Jim Waring of Sonora-Town | Page 8

heart. Perplexed, stunned by the realization that he was
alone and free, the young Mexican gazed about him. Waring was a tiny
figure in the distance. Ramon dismounted and examined the empty
tapaderas.
Heretofore he had considered subtlety, trickery, qualities to be desired,
and not incompatible with honor. In a flash he realized the difference,
the distinction between trickery and keenness of mind. He had been
awed by his uncle's reputation and proud to name him of this family.
Now he saw him for what he was. "My Uncle José is a bad man," he
said to himself. "The other,--the gringo whom men call 'The Killer,'--he
is a hard man, but assuredly he is not bad."
When Ramon spoke to his horse his voice trembled. His hand drifted
up to the little silver crucifix on his breast. A vague glimmer of
understanding, a sense of the real significance of the emblem heartened
him to face the journey homeward and the questions of his kin. And,
above all, he felt an admiration for the gringo that grew by degrees as
he rode on. He could follow such a man to the end of the world, even
across the border of the Great Unknown, for surely such a leader would
not lose the way.
* * * * *
Three men sat in the office of the Ortez Mines, smoking and saying
little. Donovan, the manager; the paymaster, Quigley; and the assistant
manager, a young American fresh from the East. Waring's name was
mentioned. Three days ago he had ridden south after the bandits. He
might return. He might not.
"I'd like to see him ride in," said Donovan, turning to the paymaster.
"And you hate him at that," said Quigley.

"I don't say so. But if he was paymaster here, he'd put the fear of God
into some of those greasers."
Quigley flushed. "You didn't hire me to chase greasers, Donovan. I'm
no gunman."
"No," said Donovan slowly. "I had you sized up."
"Oh, cut out that stuff!" said the assistant manager, smiling. "That won't
balance the pay-roll."
"No. But I'm going to cut down expenses." And Donovan eyed Quigley.
"Jim Waring is too dam' high and mighty to suit me. Every time he
tackles a job he is the big boss till it's done. If he comes back, all right.
If he don't--we'll charge it up to profit and loss. But his name goes off
the pay-roll to-day."
Quigley grinned. He knew that Donovan was afraid of Waring. Waring
was the one man in Donovan's employ that he could not bully.
Moreover, the big Irishman hated to pay Waring's price, which was
stiff.
"How about a raise of twenty-five a month, then?" queried Quigley.
To his surprise, Donovan nodded genially. "You're on, Jack. And that
goes the minute Waring shows up with the money. If he doesn't show
up--why, that raise can wait."
"Then I'll just date the change to-day," said Quigley. "Take a look
down the street."
Donovan rose heavily and stepped to the window. "By God, it's Waring,
all right! He's afoot. What's that he's packing?"
"A canteen," said the assistant manager. "This is a dry country."
Donovan returned to his desk. "Get busy, at something. We don't want
to sit here like a lot of stuffed buzzards. We're glad to see Waring back,
of course. You two can drift out when I get to talking business with

him."
Quigley nodded and took up his pen. The assistant manager studied a
map.
Waring strode in briskly. The paymaster glanced up and nodded,
expecting Donovan to speak. But Donovan sat with his back toward
Waring, his head wreathed in tobacco smoke. He was apparently
absorbed in a letter.
The gunman paused halfway across the office. Quigley fidgeted. The
assistant superintendent stole a glance at Donovan's broad back and
smiled. All three seemed waiting for Waring to speak. Quigley rather
enjoyed the situation. The assistant superintendent's scalp prickled with
restrained excitement.
He rose and stepped to Donovan. "Mr. Donovan, Mr. Waring is here."
"Thanks," said Waring, nodding to the assistant.
Donovan heaved himself round. "Why, hello, Jim! I didn't hear you
come in."
Waring's cool gray eyes held Donovan with a mildly contemptuous
gaze. Still the gunman did not speak.
"Did you land 'em?" queried Donovan.
Waring shook his head.
"Hell!" exclaimed Donovan. "Then, what's the answer?"
"Bill, you can't bluff worth a damn!"
Quigley laughed. The assistant mopped his face with an immaculate
handkerchief. The room was hot.
"Bill," and Waring's voice was softly insulting, "you can't bluff worth a
damn."

Donovan's red face grew redder. "What are you driving at, anyway?"
Quigley stirred and rose. The assistant got to his feet.
"Just a minute," said Waring, gesturing to them to sit down. "Donovan's
got something on his mind. I knew it