Jean of the Lazy A

by B. M. Bower

Jean thought swiftly. She must not let Art Osgood go back across that street. She could cover him with her gun—Art knew how well she could use it!—and she would call for an American officer and have him arrested. Or, Lite was somewhere below; she would call for Lite, and he could go and get an officer and a warrant.

"How soon you going back?" Art asked abruptly, as though he had been pondering a problem and had reached the solution. "I'll have to get a leave of absence, or go down on the books as a deserter; and I wouldn't want that. I can get it, all right. I'll go back with you and straighten this thing out, if it's the way you say it is. I sure didn't know they'd pulled your dad for it, Jean."

This, coming so close upon the heels of her own decision, set Jean all at sea again. She looked at him doubtfully.

"I thought you said you didn't know, and you wouldn't go back."

Art grinned sardonically. "I'll lie any time to help a friend," he admitted frankly. "What I do draw the line at is lying to help some cowardly cuss double-cross a man. Your father got the double-cross; I don't stand for anything like that. Not a-tall!" He heaved a sigh of nervous relaxation, for the last half hour had been keyed rather high for them both, and pulled his hat down on his head.

"Say, Jean! Want to go across with me and meet the general? You can make my talk a whole lot stronger by telling what you came for. I'll get leave, all right, then. And you'll know for sure that I'm playing straight. You see that two-story 'dobe about half-way down the block,—the one with the Mexican flag over it?" He pointed. "There's where he is. Want to go over?"

"Any objections to taking me along with you?" This was Lite, coming nonchalantly toward them from the doorway. Lite was still perfectly willing to let Jean manage this affair in her own way, but that did not mean that he would not continue to watch over her. Lite was much like a man who lets a small boy believe he is driving a skittish team all alone. Jean believed that she was acting alone in this, as in everything else. She had yet to learn that Lite had for three years been always at hand, ready to take the lines if the team proved too fractious for her.

Art turned and put out his hand. "Why, hello, Lite! Sure, you can come along; glad to have you." He eyed Lite questioningly. "I'll gamble you've heard all we've been talking about," he said. "That would be you, all right! So you don't need any wising up. Come on; I want to catch the chief before he goes off somewhere."

To see the three of them go down the stairs and out upon the street and across it into Mexico,—which to Jean seemed very queer,—you would never dream of the quest that had brought them together down here on the border. Even Jean was smiling, in a tired, anxious way. She walked close to Lite and never once asked him how he came to be there, or why. She was glad that he was there. She was glad to shift the whole matter to his broad shoulders now, and let him take the lead.

They had a real Mexican dinner in a queer little adobe place where Art advised them quite seriously never to come alone. They had thick soup with a strange flavor, and Art talked with the waiter in Mexican dialect that made Jean glad indeed to feel Lite's elbow touching hers, and to know that although Lite's hand rested idly on his knee, it was only one second from his weapon. She had no definite suspicion of Art Osgood, but all the same she was thankful that she was not there alone with him among all these dark, sharp-eyed Mexicans with their atmosphere of latent treachery.