Chapter XXIII
Like One Who Sleeps
Bondsman sat in the doorway of the supervisor's office, gazing dejectedly at the store across the street. He knew that his master had gone to St. Johns and would go to Stacey. He had been told all about that, and had followed Shoop to the automobile stage, where it stood, sand-scarred, muddy, and ragged as to tires, in front of the post-office. Bondsman had watched the driver rope the lean mail bags to the running-board, crank up the sturdy old road warrior of the desert, and step in beside the supervisor. There had been no other passengers. And while Shoop had told Bondsman that he would be away some little time, Bondsman would have known it without the telling. His master had worn a coat—a black coat—and a new black Stetson. Moreover, he had donned a white shirt and a narrow hint of a collar with a black "shoe-string" necktie. If Bondsman had lacked any further proof of his master's intention to journey far, the canvas telescope suitcase would have been conclusive evidence.
The dog sat in the doorway of the office, oblivious to the clerk's friendly assurances that his master would return poco tiempo. Bondsman was not deceived by this kindly attempt to soothe his loneliness.
Toward evening the up-stage buzzed into town. Bondsman trotted over to it, watched a rancher and his wife alight, sniffed at them incuriously, and trotted back to the office. That settled it. His master would be away indefinitely.
When the clerk locked up that evening, Bondsman had disappeared.
As Bronson stepped from his cabin the following morning he was startled to see the big Airedale leap from the veranda of Shoop's cabin and bound toward him. Then he understood. The camp had been Bondsman's home. The supervisor had gone to Criswell. Evidently the dog preferred the lonely freedom of the Blue Mesa to the monotonous confines of town.
Bronson called to his daughter. "We have a visitor this morning,
Dorothy."
"Why, it's Bondsman! Where is Mr. Shoop?"
"Most natural question. Mr. Shoop had to leave Jason on business.
Bondsman couldn't go, so he trotted up here to pay us a visit."
"He's hungry. I know it. Come, Bondsman."
From that moment he attached himself to Dorothy, following her about that day and the next and the next. But when night came he invariably trotted over to Shoop's cabin and slept on the veranda. Dorothy wondered why he would not sleep at their camp.
"He's very friendly," she told her father. "He will play and chase sticks and growl, and pretend to bite when I tickle him, but he does it all with a kind of mental reservation. Yesterday, when we were having our regular frolic after breakfast, he stopped suddenly and stood looking out across the mesa, and it was only my pony, just coming from the edge of the woods. Bondsman tries to be polite, but he is really just passing the time while he is waiting for Mr. Shoop."
"You don't feel flattered, perhaps. But don't you admire him all the more for it?"
"I believe I do. Poor Bondsman! It's just like being a social pet, isn't it? Have to appear happy whether you are or not."
Bondsman knew that she proffered sympathy, and he licked her hand lazily, gazing up at her with bright, unreadable eyes.
* * * * *
Bud Shoop wasted no time in Stacey. He puffed into the hotel, indecision behind him and a definite object in view.
"No use talkin'," he said to Mrs. Adams. "We got to go and take care of
Jim. I couldn't get word to Lorry. No tellin' where to locate him just
now. Mebby it's just as well. They's a train west along about midnight.
Now, you get somebody to stay here till we get back—"
"But, Mr. Shoop! I can't leave like this. I haven't a thing ready. Anita can't manage alone."
"Well, if that's all, I admire to say that I'll set right down and run this here hotel myself till you get back. But it ain't right, your travelin' down there alone. We used to be right good friends, Annie. Do you reckon I'd tell you to go see Jim if it wa'n't right? If he ever needed you, it's right now. If he's goin' to get well, your bein' there'll help him a pow'ful sight. And if he ain't, you ought to be there, anyhow."
"I know it, Bud. I wish Lorry was here."
"I don't. I'm mighty glad he's out there where he is. What do you think he'd do if he knowed Jim was shot up?"
"He would go to his father—"
"Uh-uh?"
"And—"
"Go ahead. You wa'n't born yesterday."
"He would listen to me," she concluded weakly.
"Yep. But only while you was talkin'. That boy is your boy all right, but he's got a lot of Jim Waring under his hide. And if you want to keep that there hide from gettin' shot full of holes by a no-account outlaw, you'll just pack up and come along."
Bud wiped his forehead, and puffed. This sort of thing was not exactly in his line.
"Here's the point, Annie," he continued. "If I get there afore Lorry, and you're there, he won't get into trouble. Mebby you could hold him with your hand on the bridle, but he's runnin' loose right where he is. Can't you get some lady in town to run the place?"
"I don't know. I'll see."
Bud heaved a sigh. It was noticeably warmer in Stacey than at Jason.
Bud's reasoning, while rough, had appealed to Mrs. Adams. She felt that she ought to go. She had only needed some such impetus to send her straight to Waring. The town marshal's telegram had stunned her. She knew that her husband had followed the Brewsters, but she had not anticipated the awful result of his quest. In former times he had always come back to her, taking up the routine of their home life quietly. But this time he had not come back. If only he had listened to her! And deep in her heart she felt that old jealousy for the lure which had so often called him from her to ride the grim trails of his profession. But this time he had not come back. She would go to him, and never leave him again.
