I met the train at The Tanks and drove the party to the ranch. There were Mr. and Mrs. Prouty, a colorless pair, and the young man Peck aforementioned. I think Prouty had once been Horne's financial backer. When we arrived at headquarters, everybody was on the steps to welcome them, with the big hospitality of cowland. Hetty was there, too, more radiant than I had ever seen her.
It is true that her dress suffered considerably by comparison with Mrs. Vining's, but she had advantages which that expert lady would have given all her aids to possess. Young Peck looked in Hetty's direction just once, and gravitated there as by natural laws. He had met many women like Mrs. Vining. She tried all her wiles on him and he responded gaily, with a poise equal to her own, and then went on about his business. This business appeared to concern Hetty.
Shame on the graceless woman!—she had not been married five months and here she was giving open encouragement to a man who had seen too many sides of life for anybody's good. Yet Mrs. Horne did not chide her. Indeed, she watched the progress of events with undisguised pleasure.
The same cannot be said for Lafe. First he seemed at a loss, then dazed. After that he sulked. It was noticeable that he was absentminded now when Mrs. Vining cooed to him, and appeared to give ear more to what Hetty was saying to the mining man at the other side of the room. Peck's manner was joyous and eager. There was much merriment in their corner.
The boss was very gloomy as he helped me at the stables that night. It would appear that Mrs. Horne planned a ride to the Wolf place on the morrow and he grumbled that he supposed it would be just his luck to draw Mrs. Vining for the entire day. It was not for me to remind him he had seemed sufficiently satisfied with this arrangement on other occasions.
By dint of maneuvering her horse next morning, Mrs. Vining enticed Peck to her assistance. However, on perceiving that Hetty was riding off with me, Mr. Peck utilized his privileges of guest to call out to Lafe: "I say, Johnson, you know more about these things than I do? Will you fix this girth for Mrs. Vining?" Upon which he loped away after Hetty.
Throughout that ride I kept far ahead of the procession, driving a pack-mule that carried our provisions. The brute was stubborn and gave trouble, persisting in efforts to scrape off its burden under every tree; but they were troubles more easily handled than those I suspected Mr. Johnson to have laid up for himself.
The Wolf place is a heavenly retreat in a brown, stern land. The day was warm, and old man Horne, who thought a good deal of his comfort, proposed that we wait until sundown before starting for home. Everybody was agreeable except, perhaps, Lafe, and he said nothing. He spent the entire afternoon in wake of Mrs. Vining—such a very evident victim, though, that she gave up in disgust and went to sit beside Mrs. Horne and the Proutys. Lafe affected not to watch Hetty and Peck, who were gathering wild flowers and behaving like two children released from school.
It was dark when we went home. As before, I was assigned to the mule. Next came old man Horne and Mrs. Prouty, his wife and Mr. Prouty; then Mrs. Vining and Lafe; and last—very far behind—rode the mining engineer and Hetty. We had gone about five miles when Lafe mumbled some excuse to Mrs. Vining and went back.
It happened that Peck had just reached out to take a flower from Hetty's hand. They had been tossing them about all evening. I grant you there was no occasion for this move, but these are the facts. Let us assume that Hetty never divined his purpose. He seized her wrist and was drawing her towards him when Lafe arrived. Hetty jerked free. Peck laughed.
"Go ahead with Miz Horne," Lafe ordered. It was the primal man speaking to the woman who belonged to him. "You wait here, Peck. We'll settle this thing right now."
"Don't be an ass—"
"Lafe!" Hetty protested. She was flurried and much frightened, for never before had she seen him really angry. She brought her horse against his, so that they could see each other plainly. There must have been signs of weakening in him, for she suddenly flicked her reins upon his riding boot and said: "Perhaps this'll teach you."
"Teach me what?" asked Lafe uncertainly.
"Never mind. You ask Mrs. Horne. She'll tell you all about it."
Peck had drawn near. He entertained fears for Mrs. Johnson, but none for himself. When he heard this, he laughed. He was disappointed, but he had seen a lot of the world.
"So that's it," said Peck. "You little rascal."
He pinched Hetty lightly on the cheek, but Lafe did not object. Instead, he looked rather sheepish and drew alongside his wife in proper humility. At a word from her they galloped to the front, passed the others of the party, and took charge of the pack-animal. Peck lighted a cigar and joined Prouty. He was smiling and seemed not at all put out.
I fell back to ride with old man Horne. Hetty and Lafe were far in the lead, going at a long lope and beating the mule joyously with a rope-end when it lagged in its pace. She threw a flower at him and he caught it and stuck it inside the bosom of his shirt.
Old man Horne departed at dawn on some cow business, and when his wife went to bed that night, she left injunctions that she was on no account to be disturbed before eleven in the morning. Yet at midnight she was wakened by a knock at her door.
"Wha-what—who's there?" she cried.
Mrs. Vining padded into the room in her bare feet and crawled into bed beside her friend, snuggling against her shoulder. It was black in the room and the older woman winked solemnly at the wall. She waited with patience for the other to speak her mind.
