Chapter XIII
The Horse Trade
The following day a young cowboy, mounted upon a singularly noticeable buckskin horse, rode down the main street of Jason and dismounted at the Forestry Office. Torrance was reading a letter when his clerk proffered the young man a chair and notified the supervisor that a Mr. Adams wished to see him.
A few minutes later, Lorry was shown in. The door closed.
Torrance surveyed the strong, young figure with inward approval. "I have your letter. Sit down. I see your letter is postmarked St. Johns."
"Yes, sir."
"Know anything about the Service?"
"No, sir."
"Why do you want to get into it?"
"I thought mebby I'd like the work."
"Have you any recommendations?"
"Nothin'—except what you're lookin' at."
Torrance smiled. "Could you get a letter from your last employer?"
"Not the kind of letter that would do any good. I had an argument with the foreman, and he fired me."
Torrance had heard something about the matter, and did not question further at the time.
"Do you drink?" queried Torrance.
"I never monkeyed with it much. I reckon I could if I wanted to."
Torrance drummed on the desk with his long, strong fingers. He reached in a drawer and drew out a letter.
"How about that?"
Lorry glanced at the heading. Evidently the sheriff knew of his general whereabouts. The letter stated that the sheriff would appreciate information leading to the apprehension of Lawrence Adams, wanted for aiding a prisoner to escape and for having in his possession a horse that did not belong to him.
"What he says is right," Lorry asserted cheerfully. "I busted into the jail and turned that hobo loose, and I borrowed the horse I'm riding. I aim to send him back. My own horse is in the corral back at Stacey."
"What was your idea in letting the man go after arresting him?"
Lorry's clear color deepened. "I wasn't figurin' on explainin' that."
"You don't have to explain. But you will admit that the charges in this letter are rather serious. We don't want men in the Service who are open to criticism. You're pretty young to have such a record. It's up to you to explain—or not, just as you like. But anything you tell me will be treated as absolutely confidential, Adams."
"All right. Well, everything I done that day went wrong. I caught the hobo tryin' to rob a couple of wimmin over by the Notch. I was takin' him to Stacey when Bob Brewster butted in. The hobo was sick, and I didn't aim to stand and see him kicked and beat up with a quirt, even if he did steal one of the Starr horses. I told High Chin to quit, but his hearin' wasn't good, so I had to show him. Then I got to thinkin' I wasn't so much—takin' a pore, busted tramp to jail. And it made me sick when everybody round town was callin' me some little hero. Then one of the Starr boys told me High Chin was cinchin' up to ride in and get the hobo, anyhow, so I busted the lock and told him to fan it."
"Why didn't you appeal to the sheriff?"
"Huh! Buck Hardy is all right. But I can tell you one thing; he's not the man to stand up to High Chin when High is drinkin'. Why, I see High shove a gun in Hardy's face once and tell him to go home and go to bed. And Hardy went. Anyhow, that hobo was my prisoner, and I didn't aim to let High Chin get his hands on him."
"I see. Well, you have a strange way of doing things, but I appreciate why you acted as you did. Of course, you know it is a grave offense to aid a prisoner to escape."
"Buck Hardy seems to think so."
"So do I. And how about that horse?"
"Well, next day I was fixin' up the machine and foolin' around—that machine belonged to them tourists that the fella stuck up—when along about sundown Buck Hardy comes swellin' up to me and tells me I'm under arrest. He couldn't prove a darned thing if I hadn't said I done the job. But, anyhow, he didn't see it my way, so I borrowed Waring's horse and come down this way. Everybody saw me take the horse. You can't call that stealin'."
"Did Hardy ride after you?"
"Yes, sir. But he was so far behind I couldn't hear what he wanted. That big buckskin is a wonder. I wish I owned him."
Torrance mentally patched the fragments of evidence together. He decided that a young man who could capture a holdup man, best the notorious High Chin in a fight, repair a broken automobile, turn a prisoner loose, and make his own escape all within the short compass of forty-eight hours was a rather capable person in a way. And Torrance knew by Lorry's appearance and manner that he was still on the verdant side of twenty. If such a youth chose to turn his abilities in the right direction he might accomplish much. Lorry's extreme frankness satisfied Torrance that the boy had told the truth. He would give him a chance.
"Do you know Bud Shoop?" queried the supervisor.
"No, sir. I know what he looks like. He's been to our hotel."
"Well, you might look him up. He may be out of town. Possibly he is up at his homestead on the Blue Mesa. Tell Mr. Shoop that I sent you to him. He will understand. But you will have to square yourself with the authorities before I can put you to work."
"Yes, sir. But I don't aim to ride back to Stacey just because I know where it is. If they want me, they can find me."
"That is your affair. When your slate is clear—"
"Mr. Waring to see you," said the clerk, poking his head through the doorway.
Torrance stepped out and greeted Waring heartily. Lorry was surprised; both to see his father and to learn that Torrance and he were old friends.
"I saw this horse as I rode up, and I took a fancy to him," said Waring, after having nodded to Lorry. "Sorry to bother you, Torrance."
"Here's the man you'll bother, I think," said Torrance, indicating
Lorry. "He's riding that horse."
