Jim Waring of Sonora-Town | Page 8

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 the minute I came in. I want you fellows to hear it."
Donovan flung his half-smoked cigar to the floor and lighted a fresh one. Waring's attitude irritated him. Officially, Donovan was Waring's superior. Man to man, the Sonora gunman was Donovan's master, and the Irishman knew and resented it.
He tried a new tack. "Glad to see you back, Jim." And he rose and stuck out a sweating hand.
Waring swung the canteen from his shoulder and carefully hung the strap over Donovan's wrist. "There's your money, Bill. Count it--and give me a receipt."
Donovan, with the dusty canteen dangling from his arm, looked exceedingly foolish.
Waring turned to Quigley. "Bill's got a stroke," he said, smiling. "Quigley, give me a receipt for a thousand dollars."
"Sure!" said Quigley, relieved. The money had been stolen from him.
Waring pulled up a chair and leaned his elbows on the table. Quigley unscrewed the cap of the canteen. A stream of sand shot across a map. The assistant started to his feet. Quigley shook the canteen and poured out a softly clinking pile of gold-pieces. One by one he sorted them from the sand and counted them.
"One thousand even. Where'd you overtake Vaca and his outfit?"
"Did I?" queried Waring.
"Well, you got the mazuma," said Quigley. "And that's good enough for me."
Donovan stepped to the table. "Williams, I won't need you any more to-day."
The assistant rose and left the office. Donovan pulled up a chair.