"I couldn't sleep," said Mrs. Vining.
"I could."
"Martha, I've been so catty."
"Yes, you have," said Mrs. Horne stoutly.
"Well, you needn't tell me like that. I'm sure there was nothing to make all this—"
"Don't let's go over all that again, Judy. Why did you do it? That's what I want to know. The whole thing was ridiculous."
"Because I did—that's why. And one has to havesomeamusement out here."
"Well! thatisnice."
"You know I didn't mean it that way, Martha."
There was silence, so long that Mrs. Horne thought her friend must be sleeping. Gradually she became aware that she was crying.
"Judy, what's the matter, dear?" She drew the younger woman closer and patted her in motherly fashion.
"No-nothing. She's—she's so pretty and I'm getting—getting old. Martha, it's lonely. I can't stand it. I'm only thirty-four and all alone. I'm afraid to look ahead. Think of all the dreadful years. You can't blame me for—sometimes I think I'll—"
Mrs. Horne comforted her as she would have comforted a daughter. She was thinking intently as she soothed. Presently she asked: "Judy, have you ever heard from Harry?"
"Never."
"Don't you know where he is?"
She felt Mrs. Vining's body stiffen.
"No—that is—no, I'm not sure. I don't know."
Mrs. Horne cleared her throat and offered the sort of consolation we are apt to accord our friends.
"You know, Judy, dear, what everybody said when Harry left. Of course, I knew it was all his own fault and his drinking. I never did believe what people said—"
"No, of course you didn't," said Mrs. Vining, with a trace of bitterness.
They fell silent again. At last Mrs. Vining moved.
"She's so sweet," she murmured. Shortly afterwards she kissed Mrs. Horne and rose to go to her own room.
"Stay here, Judy. You won't bother me."
"No, but you'll bother me. You snore dreadfully."
"Judy, that's a lie," Mrs. Horne cried after her.
By Hetty's orders, Lafe accompanied us to The Tanks when Mrs. Vining departed. A truly womanly stab, this, in victory. And the Burro express bore Mrs. Vining away, the conductor winking at Lafe from the platform of the last car, his countenance sad and composed. We watched him take his cap off in order to mop his brow and Mrs. Vining waved her glove at us. Then we turned our horses about. Mrs. Horne shed a few tears and instructed Manuel to whip the team, lest she be late home for supper.
The Burro express crawled away up the valley. At a point six miles from The Tanks, an unkempt man with matted hair flung a stone through the window of the last car. Later I came on him on a mesa and he was counting the tops of the hills.
We were to see more of our mathematician who haunted The Hatter.
On a day, the rider who brought our mail twice weekly, delivered a fat letter to Mrs. Horne. She read it with open mouth and called her husband into consultation behind closed doors. Shortly afterwards they summoned Lafe, and in about an hour, he sent for me.
"I've got to go fetch that locoed prospector," he confided. "Will you help?"
"Why not get some of the boys to round him up?" I objected, for the mail had brought some personal business that required thought.
"They might be rough with him. No, sir; we've got to bring him in gentle, Dan. It's the queerest story I ever done heard. Say, don't women do queer things? I swan, I can't figure 'em."
All of the afternoon and next morning we rode the slopes of The Hatter. Then suddenly we saw him. The prospector was catching grasshoppers. He made to run as we approached, but Lafe spurred his horse and headed him off. Seeing escape barred, he stood still and waited, not without dignity—if a man who is clutching a fist-full of grasshoppers can possess dignity.
"What do you want?" he demanded.
"Say, you speak French, don't you?"
"I can speak five languages, sir," said the prospector pompously. And he began to patter German.
"Well," Lafe resumed—and I could see he was impressed—"well, sir, there's a guy at the ranch who can't speak English very good. We want somebody to tell him what the ol' man wants—ol' Horne of the Anvil. If you'll come down—"
"I shall be very pleased."
"Good," Johnson said in surprise. "We've got some right good liquor there and I thought—"
The prospector laughed and looked at him cunningly. He would not mount behind either of us, being suspicious even of the offer, but trudged between, occasionally breaking into rambling discourses on natural history and associated topics—such as the edible qualities of grasshoppers, if properly stewed. It took us five hours to reach the ranch, and our guest was then so tired that he readily acceded to the suggestion that we eat and sleep before meeting the gentleman who spoke only French.
Next morning, by dint of impressing on him the importance of the transaction and the high social status of the man he was to converse with, Lafe persuaded the prospector to bathe and don new clothes. They belonged to Horne and sagged all over his emaciated body, but he seemed rather proud of his appearance. Also, once started, he consented to let Dave, the cook, cut his hair and beard.
At noon I was on the porch when a buckboard drove up, and a man and a woman got out. The woman was heavily veiled. Both were hurried inside by Mrs. Horne and I was sent down to the bunkhouse to carry word to Lafe and his captive.
"That feller who just come in is a specialist," Lafe whispered on the way to the house. "They come off the Burro express this morning."
