramon helped his uncle to mount. They glanced at each other, Vaca's
eyes blinking. The gringo was afoot. They were mounted. Waring,
observing their attitude, smiled, and, crooking his finger, whistled
shrilly. The young Ramon trembled. Other gringos were hidden in the