Lorry grinned. "Want to trade horses?"
"I don't know. Is that your horse?"
"Nope. I borrowed him. Is that your horse?" And he indicated Gray Leg.
"No. I borrowed him."
Torrance laughed. "The buckskin seems to be a pretty fair horse."
"Then I ought to get somethin' to boot," suggested Lorry.
"How much?" laughed Waring.
"Oh, I don't know. You'll find that buckskin a mighty likely rambler."
Waring turned to Torrance. "You'll witness that we made this trade,
John?"
"All right. But remember; neither of you owns the horse you are trading."
"But we're goin' to," asserted Lorry.
Waring reached beneath his coat and unbuckled a heavy belt. From buckle to tongue it glittered with cartridges and a service-worn holster bulged with a short-barreled Colt's .45. He handed the belt to Lorry.
"It's a good gun," he said, "and I hope you'll never need to use it."
Lorry stammered his thanks, untied Dex, and gave the reins into Waring's hand. "The trade goes," he said. "But we change saddles."
"Correct," said Waring. "And here's a letter—from your mother."
Lorry slid the letter in his shirt. "How's the Weston folks?"
"They were to leave this morning. Mrs. Weston asked me to pay you for repairing their machine. She gave me the money."
"You can keep it. I wasn't workin' for pay."
"All right. Going to stay down here awhile?"
"I aim to. Did you see anything of Buck Hardy on the way down?"
"Hardy? Why, no. But I rode part way with his deputy. He's due here some time to-day."
"That bein' the case," said Lorry, swinging to the saddle, "I reckon I'll hunt up Bud Shoop. Thanks for my horse. Mebby I'll be back in this town in two, three days." And he was gone.
Waring dropped Dex's reins. "Got a minute to spare, Torrance?"
"Yes, indeed. You're looking well, Jim."
In the office they shook hands again.
"It's a long time," said Torrance, proffering a cigar. "You were punching cattle for the Box S and I was a forest ranger those days. Did Mexico get too hot?"
"Warm. What's the boy doing down here?"
"He seems to be keeping out of the way of the sheriff," laughed
Torrance. "Incidentally he applied for a position as ranger."
"Did he? I'm glad of that. I was afraid he might get to riding the high trails. He's got it in him."
"You seem to know him pretty well."
"Not so well as I would like to. I'm his father."
"Why, I had no idea—but, come to think of it, he does resemble you. I didn't know that you were married."
"Yes. I married Annie Adams, of Las Cruces. He's our boy."
Torrance saw that Waring did not care to talk further on the subject of his married life. And Torrance recalled the fact that Mrs. Adams, who lived in Stacey, had been in Mexico.
"He's a live one," said Torrance. "I think I'll take him on."
"I don't ask you to, John. He's got to play the game for himself. He may not always do right, but he'll always do what he thinks is right, if I am any judge. And he won't waste time doing it. I told Hardy's deputy on the way down that he might as well give up running after the boy. Hardy is pretty sore. Did Lorry tell you?"
"Yes. And I can understand his side of it."
"I think that little Weston girl dazzled him," said Waring. "She's clever, and Lorry hasn't seen many of her kind. I think he would have stayed right in Stacey and faced the music if she hadn't been there when Hardy tried to arrest him. Lorry is only eighteen. He had to show off a little."
"Will Hardy follow it up?"
"Not too strong. The folks in Stacey are giving Hardy the laugh. He's not so popular as he might be."
"I can't say that I blame Hardy, either. The boy was wrong."
"Not a bit. Lorry was wrong."
"It will blow over," said Torrance. "I had no idea he was your son."
Waring leaned back in his chair. "John, I had two reasons for coming down here. One was to get my horse. That's settled. Now I want to talk about leasing a few thousand acres down this way, with water-rights. I'm through with the other game. I want to run a few cattle in here, under fence. I think it will pay."
Torrance shook his head. "The Mormons and the Apaches will keep you poor, Jim."
"They might, if I tried it alone. But I have a partner just up from the border. You remember Pat. He's been customs inspector at Nogales for some time."
"I should say I do remember him!"
"Well, he asked me to look around and write to him. I think we could do well enough here. What do you know about the land north of here, on up toward the Santa Fé?"
Torrance pondered the situation. The times were, indeed, changing when men like Waring and Pat ceased to ride the high trails and settled down to ranching under fence. The day of the gunman was past, but two such men as Pat and Waring would suppress by their mere presence in the country the petty rustling and law-breaking that had made Torrance's position difficult at times.
"I'll see what I can do," said he. "About how much land?"
"Ten or twenty thousand, to begin with."
"There's some Government land not on the reservation between here and the railroad. There are three or four families of squatters on it now. I don't know how they manage to live, but they always seem to have beef and bacon. You might have some trouble about getting them off—and about the water. I'll let you know some time next month just what I can do."
"We won't have any trouble," said Waring. "That's the last thing we want. I'll ride over next month. You can write to me at Stacey if anything turns up."
"I'll write to you. Do you ever get hungry? Come on over to the hotel.
I'm as hungry as a bear."