There being no evidence of “trouble”—past, present or prospective—when Somers reached the pass, he tethered the roan securely up a little ravine and climbed to a point where he could witness the approach of the chase—provided Sonora Jack had not disobligingly changed his course.
After hours of fruitless vigil Somers caught himself nodding drowsily, roused himself determinedly, and nodded again. Unaccustomed to a fiercer torridity than that afforded by a New England climate, he was gradually yielding to the soporific power of a southern sun. With each successive nod his chin sank a little lower, his eyes blinked less resolutely, until the outlines of the foothills melted and sank into the sheen of the distant desert, the ardent, turquoise sky bent low to ward off riotous columns of reeling cactus, the mountain swayed as soothingly as the cradle of long ago, and Somers dozed and dreamed.
He was in his State Street office, listening to the ticker, whose insistent clatter steadily swelled to a roar, and as he hurried toward it to watch Amalgamated, the machine burst with a mighty report—and Somers, starting up, became dimly conscious of a limping mustang loping up the pass, carrying a long, lean man, whose face was masked by a paste of sweat and alkali dust.
Slipping from the saddle of the panting beast, the man glanced swiftly about, then clambered upward, straight toward Somers, Winchester in hand. With clearing vision, Somers saw beneath the masking dust a face that brought a train of dear and dormant memories, and with an exclamation of delight he sprang to his feet.
“Tubby!” he cried. “Tubby Haines! Is it really you?”
The lean man lowered the gun that had leaped to his shoulder as Somers arose.
“Somers! Bob Somers!” he exclaimed, and scrambled up to grasp the outstretched hand.
He dropped wearily upon a boulder, wiped his dripping face with the sleeve of a flannel shirt, and stared into Somers’ face, amazement and delight shining in his keen eyes.
“Good old Scrappy Somers,” he murmured. “I can’t quite realize that you’re ’way out here, thousands of miles from home.”
“Visiting Hal Fielding,” explained Somers. “You know Fielding, of course; everybody around here does.”