The prospector was ushered into Horne's office, a bare room facing the corrals. There a well-groomed man of affable manners met us and courteously addressed him in French. They talked for a moment. The prospector never let his gaze wander from the other's face.
"I say," he broke out abruptly in English, "isn't your name Toole?"
"It is."
"Harvard '87?"
"Yes, sir."
"That was my class."
The other affected to search his memory. He wrinkled his brow and pursed up his mouth.
"I remember you now perfectly. You're Vining."
They shook hands. Then Vining drew back as though assailed by a suspicion, and his glance flickered from one to the other of us like that of an animal at bay.
"They said you couldn't speak—what does this mean, anyway? You're trying—"
"Steady, old man," said the doctor.
The door to the sitting-room off the office opened, and Mrs. Vining came in. She went straight to the prospector, with her hands out pleadingly. Had she wavered, heaven knows what might not have happened.
"Harry!" she said.
What transpired after that I cannot say. Lafe and I found ourselves outside, and there the doctor joined us.
Not long after sunrise, Johnson himself drove a light, covered wagon in front of the porch steps, with me on the seat beside him. Our orders were to catch the Burro express with our guests.
Mrs. Vining came first, the prospector holding fast to her arm. His eyes were steady and he appeared perfectly rational, but uneasy and nervous, and he still shambled in his walk. Just behind them was the specialist, brisk and confident. He smiled on us triumphantly.
Before Mrs. Vining got into the vehicle, Mrs. Horne surged down the steps impulsively and threw her arms about her neck and kissed her.
"Judy, I'm so—you've made me feel so—you're such a good—"
"Hush," whispered the woman of the yellow hair, and all the gay affectation was gone from her. "Let us be thankful he's all right. If he'll only stay—good-by, dear—we can only hope and pray God."
After this experience, Johnson settled to hard work for Horne, and hard work on a range means unremitting toil. When everything moved smoothly, he would act as Horne's trail boss. At this time the cowman was buying large herds in Mexico, principally yearling steers and cows and calves. He would throw these cattle across the line and pasture them until a rising market offered the profits he had set his mind on. Success had so puffed up Horne that nothing less than sixty per cent would tempt his investment.
At the setting-in of winter again, Lafe took his outfit far down below Arizpe and purchased a herd of nine hundred head. Then the American authorities declared a quarantine and the cattle could not be brought up until it was lifted. Johnson started back. His party camped on the San Pedro, and just before they crawled under the blankets, they were joined by a native outfit. Of course the Mexicans had no beef or anything to eat. The boss gave them a quarter from the yearling they had killed that evening.
Five of them began to shoot dice on a saddle blanket in a decent, gentlemanly manner—two of the cowboys, the Chinese cook, a Yaqui vaquero and a Mexican horse thief from the Cuitaca valley. The boss smoked and watched the game. Another man lay under the wagon with his collar bone broken and at times his plaints became a nuisance.
"Come a eight," the Celestial invoked. "Heap bum thlow. Me ketchum soon. You wait."
Presently they became aware that somebody was ministering to their injured companion. His moans ceased. "Feel any better, now?" a voice asked. There followed murmurings and a movement as if the newcomer were easing the sufferer's position.
"Well," he said, "if you can swear that way, you shouldn't ought to be dying. Keep it up. You're doing fine."
A tall man walked into the group around the lantern. He surveyed each face in turn. The Yaqui was blowing on the dice to bring luck and was fearfully disgusted at the interruption. Addressing himself to Johnson, as though somebody had told him that he was the leader, the stranger said: "Hello! Got anything to eat?"
"Sure," Lafe answered readily. "Here, you, Charlie—go get this gentleman some cold beef and bread. Drag it now; ketchum quick. Fly at it, pardner."
The visitor was ravenous and bolted the beef in hunks. Lafe judged that he had walked into camp, but refrained from asking why, although the man is poor indeed who cannot obtain a horse to ride in that country. Bedding was scarce, for they were traveling light, and the best that Johnson could offer was that he should double up with the Chinaman. Their guest appeared no whit abashed by the prospect.
"Well, me for the hay," he said at once. "I'm all in. Lordy, hark to my joints creak. I bet I've footed it a million miles through the sand, Mr. Johnson. Your name's Johnson, ain't it? Mine's Wilkins. Say, if this here Chink snores, you'll be burying a cook in the morning, sure as you're alive."
They headed for the Border at daybreak. It was a long thirty miles, and Lafe impressed a horse and the injured man's saddle for Wilkins' use. He noted that Wilkins' overalls and shirt were trying to forsake him and that his toes were taking the air, so when he perceived Charlie measuring him with a comparative eye, in which lurked a gleam of satisfaction, he sent the cook sharply about his business. Lafe held that superiority of race should ever be maintained.
For the most part they rode in silence, as men do at the beginning of day. Their eyes were heavy with sleep. Wilkins seemed sullen and gave no explanation of his presence in that region. He sat stiffly erect in the saddle with his right arm hanging straight at his side. A cowboy or a native westerner crooks his elbows and lets them jog.
"He's a soldier," Lafe concluded, and because he entertained an undefined contempt for soldiers, he trotted ten yards ahead of his guest throughout the morning.
