They were just passing the front of Louie Sing’s restaurant when a dog shot out of the alley, followed by an empty can and a volley of Chinese expletives. It was evident that a stray dog had been trying to steal something from the restaurant kitchen.
As quick as a flash Geronimo tore the rope from Jim’s hand, and was hot on the trail of the departing dog. They disappeared in the dark, leaving Jim Legg staring after them. He waited for several minutes, but the dog did not appear. Then he went on to the one-story adobe hotel, where he secured a room. Afterward he went back to the street, and for the first time he realized that his valise was still on that train.
He decided to try and recover it the next day. But there was no sign of Geronimo; so Jim Legg finally went back to the hotel, hoping that the dog would return and be in evidence the next day. Jim was still a little sore from his battle in the express car, although his face and hands did not show any signs of the conflict. But he found that his body contained plenty of black-and-blue spots, and in places he had lost considerable skin.
But he ignored them, yawned widely and fairly fell into his blankets. Mellon & Company seemed a million miles away, and years and years ago.
V—PAUL THE APOSTLE
The Taylor ranch, by its brand name the Double Bar 8, was one of the old-time ranches. The ranch-house was a two-story adobe, closely resembling the Hopi in architecture, as the roof of the first story was used as a porch of the second. The bunk-house was one story, on the opposite side of the patio, and a semicircle adobe wall, three feet thick, extended from each end of the bunk-house, and circled the ranch-house. At the front was a huge gate, arched over with adobe, and at the two sides of the patio were entrances. In the center of the patio was an old well. The stables, sheds and corrals were at the rear of the bunk-house.
Earlier residents had planted oaks, pepper trees and flowering eucalyptus, which had grown into big trees, shading the patio, where grape-vines clambered over the old walls, tangled with the climbing roses. From afar it appeared an oasis in the gray and purple of the hills.
It was the following day after the train robbery. Marion Taylor lifted a bucket of water from the old well and poured it into a trough, while she held the lead-rope of a blue-black horse, a tall, rangy animal, a few degrees better bred than the average range animal.
The girl was bareheaded, the sleeves of her white waist rolled to her elbows. She wore a divided skirt of brown material, and a serviceable pair of tan riding-boots. Her hair was twisted in braids around her well-shaped head, and held in place with a hammered silver comb set with turquoise.