AND DISCOVERS HETTY'S BROTHER
However, when he joined Lafe at the stables that afternoon, he looked a very chastened individual. Had Lafe seen the gradual transition in mood, from huge merriment to exasperation and then protest and resentful surrender, he would have understood better. Horne volunteered nothing of what had passed, so he went to Mrs. Horne. That lady informed him that her husband would use his best endeavor with the commandant. There appeared to be no question in her mind that this was the only course open to him, and Johnson, who had come prepared for a few timely jokes on the matter, muttered: "Yes, ma'am, I sure am obliged," and walked away like a chidden child.
Two weeks later he moved his outfit south again. And at their old camp on the San Pedro, Wilkins walked in on them. His advent was not unexpected, but Lafe found it impossible to give him more than frigid civility. The man had been recreant to his trust and he was going to get out of it through the intercession of women; that was enough to damn him in the eyes of Lafe and his kind.
"Howdy," said Wilkins unconcernedly. "I'm going back."
"So I done heard."
"I got the letter here," Wilkins continued, fumbling in his shirt bosom. "He says if I go back, they'll let me off easy on account of previous good conduct."
"Huh-huh. Sure," said the boss grimly, "I'll let you have a horse and you can ride with us in the morning. We start at four o'clock, remember."
A sergeant of cavalry and two troopers sat their horses beside the big corrals where the custom men inspect the cattle, when the cavalcade arrived. They led a spare mount. At sight of them, Wilkins left the party and loped ahead. The soldiers waited for him on the other side. He went unhesitatingly through the gate—jubilant, alert and smiling, like a girl going to her first dance. The sergeant advanced and Wilkins extended his hand. The soldier ignored it.
"Here's your horse, Johnson," said Wilkins. "You've been mighty decent. Muchas gracias. All right, Osborne. I'm ready."
"Hold on," Lafe cut in; "say, wait a minute. What's the matter, anyhow? What's it all about? I want to get the rights of this."
"A deserter, Mr. Johnson," said the sergeant. "He used to be in Troop F. Ran off, he did. Some post exchange funds went, too."
"That's a lie," Wilkins shouted; "I never touched a cent. And you know it better'n anybody else, Osborne."
"We've been chasing him a year, Mr. Johnson."
Wilkins was watching Lafe much as a dog would watch his master to see whether he was angry. "I'd like to talk to you a minute, if you're agreeable, Mr. Johnson." The sergeant nodded acquiescence, and he led Lafe aside. "It's a wonder you'll speak to me after that. Osborne, there—he wouldn't shake hands."
"I'm not a soldier," the boss said guardedly.
"And I'm not a thief. You believe that, don't you? It was the rotten sameness of the life. Oh, you know how it is—and Mary Lou waiting—well, I hated the post, and it wasn't long before I grew to hate the boys. What'd you say? Sure, they're all right. But when you're cooped up with the same crowd day in and day out, the best men on earth will soon hate one another. You ain't never done it, so you don't know. Nothing to see but those ol' mountains, solemn as death all the time." He broke off, striving to compose himself. "See that high one yonder? I swear I've seen it nodding at me. Yes, sir, just like this. And Mary Lou and her father—oh, I got afraid of those hills—honest to God, I did. And the boys—why even your cowboys look down on us. And Mary Lou—so I beat it and swore I'd never come back."
"But you did."
"That's the queer part of it"—he laughed without mirth—"I can't rightly explain that myself. Mary Lou—no, I'd have come back anyhow. I was going dippy down there among the yellow-bellies. And Mary Lou, she—"
He told Lafe that he had wandered four times to the line, merely to get a glimpse of the country. The air this side of the border fence was different to the other; he was positive of that, although the boundary consisted of some strands of barbed wire. Once a corporal, returning from Naco to the post, had come upon him a mile within American territory. What was he doing there? Oh, just looking round. He had taken back with him a prickly-pear plant. The corporal had almost caught Wilkins that time, but he managed to put the fence between them. On the other side he could twiddle his fingers at the corporal, who dared not pursue.
Johnson was puzzled and said so. "What were you hanging round here for? With a good job at the mines, you had a chance to start all over again."
"That's what I'm a-telling you, consarn it. With the whole wide world to wander in, I kept sneaking back to this fence like a sick pup. Ain't it hell?" The aching sadness of a very homesick man had him fast. He stared up the San Pedro valley and drew in a slow, deep breath. His voice was unsteady when he tried to resume.
