CHAPTER XXXIV
_Young Life_
Ramon was busy that afternoon transferring mattresses and blankets fromthe ranch-house to the new, low-roofed bunk-house that Waring had built.Ramon fitted up three beds--one for the cook, one for an old range-riderthat Waring had hired when his men had left to enlist, and one forhimself.
The partitions of the ranch-house had been taken down, the interiorrearranged, and the large living-room furnished in a plain, comfortableway.
As Ramon worked he sang softly. He was happy. The senora was coming tolive with them, and perhaps Senor Jim's son. Senor Jim had been moreactive of late. His lameness was not so bad as it had been. It was truethe Senor Jim did not often smile, but his eyes were kindly.
Ramon worked rapidly. There was much to do in the other house. The baleof Navajo blankets was still unopened. Perhaps the Senor Jim would helpto arrange them in the big room with the stone fireplace. The senorawould not arrive until to-morrow, but then the home must be made ready,that she would find it beautiful. And Ramon, accustomed to the meagerlyfurnished adobes of old Mexico, thought that the ranch-house wasbeautiful indeed.
Waring ate with the men in the new bunk-house that evening. After supperhe went over to the larger building and sat alone in the living-room,gazing out of the western window. His wounds ached, and in the memory ofalmost forgotten trails he grew young again. Again in Old Mexico, theland he loved, he saw the blue crest of the Sierras rise as in a dream,and below the ranges a tiny Mexican village of adobe huts gold in thesetting sun. Between him and the village lay the outlands, evermysterious, ever calling to him. Across the desert ran a thin trail tothe village. And down the trail the light feet of Romance ran swiftly ashe followed. He could even recall the positions of the different adobes;the strings of chiles dark red in the twilight; the old black-shawledsenora who had spoken a guttural word of greeting as he had ridden up.
Back in Sonora men had said, "Waring has made his last ride." They hadtold each other that a white man was a fool to go alone into thatcountry. Perhaps he had been a fool. But the thrill of those early days,when he rode alone and free and men sang of him from Sonora to theSweetgrass Hills! And on that occasion he had found the fugitive hesought, yet he had ridden back to Sonora alone. He had never forgottenthe face of the young Mexican woman who had pleaded with him to let herlover go. Her eyes were big and velvet black. Her mouth was the mouthof a Madonna.
Waring had told her that it was useless to plead. He remembered how hereyes had grown dull and sullen at his word. He told her that he wassimply doing his duty. She had turned on him like a panther, her littleknife glittering in the dusk as she drove it at his breast. The Mexicanlover had jerked free and was running toward the foothills. Waringrecalled his first surprise at the wiry strength of her wrist as he hadtwisted the knife from her. If the Mexican lover had not turned and shotat him--The black figure of the Mexican had dropped just where the roadentered the foothills. The light had almost gone. The vague bulk of theSierras wavered. Outlines vanished, leaving a sense of somethinggigantic, invisible, that slumbered in the night. The stars were big andsoftly brilliant as he had ridden north.
The old wound in his shoulder ached. The Mexican had made a goodshot--for a Mexican.
Out on the Arizona mesa, against the half disk of gold, was the blacksilhouette of a horseman. Waring stepped to the doorway. Ramon wasseated just outside the door, smoking a cigarette. The southern starswere almost visible. Each star seemed to have found its place, and yetno star could be seen.
"It is Lorry," said Ramon. "He has ridden far."
Waring smiled. Fifty miles had not been considered a big day's ride inhis time. _In his time!_ But his day was past. The goddess he hadfollowed had left him older than his years, crippled, unable to ridemore than a few hours at a time; had left him fettered to the monotonyof the far mesa levels and the changeless hills. Was this hispunishment, or simply a black trick of fate, that the tang of life hadevaporated, leaving a stagnant pool wherein he gazed to meet the blurredreflection of a face weary with waiting for--what end?
Unused to physical inactivity, Waring had grown somber of mind theselatter days. Despite the promise of more comfortable years, he had neverfelt more lonely. With the coming of Lorry the old order would change.Young blood, new life would have its way.
The sound of pattering hoofs grew louder. Waring heard the old familiar,"Hi! Yippy! Yip!" of the range rider. Young blood? New life? It was hisown blood, his own life reincarnate in the cheery rider that swung downand grasped his hand. Nothing had changed. Life was going on as italways had.
"Hello, dad! How's the leg?"