Anita thought she knew of a woman who would take charge of the hotel during Mrs. Adams's absence. Without waiting for an assurance of this, Bud purchased tickets, sent a letter to his clerk, and spent half an hour in the barber shop.
"Somebody dead?" queried the barber as Bud settled himself in the chair.
"Not that I heard of. Why?"
"Oh, nothing, Mr. Shoop. I seen that you was dressed in black and had on a black tie—"
Later, as Bud surveyed himself in the glass, trying ineffectually to dodge the barber's persistent whisk-broom, he decided that he did look a bit funereal. And when he appeared at the supper table that evening he wore an ambitious four-in-hand tie of red and yellow. There was going to be no funeral or anything that looked like it, if he knew it.
Aboard the midnight train he made Mrs. Adams comfortable in the chair car. It was but a few hours' run to The Junction. He went to the smoker, took off his coat, and lit a cigar. Around him men sprawled in all sorts of awkward attitudes, sleeping or trying to sleep. He had heard nothing further about Waring's fight with the Brewsters. They might still be at large. But he doubted it. If they were—Shoop recalled the friendly shooting contest with High-Chin Bob. If High Chin were riding the country, doubtless he would be headed south. But if he should happen to cross Shoop's trail by accident—Bud shook his head. He would not look for trouble, but if it came his way it would bump into something solid.
Shoop had buckled on his gun before leaving Jason. His position as supervisor made him automatically a deputy sheriff. But had he been nothing more than a citizen homesteader, his aim would have been quite as sincere.
It was nearly daylight when they arrived at The Junction. Shoop accompanied Mrs. Adams to a hotel. After breakfast he went out to get a buck-board and team. Criswell was not on the line of the railroad.
They arrived in Criswell that evening, and were directed to the marshal's house, where Ramon met them.
"How's Jim?" was Shoop's immediate query.
"The Señor Jim is like one who sleeps," said Ramon.
Mrs. Adams grasped Shoop's arm.
"He wakens only when the doctor is come. He has spoken your name, señora."
The marshal's wife, a thin, worried-looking woman, apologized for the untidy condition of her home, the reason for which she wished to make obvious. She was of the type which Shoop designated to himself as "vinegar and salt."
"Reckon I better go in first, Annie?"
"No." And Mrs. Adams opened the door indicated by the other woman.
Shoop caught a glimpse of a white face. The door closed softly. Shoop turned to Ramon.
"Let's go take a smoke, eh?"
Ramon led the way down the street and on out toward the desert. At the edge of town, he paused and pointed across the spaces.
"It was out there, señor. I found him. The others were not found until the morning. I did not know that they were there."
"The others? How many?"
"Three. One will live, but he will never ride again. The others, High of the Chin and his brother, were buried by the marshal. None came to claim them."
"Were you in it?"
"No, señor. It was alone that Señor Jim fought them. He followed them out there alone. I come and I ask where he is gone. I find him that night. I do not know that he is alive."
"What became of his horse?"
"Dex he come back with no one on him. It is then that I tell Dex to find for me the Señor Jim."
"And he trailed back to where Jim went down, eh? Uh-uh! I got a dog myself."
"Will the Señor Jim ride again?" queried Ramon.
"I dunno, boy, I dunno. But if you and me and the doc and the señora—and mebby God—get busy, why, mebby he'll stand a chance. How many times was he hit?"
"Two times they shot him."
"Two, eh? Well, speakin' from experience, they was three mighty fast guns ag'in' him. Say five shots in each gun, which is fifteen. And he had to reload, most-like, for he can empty a gun quicker than you can think. Fifteen to five for a starter, and comin' at him from three ways to once. And he got the whole three of 'em! Do you know what that means, boy? But shucks! I'm forgettin' times has changed. How they been usin' you down here?"
"I am sleep in the hay by Dex."
"Uh-uh. Let that rest. Mebby it's a good thing, anyhow. Got any money?"
"No, señor. I have use all."
"Where d' you eat?"
"I have buy the can and the crackers at the store."
"Can and crackers, eh? Bet you ain't had a square meal for a week. But we'll fix that. Here, go 'long and buy some chuck till I get organized."
"Gracias, señor. But I can pray better when I do not eat so much."
"Good Lord! But, that's some idee! Well, if wishin' and hopin' and such is prayin', I reckon Jim'll pull through. I reckon it's up to the missus now."
"Lorry is not come?"
"Nope. Couldn't get to him. When does the mail go out of this bone-hill?"
"I do not know. To-morrow or perhaps the next day."
"Uh-uh. Well, you get somethin' to eat, and then throw a saddle on Dex and I'll give you a couple of letters to take to The Junction. And, come to think, you might as well keep right on fannin' it for Stacey and home. They can use you over to the ranch. The missus and me'll take care of Señor Jim."
"I take the letter," said Ramon, "but I am come back. I am with the
Señor Jim where he goes."
"Oh, very well, amigo. Might as well give a duck a bar of soap and ask him to take a bath as to tell you to leave Jim. Such is wastin' talk."