"And Mary Lou—I sent her messages, and she kept saying—"
"Oh, well," said Lafe, "if you're going to cry over it, I'm off. Adios."
"Don't be a bloody fool. Hey, wait a minute, Johnson."
The escort could not be kept waiting all night, the sergeant shouted.
"Keep your shirt on, Osborne. I'll have to be quiet long enough from to-day."
"About three years, I'm thinking," the sergeant said gloatingly.
Wilkins let the remark pass. He was gazing at two riders who were advancing down the lane towards the corrals. "Why—no, it can't be. Yes, it is. It's Mary Lou."
It was, indeed, Mary Lou; and Lafe's wife was with her. Johnson was not especially pleased to see her there, but he wisely refrained from comment. The two women approached the group. Mary Lou shook hands gravely with Wilkins and Lafe was glad that he did not try to kiss her, or betray any sentimental weakness. The pair accepted the situation soberly and Mary Lou called to her friend to come forward.
"This," she said shyly, "is Bill. Shake hands with Mrs. Johnson, Bill."
"How do you—Bob, Bob! It's you," Hetty squealed.
The manner of Mrs. Johnson's introduction was this—she jumped her horse close to the deserter and clasped him in her arms. He was equally fervent on his part. He held her tight and cried: "Hetty! Little Hetty."
Lafe experienced a not unnatural curiosity. He thrust between them and wanted to know who the gentleman might be who seemed so fond of his wife, and, glaring at that unabashed young woman, inquired what she meant by it. The troopers were grinning. The sergeant looked annoyed.
"Why, Lafe dear, this is Bob."
"So I done heard you say," said Lafe. "Bob who? What're you hugging him for?"
"He's my brother."
The boss's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and he sat dumbly, looking at his wife. Mary Lou and Hetty were patting Wilkins' hand and making much of him. They did not seem to appreciate the fact that he was an outcast and a prisoner, but treated him as if they had every reason to be proud of this reunion.
"So your name ain't Wilkins? It's Ferrier?" Lafe said slowly.
"Yes," said the other.
"Oh, Lafe, we must get him off sure."
Johnson silenced her and turned his back on the deserter. Curtly he told Hetty that the escort was waiting. He ordered her to come with him and to bring Mary Lou.
"Tell Bob good-by," she insisted.
"So long," said the boss grudgingly.
"No, that won't do. You've got to shake hands with him."
Lafe glanced at her radiant face and what he was about to say never came out. He stuck out his long arm towards Wilkins, who grasped his hand eagerly.
The misery of indecision had dropped from the deserter like a cloak that is shed. He laughed encouragingly over his shoulder at Hetty, as he turned to leave.
"Did you expect me to holler, Johnson?" he asked. "Not much! Why, this is going home, to me."
"Ready?" Osborne cried.
"And when I get out, I'll be able to look you boys in the face, too. Not you, Osborne. You can't look me in the eye right now. Pshaw! What is a year in a lifetime?"
"Quit your preaching. Come on."
"Adios, Mary Lou. Adios, Hetty. So long, Johnson. I'll see you soon."
"Guard and prisoner—'tention! Fours—left about—march!"
They swung around and made northwest, Wilkins in their midst. He was making his horse prance and was humming "Dixie." Once he looked back and waved his arm in a wide gesture towards the Huachucas, towering on the left; to the right, the straggling Mules range; and the San Pedro valley between, stretching away for eighty miles.
"What about this little ol' country now, hey?" he shouted. "What do you think of her, hey? How about this air? Lord!"
Hetty waved at him, but Mary Lou, who had drawn out a handkerchief to do the same, wept into it instead. They started slowly homeward, Lafe ambling along in gloomy quiet. Hetty did not perceive his mood, being too uplifted over her brother's recovery to be cognizant of lesser things. She ranged beside her husband. There were tears on her cheeks, but she was smiling and humming "Dixie."
"Isn't it just like heaven? Here I haven't seen him in six years. Just think of finding him like this. Oh, I never thought I could be so happy."
"You bet," the boss said scathingly. "This is simply great, this is. He's gone to jail, I suppose you know? And I've got to get him out, I reckon."
"You can do that all right," Hetty declared—she had a vague idea that Lafe administered the entire law of the land, the High justice and the Low—"What does the jail matter, anyhow? We've got him back."
"Yes, it's all right now," Mary Lou agreed and dried her eyes.
"Oh, pshaw," said Lafe, settling to the ride. "What's the use?"