Waring smiled in the dusk. "Pretty fair, Lorry. You didn't waste anytime getting here."
"Well, not much. I rode down with Bronson and Dorothy."
"Do you call her 'Dorothy'?"
"Ever since she calls me 'Lorry.'"
"Had anything to eat?"
"Nope. I cut across. How's mother?"
"She will be here to-morrow. We have been getting things ready. LetRamon take your horse--"
"Thanks. I'll fix him in two shakes."
And in two shakes bridle and saddle were off, and Gray Leg was rollingin the corral.
While Lorry ate, Ramon laid a fire in the big stone fireplace. Altersupper Lorry and his father sat gazing at the flames. Lorry knew why hehad been sent for, but waited for his father to speak.
Presently Waring turned to him. "I sent for you because I need some oneto help. And your mother wants you here. I won't urge you, but I canoffer you Pat's share in the ranch. I bought his share last week. You'llhave a working interest besides that. You know something about cattle.Think it over."
"That's a dandy offer," said Lorry. "I'm right obliged, dad. But there'ssomething else. You put your proposition straight, and I'm going to putmine straight. Now, if you was in my boots, and she liked you enough,would you marry her?"
"You haven't told me who she is."
"Why--Dorothy Bronson. I thought you knew."
Waring smiled. "You're pretty young, Lorry."
"But you married young, dad."
"Yes. And I married the best woman in the world. But I can't say that Imade your mother happy."
"I guess ma never cared for anybody but you," said Lorry.
"It isn't just the caring for a person, Lorry."
"Well, I thought it was. But I reckon you know. And Dorothy is theprettiest and lovin'est kind of a girl _you_ ever seen. I was wishin'you was acquainted."
"I should like to meet her. Are you sure she is your kind of girl,Lorry? Now, wait a minute; I know how you feel. A girl can begood-looking and mighty nice and think a lot of a man, and yet not bethe right girl for him."
"But how is he goin' to find that out?"
"If he must find out--by marrying her."
"Then I aim to find out, if she is willin'. But I wanted to tellyou--because you made me that offer. I was askin' your advice becauseyou been through a lot."
"I wish I could advise you. But you're a man grown, so far as takingcare of yourself is concerned. And when a man thinks of getting marriedhe isn't looking for advice against it. Why don't you wait a year ortwo?"
"Well, mebbe I got to. Because--well, I didn't ask Dorothy yet. Thenthere's somethin' else. A lot of the fellas up in the high country haveenlisted in the regulars, and some have gone over to Canada to join theForeign Legion. Now, I don't want to be the last hombre on this mesa togo."
"There has been no call for men by the Nation."
"But it's comin', dad. Any fella can see that. I kind of hate to waittill Uncle Sam says I got to go. I don't like going that way."
"What do you think your mother will say?"
"Gosh! I know! That's why I wanted to talk to you first. If I'm goin', Iwant to know it so I can say to her that I _am_ goin' and not that I aimto go."
"Well, you will have to decide that."
"Well, I'm goin' to--before ma comes. Dog-gone it! You know how it istryin' to explain thi
ngs to a woman. Wimmin don't understand them kindof things."
"I don't know about that, Lorry."
Lorry nodded. "I tell you, dad--you kind of set a pace for me. And Ifigure I don't want folks to say: 'There goes Jim Waring's boy.' Ifthey're goin' to say anything, I want it to be: 'There goes LorryWaring.'"
Waring knew that kind of pride if he knew anything. He was proud of hisson. And Waring's most difficult task was to keep from influencing himin any way. He wanted the boy to feel free to do as he thought best.
"You were in that fight at Sterling," said Waring, gesturing toward thesouth.
"But that was different," said Lorry. "Them coyotes was pluggin' at us,and we just nacherally had to let 'em have it. And besides we wasworkin' for the law."
"I understand there wasn't any law in Sterling About that time."
"Well, we made some," asserted Lorry.
"And that's just what this war means. It's being fought to make law."
"Then I'm for the law every time, big or little. I seen enough of thatother thing."
"Think it over, Lorry. Remember, you're free to do as you want to. Ihave made my offer. Then there is your mother--and the girl. It looks asthough you had your hands full."
"You bet! Business and war and--and Dorothy is a right big order. I'mgettin' a headache thinkin' of it!"
Waring rose. "I'm going to turn in. I have to live pretty close to theclock these days."
"See you in the mornin'," said Lorry, giving his hand. "Good-night,dad."
"Good-night, boy."