The sun was high when they sighted a white stone monument on a ridge below the Huachucas. A wire fence ran past it. They could see it stretch for miles and miles in a straight line. On their side of the fence was Mexico. Beyond lay the United States.
They reached a gate. Johnson got down and held it open for his men to pass through. Wilkins stopped and remained a dozen yards within the Mexican Border.
"I don't reckon I'll go on with you," said he; "I'll just stick around here for a spell. Here's your horse, Mr. Johnson. Much obliged. He's sure some horse."
"All right," Lafe answered, and ordered one of his men to throw the horse in with the saddle bunch, which they were driving loosely ahead of them. It struck him as curious that a man should voluntarily go afoot in that unsettled mountain country, but he never abandoned the tenet that a man's business is his own. Consequently he showed no surprise, nor did his men, but they moved off northward, leaving Wilkins gazing after them from the far side of the fence.
"Look!" said a cowboy. "What's that girl doing here?"
A young woman was fording the river some distance to their left, just below the Palomino. Johnson recognized her mount and made as if to hail her. Then a sudden remembrance of Wilkins waiting beyond the gate caused him to pull up. He grinned and grew solemn abruptly, because she was a friend of his wife's, and her brother worked for Horne.
Of course he told Hetty all about it on his return home and of course she refused to see the matter from his standpoint at all and exhibited the liveliest sympathy and understanding of the case. Lafe need not try to tell her that she was indiscreet; Mary Lou Hardin could afford to be indiscreet. Hetty had never known a sweeter, nicer girl. To this Lafe grunted. He had not much faith in women's estimates of their own sex and he considered that any girl who would go to meet a soldier who dare not enter his own country were better off under careful surveillance.
"Nonsense!" cried Hetty. "I tell you it's all right. Anything Mary Lou does must be all right. I'll ride over to-morrow and see her. I bet she tells me all about it."
When Johnson returned to the Cañon next night from a day of horse-breaking, he found Hetty simply bursting with news. Yes, Mary Lou had told her all about it. Wilkins had been a trooper—a corporal or a colonel or something—and he and Mary Lou had been sweethearts for over a year. But Mr. Hardin would not hear of her marrying a soldier, so Mr. Wilkins had done the only thing possible under the circumstances—he had gone over into Mexico to make a fortune in the mines. It would appear, however, that something ailed the price of copper. The company closed down one of its shafts and Mr. Wilkins was released. He had grown lonely for Mary Lou and homesick for his own country. Wasn't it noble of him? The whole tangle was perfectly clear to Hetty.
"Noble, my foot!" said Lafe. "The feller's a deserter. And here I done lent him a horse!"
That was not all Hetty had to say. She had a clever scheme, concocted by herself and Mary Lou while they mingled their tears over this recital of self-sacrifice. It was this—Wilkins wanted to come back. If he did so without preliminary negotiation, they would be apt to lock him in a cell and then he would not be able to see Mary Lou at all. Wasn't it inhuman? There were some silly rules or regulations Mr. Wilkins had overlooked when he departed, and Mary Lou said that the commandant would probably not see the thing in the right light and would give no consideration whatever to their feelings. Mary Lou was sure that the commandant had a pick on Mr. Wilkins.
"I reckon he'd ought to give this here Wilkins a better job and present him with a purse, hey?" Lafe sneered. "I reckon they'd ought to make him boss of all them soldiers. Then him and Mary Lou could get married and everything would be lovely. Yes, I reckon that's the nicest way to treat a deserter."
"Why, Lafe," Hetty remonstrated, "don't you see? He just left to make enough money to marry Mary Lou. He did it all for her. Wasn't it grand of him?"
The boss threw up his hands and walked off to the spring, where he could smoke and clear his brain of the cobwebs of sentiment. He was not to be allowed to dismiss the matter so lightly. When she had him in the house, Hetty pounced upon him again. Hardly had he taken a chair, than she came to sit on his knee and began stroking his hair. Lafe would not have had a citizen of Badger see this ridiculous performance for all the wealth stored in the depths of the mountains, but he nevertheless submitted to it with a sort of reluctant enjoyment.
"Mary Lou and I," said Hetty, "we thought that if you would speak to Mr. Horne, he would speak to that soldier man."
"Would he, now? And what has ol' Horne got to say to that general, or whatever he is?"
"Why, you baby, don't you see? Mr. Horne and that man who runs the fort are friends. Now, Mary Lou and I thought that if Mr. Horne would only say something nice about Wilkins, he'd let him go. Don't you think he would?"
"Oh, sure. He'd pin a medal on that feller. It's like he'd put it on with a sword, though, to make it stick."
"Oh, Lafe," Hetty said, almost in tears.
Lafe groaned and gave up the fight. It would be utterly useless, he told her—who ever heard of such a proposition made to serious men? But, of course, if Hetty wanted her husband to make an idiot of himself, he supposed he would have to do so.
"It won't be much trouble," Hetty coaxed. She added: "There, I knew my boy would help me."
