Jim Waring of Sonora-Town | Page 7

the cañon. And if any one from
Sonora rides in here and asks about Ramon or Vaca or me, you don't
know anything about us. Sabe? If your horses are found before you get
to them, some one stole them. Do these things. I don't want to come
back to see if you have done them."
Juan Armigo nodded, gazing at Waring with crafty eyes. So the gringo
was tempted by the gold. He would ride back to Sonora, find the stolen
money in the house of Pedro Salazar, and keep it. It would be a very
simple thing to do. Young Ramon would be afraid to speak and José
Vaca would have disappeared. The gringo could swear that he had not
found the bandits or the gold. So reasoned Juan, his erstwhile respect
for the gunman wavering as the idea became fixed. He grinned at
Waring. It would be a good trick; to steal the gold from the stealers. Of
a certainty the gringo was becoming almost as subtle as a Mexican.

Waring was not pleased as he read the other's eyes, but he said nothing.
Turning abruptly, he entered the corral and saddled Ramon's horse and
his own.
"Get José Vaca out of here as soon as he can travel," he told Armigo.
"You may have to explain if he is found here." And Waring strode to
the adobe.
Ramon was awake and talking with his uncle. Waring told him to get
something to eat. Then he turned to Vaca.
"José," he began pleasantly, "you tried to get me yesterday, but you
only spoiled a good Stetson. See? You shot high. When you go for a
man again, start in at his belt-buckle and get him low. We'll let that go
this time. When you can ride, take your cayuse and fan it
anywhere--_but don't ride back to Sonora_. I'll be there. I'm going to
herd young Ramon back home. He is isn't your kind. You are free.
Don't jabber. Just tell all that to your saints. And if you get caught,
don't say that you saw me. Sabe?"
The wounded man raised himself on his elbow, glaring up at Waring
with feverish eyes. "You give me my life. I shall not speak."
"Bueno! And you said in the house of Pedro Salazar?"
"Si! Near the acequia."
"The Placeta Burro. I know the place. You'll find your horse and a
saddle when you are able to ride."
The bandit's eyes glistened as he watched Waring depart. If the gringo
entered the house of Pedro Salazar, he would not find the gold and he
would not come out alive. The gringo gunman had killed the brother of
Pedro Salazar down in the desert country years ago. And Salazar had
had nothing to do with the Ortez Mine robbery. Vaca thought that the
gold was still safe in his tapaderas. The gringo was a fool.
Waring led the two saddled horses to the house. Ramon, coming from

the kitchen, blinked in the sunlight.
"It is my horse, but not my saddle, señor."
"You are an honest man," laughed Waring. "But we won't change
saddles. Come on!"
Ramon mounted and rode beside Waring until they were out of sight of
the ranch-house, when Waring reined up.
"Where is that money?" he asked suddenly.
"I do not know, señor."
"Did you know where it was yesterday?"
Ramon hesitated. Was this a trap? Waring's level gaze held the young
Mexican to a straight answer.
"Si, señor. I knew--yesterday."
"You knew; but you didn't talk up when your uncle tried to run me into
Pedro Salazar."
"I--he is of my family."
"Well, I don't blame you. I see that you can keep from talking when
you have to. And now is your chance to do a lot of keeping still. I'm
going to ride into Sonora ahead of you. When you get in, go home and
forget that you made this journey. If your folks ask where your uncle is,
tell them that he rode south and that you turned back. Because you did
didn't lie to me, and because you did didn't show yellow, I'm going to
give you a chance to get out of this. I let your uncle go because he
would have given you away to save himself the minute I jailed him in
Sonora. It's up to you to keep out of trouble. You've had a scare that
ought to last you. Take your time and hit Sonora about sundown.
Adios."
"But--señor!"

Waring whirled his horse. "A good rider shoves his foot clear home,"
he called as he loped away.
Ramon sat his horse, gazing at the little puffs of dust that shot from the
hoofs of the big buckskin. Surely the gringo was mad! Yet he was a
man of big