"Thanks, Pat. But you spoke of going north. I wouldn't if I were you.

They'll get you."

"I had thought of that. But I'm going to take that same chance. I'm plumb sick of the border."

"If they do--" And Waring rose.

The collector's hard-lined face softened for an instant. He thrust out his bony hand. "I'll leave that to you, Jim."

And that night, because each was a gunman unsurpa.s.sed in his grim profession, they laughed and talked about things trivial, leaving the deeper currents undisturbed. And the a.s.sistant collector, eating with them in the adobe back of the office, wondered that two such men found nothing more serious to talk about than the breeding of horses and the growing of garden truck.

Late that night the a.s.sistant awoke to find that the collector was not in bed. He rose and stalked to the window. Across from the adobe he saw the grim face of the collector framed in the office window. He was smoking a cigar and gazing toward the south, his long arm resting on the sill and his chin in his hand.

"Ole fool!" muttered the a.s.sistant affectionately. "That there Jim Waring must sure be some hombre to make Pat lose any sleep."

Chapter VII

_The Return of Waring_

The interior of the little desert hotel at Stacey, Arizona, atoned for its bleached and weather-worn exterior by a refreshing neatness that was almost startling in contrast to the warped board front with its painted sign scaled by the sun.

The proprietress, Mrs. Adams, a rosy, dark-haired woman, had heard the Overland arrive and depart. Through habit she listened until the distant rumble of the train diminished to a faint purr. No guests had arrived on the Overland. Stacey was not much of a town, and tourists seldom stopped there. Mrs. Adams stepped from the small office to the dining-room and arranged some flowers in the center of the long table. She happened to be the only woman in the desert town who grew flowers.

The Overland had come and gone. Another day! Mrs. Adams sighed, patted her smooth black hair, and glanced down at her simple and neat attire.

She rearranged the flowers, and was stepping back to view the effect when something caused her to turn and glance toward the office. There had been no sound, yet in the doorway stood a man--evidently a rider. He was looking at the calendar on the office wall. Mrs. Adams stepped toward him. The man turned and smiled. She gazed with awakening astonishment at the dusty, khaki-clad figure, the cool gray eyes beneath the high-crowned sombrero, and last at the extended hand. Without meeting the man's eyes, she shook hands.

"Jim! How did you know?" she queried, her voice trembling.

"I heard of you at Nogales. I wasn't looking for you--then. You have a right pleasant place here. Yours?"

She nodded.

"I came to see the boy," he said. "I'm not here for long."

"Oh, Jim! Lorry is so big and strong--and--and he's working for the Starr outfit over west of here."

"Cattle, eh? Is he a good boy?"

"A nice question for you to ask! Lorry rides a straighter trail than his father did."

The man laughed and patted her shoulder affectionately. "You needn't have said that, Annie. You knew what I was when I married you. And no man ever said I wasn't straight. Just what made you leave Sonora without saying a word? Didn't I always treat you well?"

"I must say that you did, Jim. You never spoke a rough word to me in your life. I wish you had. You'd be away for weeks, and then come back and tell me it was all right, which meant that you'd 'got your man,' as they say down there. At first I was too happy to care. And when the baby came and I tried to get you to give up hiring out to men who wanted killing done,--for that's what it was,--you kept telling me that some day you would quit. Maybe they did pay big, but you could have been anything else you wanted to. You came of good folks and had education.

But you couldn't live happy without that excitement. And you thought I was happy because you were. Why, even up here in Arizona they sing 'Waring of Sonora-Town.' Our boy sings it, and I have to listen, knowing that it is you he sings about. I was afraid of you, Jim, and afraid our boy would grow up to be like you."

Waring nodded. "I'm not blaming you, Annie. I asked why you left me--without a word or an address. Do you think that was square?"

Mrs. Adams, flushed, and the tears came to her eyes. "I didn't dare think about that part of it. I was afraid of you. I got so I couldn't sleep, worrying about what might happen to you when you were away. And you always came back, but you never said where you'd been or what you'd done. I couldn't stand it. If you had only told me--even about the men--that you were paid to kill, I might have stood it. But you never said a word. The wives of the American folks down there wouldn't speak to me. And the Mexican women hated me. I was the wife of Jim Waring, 'the killer.' I think I went crazy."

"Well, I never did believe in talking shop, Annie."

"That's just it. You were always polite--and calling what you did, 'shop'! I don't believe you ever cared for a single person on this earth!"

"You ought to know, Annie. But we won't argue that. Don't act as though you had to defend yourself. I am not blaming you--now. You have explained. I did miss the boy, though. Are you doing well here?"

"It was hard work at first. But I never did write to father to help me."

"You might have written to me. When did the boy go to work? He's eighteen, isn't he?"

Mrs. Adams smiled despite herself. "Yes, this fall. He started in with the Starr people at the spring round-up."

"Couldn't he help you here?"

"He did. But he's not the kind to hang round a hotel. He's all man--if I do say it." And Mrs. Adams glanced at her husband. In his lithe, well-set-up figure she saw what her son would be at forty. "Yes, Jim, he's man size--and I've raised him to go straight."

Waring laughed. "Of course you have! What name will I sign, Annie?"

"Folks here call me Mrs. Adams."

"So you're Annie Adams again! Well, here's your husband's name, if you don't mind." And he signed the register, "James Waring, Sonora, Mexico."

"Isn't that risky?" she queried.

"No one knows me up here. And I don't intend to stay long. I'd like to see the boy."

"Jim, you won't take him away!"

"You know me better than that. You quit me down there, and I won't say that I liked it. I wondered how you'd get along. You left no word. When I realized that you must have wanted to leave me, that settled it.

Following you would have done no good, even if I had known where you had gone. I was free. And a gunman has no business with a family."

"You might have thought about that before you came courting me."

"I did. Didn't you?"

"You're hard, Jim. I was just a girl. Any woman would have been glad to marry you then. But when I got sense enough to see how you earned your money--I just had to leave. I was afraid to tell you--"

"There, now, Annie; we'll let that go. I won't say that I don't care, but I've been mighty busy since you left. I didn't know where you were until I hit Nogales. I wanted to see you and the boy. And I'm as hungry as a grizzly."

"Anita is getting supper. Some of the folks in town board here. They'll be coming in soon."

"All right. I'm a stranger. I rode over. I'd like to wash up."

"You _rode_ over?"

"Yes. Why not? I know the country."