Her boy approached the task with much misgiving and very shamefacedly. He was not a skillful pleader at any time, being accustomed to take what he wanted, instead of asking for it. As a result, old Horne bellowed: "Haw, haw," and slapped his leg and rolled about in his chair, gurgling that Lafe would be the death of him yet. Then Mrs. Horne came into the room.
"What's this all about?" she inquired.
Johnson told her and withdrew. The cowman was still chortling.
However, when he joined Lafe at the stables that afternoon, he looked a very chastened individual. Had Lafe seen the gradual transition in mood, from huge merriment to exasperation and then protest and resentful surrender, he would have understood better. Horne volunteered nothing of what had passed, so he went to Mrs. Horne. That lady informed him that her husband would use his best endeavor with the commandant. There appeared to be no question in her mind that this was the only course open to him, and Johnson, who had come prepared for a few timely jokes on the matter, muttered: "Yes, ma'am, I sure am obliged," and walked away like a chidden child.
Two weeks later he moved his outfit south again. And at their old camp on the San Pedro, Wilkins walked in on them. His advent was not unexpected, but Lafe found it impossible to give him more than frigid civility. The man had been recreant to his trust and he was going to get out of it through the intercession of women; that was enough to damn him in the eyes of Lafe and his kind.
"Howdy," said Wilkins unconcernedly. "I'm going back."
"So I done heard."
"I got the letter here," Wilkins continued, fumbling in his shirt bosom. "He says if I go back, they'll let me off easy on account of previous good conduct."
"Huh-huh. Sure," said the boss grimly, "I'll let you have a horse and you can ride with us in the morning. We start at four o'clock, remember."
A sergeant of cavalry and two troopers sat their horses beside the big corrals where the custom men inspect the cattle, when the cavalcade arrived. They led a spare mount. At sight of them, Wilkins left the party and loped ahead. The soldiers waited for him on the other side. He went unhesitatingly through the gate—jubilant, alert and smiling, like a girl going to her first dance. The sergeant advanced and Wilkins extended his hand. The soldier ignored it.
"Here's your horse, Johnson," said Wilkins. "You've been mighty decent. Muchas gracias. All right, Osborne. I'm ready."
"Hold on," Lafe cut in; "say, wait a minute. What's the matter, anyhow? What's it all about? I want to get the rights of this."
"A deserter, Mr. Johnson," said the sergeant. "He used to be in Troop F. Ran off, he did. Some post exchange funds went, too."
"That's a lie," Wilkins shouted; "I never touched a cent. And you know it better'n anybody else, Osborne."
"We've been chasing him a year, Mr. Johnson."
Wilkins was watching Lafe much as a dog would watch his master to see whether he was angry. "I'd like to talk to you a minute, if you're agreeable, Mr. Johnson." The sergeant nodded acquiescence, and he led Lafe aside. "It's a wonder you'll speak to me after that. Osborne, there—he wouldn't shake hands."
"I'm not a soldier," the boss said guardedly.
"And I'm not a thief. You believe that, don't you? It was the rotten sameness of the life. Oh, you know how it is—and Mary Lou waiting—well, I hated the post, and it wasn't long before I grew to hate the boys. What'd you say? Sure, they're all right. But when you're cooped up with the same crowd day in and day out, the best men on earth will soon hate one another. You ain't never done it, so you don't know. Nothing to see but those ol' mountains, solemn as death all the time." He broke off, striving to compose himself. "See that high one yonder? I swear I've seen it nodding at me. Yes, sir, just like this. And Mary Lou and her father—oh, I got afraid of those hills—honest to God, I did. And the boys—why even your cowboys look down on us. And Mary Lou—so I beat it and swore I'd never come back."
"But you did."
"That's the queer part of it"—he laughed without mirth—"I can't rightly explain that myself. Mary Lou—no, I'd have come back anyhow. I was going dippy down there among the yellow-bellies. And Mary Lou, she—"
He told Lafe that he had wandered four times to the line, merely to get a glimpse of the country. The air this side of the border fence was different to the other; he was positive of that, although the boundary consisted of some strands of barbed wire. Once a corporal, returning from Naco to the post, had come upon him a mile within American territory. What was he doing there? Oh, just looking round. He had taken back with him a prickly-pear plant. The corporal had almost caught Wilkins that time, but he managed to put the fence between them. On the other side he could twiddle his fingers at the corporal, who dared not pursue.
Johnson was puzzled and said so. "What were you hanging round here for? With a good job at the mines, you had a chance to start all over again."
"That's what I'm a-telling you, consarn it. With the whole wide world to wander in, I kept sneaking back to this fence like a sick pup. Ain't it hell?" The aching sadness of a very homesick man had him fast. He stared up the San Pedro valley and drew in a slow, deep breath. His voice was unsteady when he tried to resume.
"And Mary Lou—I sent her messages, and she kept saying—"
"Oh, well," said Lafe, "if you're going to cry over it, I'm off. Adios."
"Don't be a bloody fool. Hey, wait a minute, Johnson."
The escort could not be kept waiting all night, the sergeant shouted.
