Jim Waring of Sonora-Town | Page 4

arroyo; perhaps the very man that his uncle had robbed! Even now he
could hear the click of hoofs on the gravel. 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.
They rode in silence, the Mexicans with bowed heads, dull-eyed,
listless, resigned to their certain fate. For some strange reason the
gringo had not killed them in the arroyo. He had had excuse enough.
Would he take them to Sonora--to the prison? Or would he wait until
they were in some hidden fastness of the Agua Fria, and there kill them
and leave them to the coyotes? The youth Ramon knew that the two
little canvas sacks of gold were cleverly tied in the huge tapaderas of
his uncle's saddle. Who would think to look for them there?
The gringo had said that they would ride to the ranchito of Juan
Armigo. How easily the gringo had tricked them at the very moment
when they thought they were safe! Yet he had not asked about the

stolen money. The ways of this gringo were past comprehension.
Waring paid scant attention to the Mexicans, but he glanced
continuously from side to side of the cañon, alert for a surprise. The
wounded man, Vaca, was known to him. He was but one of the bandits.
Ramon, Vaca's nephew, was not of their kind, but had been led into this
journey by Vaca that the bandit might ride wide when approaching the
ranchos and send his nephew in for supplies.
The pack on Ramon's saddle rode too lightly to contain anything
heavier than food. There was nothing tied to Vaca's saddle but a frayed
and faded blanket. Yet Waring was certain that they had not cached the
gold; that they carried it with them.
At noon they watered the horses midway up the cañon. As they rode on
again, Waring noticed that Vaca did not thrust his foot clear home in
the stirrup, but he attributed this to the other's condition. The Mexican
was a sick man. His swarthy face had gone yellow, and he leaned
forward, clutching the horn. The heat was stagnant, unwavering. The
pace was desperately slow.
Despite his vigilance, Waring's mind grew heavy with the monotony.
He rolled a cigarette. The smoke tasted bitter. He flung the cigarette
away. The hunting of men had lost its old-time thrill. A clean break and
a hard fight; that was well enough. But the bowed figures riding ahead
of him: ignorant, superstitious, brutal; numb to any sense of honor. Was
the game worth while? Yet they were men--human in that they feared,
hoped, felt hunger, thirst, pain, and even dreamed of vague successes to
be attained how or when the Fates would decide. And was this squalid
victory a recompense for the risks he ran and the hardships he endured?
Again Waring heard the Voice, as though from a distance, and yet the
voice was his own: "You will turn back from the hunting of men."
"Like hell I will!" muttered Waring.
Ramon, who rode immediately ahead of him, turned in the saddle.
Waring gestured to him to ride on.

The heat grew less intense as an occasional, vagrant breeze stirred in
the brush and fluttered the handkerchief round Waring's throat. Ahead,
the cañon broadened to the mesa lands, where the distant green of a line
of trees marked the boundary of the Armigo rancho.
Presently Vaca began to sing; softly at first, then with insane
vehemence as the fever mounted to his brain. Waring smiled with dry
lips. The Mexican had stood the journey well. A white man in Vaca's
condition would have gone to pieces hours ago. He called to Ramon,
who gave Vaca water. The Mexican drank greedily, and threw the
empty canteen into the bushes.
Waring listened for some hint, some crazy boast as to the whereabouts
of the stolen money. But Vaca rode on, occasionally breaking into a
wild song, half Yaqui, half Mexican. The youth Ramon trembled,
fearing that the gringo would lose patience.
Across the northern end of the cañon the winnowing heat waves died to
the level of the ground. Brown shadows shot from the western wall and
spread across the widening outlet. The horses stepped briskly, knowing
that they were near water.
Waring became more alert