"Keep your shirt on, Osborne. I'll have to be quiet long enough from to-day."
"About three years, I'm thinking," the sergeant said gloatingly.
Wilkins let the remark pass. He was gazing at two riders who were advancing down the lane towards the corrals. "Why—no, it can't be. Yes, it is. It's Mary Lou."
It was, indeed, Mary Lou; and Lafe's wife was with her. Johnson was not especially pleased to see her there, but he wisely refrained from comment. The two women approached the group. Mary Lou shook hands gravely with Wilkins and Lafe was glad that he did not try to kiss her, or betray any sentimental weakness. The pair accepted the situation soberly and Mary Lou called to her friend to come forward.
"This," she said shyly, "is Bill. Shake hands with Mrs. Johnson, Bill."
"How do you—Bob, Bob! It's you," Hetty squealed.
The manner of Mrs. Johnson's introduction was this—she jumped her horse close to the deserter and clasped him in her arms. He was equally fervent on his part. He held her tight and cried: "Hetty! Little Hetty."
Lafe experienced a not unnatural curiosity. He thrust between them and wanted to know who the gentleman might be who seemed so fond of his wife, and, glaring at that unabashed young woman, inquired what she meant by it. The troopers were grinning. The sergeant looked annoyed.
"Why, Lafe dear, this is Bob."
"So I done heard you say," said Lafe. "Bob who? What're you hugging him for?"
"He's my brother."
The boss's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and he sat dumbly, looking at his wife. Mary Lou and Hetty were patting Wilkins' hand and making much of him. They did not seem to appreciate the fact that he was an outcast and a prisoner, but treated him as if they had every reason to be proud of this reunion.
"So your name ain't Wilkins? It's Ferrier?" Lafe said slowly.
"Yes," said the other.
"Oh, Lafe, we must get him off sure."
Johnson silenced her and turned his back on the deserter. Curtly he told Hetty that the escort was waiting. He ordered her to come with him and to bring Mary Lou.
"Tell Bob good-by," she insisted.
"So long," said the boss grudgingly.
"No, that won't do. You've got to shake hands with him."
Lafe glanced at her radiant face and what he was about to say never came out. He stuck out his long arm towards Wilkins, who grasped his hand eagerly.
The misery of indecision had dropped from the deserter like a cloak that is shed. He laughed encouragingly over his shoulder at Hetty, as he turned to leave.
"Did you expect me to holler, Johnson?" he asked. "Not much! Why, this is going home, to me."
"Ready?" Osborne cried.
"And when I get out, I'll be able to look you boys in the face, too. Not you, Osborne. You can't look me in the eye right now. Pshaw! What is a year in a lifetime?"
"Quit your preaching. Come on."
"Adios, Mary Lou. Adios, Hetty. So long, Johnson. I'll see you soon."
"Guard and prisoner—'tention! Fours—left about—march!"
They swung around and made northwest, Wilkins in their midst. He was making his horse prance and was humming "Dixie." Once he looked back and waved his arm in a wide gesture towards the Huachucas, towering on the left; to the right, the straggling Mules range; and the San Pedro valley between, stretching away for eighty miles.
"What about this little ol' country now, hey?" he shouted. "What do you think of her, hey? How about this air? Lord!"
Hetty waved at him, but Mary Lou, who had drawn out a handkerchief to do the same, wept into it instead. They started slowly homeward, Lafe ambling along in gloomy quiet. Hetty did not perceive his mood, being too uplifted over her brother's recovery to be cognizant of lesser things. She ranged beside her husband. There were tears on her cheeks, but she was smiling and humming "Dixie."
"Isn't it just like heaven? Here I haven't seen him in six years. Just think of finding him like this. Oh, I never thought I could be so happy."
"You bet," the boss said scathingly. "This is simply great, this is. He's gone to jail, I suppose you know? And I've got to get him out, I reckon."
"You can do that all right," Hetty declared—she had a vague idea that Lafe administered the entire law of the land, the High justice and the Low—"What does the jail matter, anyhow? We've got him back."
"Yes, it's all right now," Mary Lou agreed and dried her eyes.
"Oh, pshaw," said Lafe, settling to the ride. "What's the use?"
"Say, Dan."
"Huh-huh?"
"Did you ever feel kind of sudden like you'd done something before?" Lafe inquired.
It was a month later and we were riding through the dusk up the Cañon towards his home. This was too abstruse.
"I mean," he explained, "sometimes when you're at some place or looking at something, haven't you had a quick idea that you'd done the same thing in the same place a long time ago? Haven't you ever felt that way, Dan?"
"Often."
"I wonder," said he, "what's the reason?"
"It's probably a recurring impression—a remembrance of an act performed years ago."
He shook his head. "No-oo. It ain't that. I ain't never rode up here with you before. This is the first time me and you have been here together, ain't it? Yet I swear it struck me just now that, so long ago I can't call to mind when, me and you were trotting along just like this."
"Perhaps we were chums in a previous existence. There is the transmigration of souls, you know."
Lafe answered impatiently that the phenomenon could not be explained on any such grounds and expressed surprise that a man of my seeming sense would credit such theories. It seemed to rankle in him strangely. He grumbled to himself for a considerable distance, and was so visibly put out that I switched the talk.
"How's Bob getting along?" I ventured.
It proved an unfortunate choice of topics. Ferrier had been given a year in the cells by the commandant of the post, and then Horne had gone to his succor. And although the major had vowed to high heaven that no deserter would ever be dealt with leniently by him, he had yielded finally to the point of cutting down his punishment. It is true that there were many extenuating circumstances, and Ferrier seemed so sincere in his desire to atone that his commander was favorably inclined. So it ended by Hetty's brother escaping with thirty days' confinement. Then, anxious to get him away from old associations, and comrades who knew the mistakes of his past, Johnson arranged through Horne to pay for his discharge.
All this had he done. Indeed, Lafe had labored unceasingly for his brother-in-law. Yet he railed against him, even while he aided. Like many men who never shirk from helping when it is most needed, Johnson could never hear the object of his benefactions mentioned without falling a victim to spleen. I should have avoided all reference to Ferrier.
"There's a brother-in-law for you," he snorted. "Yes, sir, he's sure a treasure. I no sooner get him out of the cells for deserting, than off he goes and—guess what he wants to do now?"
"Borrow some money?"
"You've hit it. Yes, sir, you've nailed it dead to rights. Here, after all the trouble me and ol' Horne took with that general at the Fort, that there feller Ferrier asks me to stake him, just as cool as you'd ask for a match. Say, have you got one? I'm plumb out."
"Oh, well," said I, "a man has to stand by his family."
"He ain't my family."
"He's Hetty's brother."
"Sure. He's Hetty's brother and I ain't allowed to forget it, either. I tell you what, Dan—when a man marries a woman, he marries all her kin, too."
With which bitter reflection Johnson borrowed some tobacco and rolled a cigarette. After a space he remarked that Ferrier planned to settle on a quarter-section within the Horne range, and that he required three hundred dollars to make a start. Mary Lou Hardin was included in this scheme of settlement, said Lafe, the idea being that two could live as cheaply as one and that Bob would never amount to a row of beans unless anchored and domesticated. He had nothing but scorn for such adolescent reasoning.
"When I think of the way a young feller cares for a girl, I want to laugh," he said. "Pshaw, it's all mush. Nothing but talk, and those kids make the talk do instead of work. And if it ain't mush, it's wind. I tell you what—a man and a woman don't rightly care for each other, Dan, until they're married."
I stared at him. "Is that so? Well, well. Suppose they only wake up then and find they don't care at all. That would be fierce."
"Sure," he answered gravely. "It's a gamble. Why don't you take a chance?"
"That's my business."
"Well, you needn't get all swelled up about it. Hetty was saying to me only the other day—say, what're you so red in the face about?"
"You and Hetty stick to housekeeping and let me run my own affairs," I retorted hotly. Their presumption passed all bounds. "Whenever a man's friends get married, they begin picking out a girl for him right off. I suppose misery likes company."
Johnson chuckled and said: "All right, let's forget it." It was very apparent in what channel his thoughts moved, however, for he would keep turning on me a broad smile.
"What good are bachelors, anyhow?" he demanded. "They'd ought for to tax 'em heavy."
"You talk like a mothers' meeting, Lafe."
"Well, I've got the rights of this thing, anyhow. Bachelors make me think of what Frank Hastings said once about a mule—up on the Plains, this was—'without pride of ancestry or hope of posterity,' Frank said."
"Huh! Frank read that somewhere."
For an hour we were silent. Night closed down over the Cañon. The mountains seemed to take a long breath and settle to rest. It was warm, and so we were hopeful of rain within a week, or perhaps two. Our ponies swashed the dust lazily side by side, and we said no word, for the coming of dark in our country will still speech in anyone but a clod or a fool.
A Jack-o'-Lantern rose in front of us, twinkling like a diamond against black velvet. It held steady for a moment, then flitted eerily in darting curves, soaring high until it appeared a tiny star. Our folk say that little Jack is a lost soul, doomed to haunt the place of his earthly woes; but I have a pleasanter theory.
"Look at him," said Johnson in a tone almost reverent. "That there shiny feller's been following of me at nights now something ridiculous. If I ain't out on the range, I swan he comes loafing round the house. Honest."
"I like 'em."
"You do? I wonder what they are?"
"Why, you mean to say you don't know? I'm surprised at you, Lafe. They're human souls seeking a lodging."
He exploded into laughter. "Is that so?" said he. Facing to the front again, he fell to musing. "Is that so?" he repeated. "You're sure a wolf on souls, Dan."
Hetty was on the porch to receive us. With her was Ferrier, big and straight and indolent. She bade me welcome with frank heartiness as an old friend, but there was distinct coldness in her greeting of Lafe. I could not but observe it. When he would have kissed her, she turned her cheek to him; she submitted even to this with evident reluctance. A tiff—a doting couple's tiff—I concluded, and engaged Ferrier in conversation. He had scarcely a word to say, and walked beside me so lazily when we went to put the horses in the pasture, that my patience was sorely taxed. That was the way with soldiers, I reflected—once a soldier, never any good for anything else. Yet what little he uttered contradicted this notion, for he seemed in earnest. Apparently Bob had been doing some hard thinking and he was determined to get a foothold on the broad, straight highway.
As we were entering the house: "Oh, do be quiet. Let me alone. You worry me half to death. A lot you care what becomes of me. Here, you're off all day and sometimes long after dark, and I've got—"
"Why, hon," Lafe was pleading, "I've got my work to do. You know I stay home every minute I can. Ol' Horne says I'm tied to your apron strings. What's got into you, Hetty?"
"Nothing's the matter with me. For heaven's sake, shut up and let me have a little peace. I say you don't care what becomes of me. No, you don't. Here, I've had a splitting headache and when I tell you about it, all you do is grin. Now, don't go and try to tell me you feel for me."
"What do you want me to do? Cry on your shoulder? A man can't make a fuss over them things, Hetty."
"There you go again—making fun of me. If I was to die to-night, nobody'd care—not even Bob. I wish I could die. You could go back to Paula then."
"Hon," said Lafe, in a choked voice.
Bob wiped his feet noisily on the steps and I coughed. When we entered, there was no trace of a dispute or of anger on Hetty's countenance. Supper was ready and we sat down to it with grand appetites.
In the morning the repair of a windmill at a water tank compelled our setting out to Badger to purchase pipe and joints. Lafe explained the purpose of the trip at unusual length to his wife. She listened stonily and told him to go by all means—told him with that high air of resignation we put on when we acquiesce in anything we are powerless to prevent. Just as we started, Johnson tried to put his arm about her. On being repulsed, he slowly mounted his horse.
We were going down the Cañon when Hetty called after us: "Well, don't take any bad money, you two."
She stood in the doorway, wiping flour from her hands. Bob was grinning over her shoulder. The caution must have reminded Lafe. He slapped his hip pocket and extracted a wallet, from which he drew two soiled bills.
"Here," he said, riding back, "you keep this, Hetty. I've got three dollars in silver. That'll do me."
"You're learning," was her composed comment, and she slipped the money inside the bosom of her waist. After this agreeable exhibition of domestic foresight, we rode down the Cañon and started across the valley. It may be that I showed amusement.
"What's hurting you?" Lafe asked; "what I done then? That's the only way I can save money. It's right queer, Dan, but whenever I have any and get to town, it goes like a bat out of hell."
This information was wholly superfluous. "I usually have to charge my horse's keep and my meals," I confessed.
"Sure. It's in the blood, I reckon. But if me and you and all the others don't learn to sweat a dollar, all these here new people a-coming in from the States will take everything off'n us. Yes, sir, they'll have us bare to the hides. Some of 'em have got the first two-bits they ever earned."
The only previous occasion on which I had seen Johnson hoard his money was once when he hid it in the band of his hat as a safeguard against new-found friends, and, during subsequent operations, forgot its hiding place. Lafe had been bitterly chagrined on discovering it later, holding himself cheated of entertainment. Assuredly his new responsibilities were working a change of heart.
"Lafe, I never knew Hetty was so pretty."
"You're whistlin'," he said. An accompanying sniff signified surprise and contempt that my recognition was so tardy. We jogged along and he became thoughtful. Finally he asked: "Did you notice it, too?"
"Notice what?"
"Well, I kind of got the idea that Hetty was prettier now than she used to was. When you said that just now, it made me think you seen it, too."
I nodded earnestly. There had come a look into Hetty's eyes which caused one to wait expectantly for a halo to appear.
"But she's sort of poorly," he went on; "seems like everything I do makes her mad. I expect everybody gets that way some time or other, more especially if they live off by themselves where they never see no one. Don't you reckon?"
"Perhaps it's Bob."
"No-oo, I don't think so. But she does get mad about him sometimes—not at Bob, though. Anything that lazy scamp does is all right. No, sir; at me. She got mad because I said I wouldn't let him have that money. I can't spare it, Dan. Honest, I can't. And she says I leave her alone too much."
"She'll soon get over that."
"Sometimes she's worse'n others. Yeow, how she gives it to me some days."
We reached town in good time and put up at the Fashion, where were three of the Anvil boys. Johnson hailed their presence with proper ceremonies, and then drew me to one side.
"Say," said he, "I've got to see the new sheriff for a minute. I'll pull out right after dinner. What're you going to do? Stick around?"
"Oh, I suppose so. Nothing else to do."
"Well, if you should happen for to play pitch," he advised, "don't bid more'n your hand's worth. Remember your weakness. Adios."
Two months later we two again rode together up Hope Cañon. Bob Ferrier was behind us and was soberly elated, for that afternoon Johnson had loaned him three hundred dollars and I had gone security. He would wed Mary Lou on the morrow.
The sun was setting behind The Hatter as we neared the house. It was a blissful twilight, and Lafe sang in gladness of heart.