"I should say I do remember him!"

"Well, he asked me to look around and write to him. I think we could do well enough here. What do you know about the land north of here, on up toward the Santa Fe?"

Torrance pondered the situation. The times were, indeed, changing when men like Waring and Pat ceased to ride the high trails and settled down to ranching under fence. The day of the gunman was past, but two such men as Pat and Waring would suppress by their mere presence in the country the petty rustling and law-breaking that had made Torrance's position difficult at times.

"I'll see what I can do," said he. "About how much land?"

"Ten or twenty thousand, to begin with."

"There's some Government land not on the reservation between here and the railroad. There are three or four families of squatters on it now. I don't know how they manage to live, but they always seem to have beef and bacon. You might have some trouble about getting them off--and about the water. I'll let you know some time next month just what I can do."

"We won't have any trouble," said Waring. "That's the last thing we want. I'll ride over next month. You can write to me at Stacey if anything turns up."

"I'll write to you. Do you ever get hungry? Come on over to the hotel.

I'm as hungry as a bear."

Chapter XIV

_Bondsman's Decision_

Bud Shoop's homestead on the Blue Mesa lay in a wide level of gra.s.sland, round which the spruce of the high country swept in a great, blue-edged circle. To the west the barren peak of Mount Baldy maintained a solitary vigil in sunshine and tempest. Away to the north the timbered plateaus dropped from level to level like a gigantic stair until they merged with the horizon-line of the plains. The air on the Blue Mesa was thin and keen; warm in the sun, yet instantly cool at dusk. A mountain stream, all but hidden by the gra.s.ses, meandered across the mesa to an emerald hollow of coa.r.s.e marsh-gra.s.s. A few yards from this pool, and on its southern side, stood the mountain cabin of the Shoop homestead, a roomy building of logs, its wide, easy-sloping veranda roof covered with home-made shakes. Near the house was a small corral and stable of logs.

Out on the mesa a thin crop of oats wavered in the itinerant breeze.

Round the cabin was a garden plot that had suffered from want of attention. Above the gate to the door-yard was a weathered sign on which was lettered carefully:

"The rose is red; the violet blue; Please shut this gate when you come through."

And on the other side of the sign, challenging the possible carelessness of the chance visitor, was the legend:--

"Now you've been in and had your chuck, Please close this gate, just once, for luck."

Otherwise the place was like any mountain homestead of the better sort, viewed from without. The interior of the cabin, however, was unusual in that it boasted of being the only music-room within fifty miles in any direction.

When the genial Bud had been overtaken with the idea of homesteading, he had had visions of a modest success which would allow him to entertain his erstwhile cow-puncher companions when they should ride his way. To this end he had labored with more heart than judgment.

The main room was large and lighted by two unusually large windows. The dimensions of the room were ample enough to accommodate a fair number of dancers. Bud knew that if cowboys loved anything they loved to dance.

The phonograph was so common that it offered no distinction in gracing Bud's camp; so with much labor and expense he had freighted an upright piano from the distant railroad, an innovation that at first had stunned and then literally taken the natives off their feet. Riders from all over the country heard of Bud's piano, questioned its reality, and finally made it a point to jog over and see for themselves.

For a time Bud's homestead was popular. A real piano, fifty miles from a settlement, was something worth riding far to see. But respect for the shining veneer of the case was not long-lived. In a moment of inspiration, a cowboy pulled out his jackknife and carved his home brand on the shining case. Bud could have said more than he did when he discovered it. Later another contingent, not to be outdone, followed this cowboy's incisive example and carved its brand on the piano.

Naturally it became a custom. No visitor in boots and chaps left the cabin without first having carved some brand.

Bud suffered in silence, consoling himself with the thought that while there were many pianos in the lower country, there were none like his.

And "As long as you don't monkey with her works or shoot her up," he told his friends, "I don't care how much you carve her; only leave enough sidin' and roof to hold her together."

Cowboys came, danced long and late as Bud pumped the mechanical player, and thrilled to the shuffle of high-heeled boots. Contingent after contingent came, danced, and departed joyously, leaving Bud short on rations, but happy that he could entertain so royally. Finally the novelty wore off, and Bud was left with his Airedale, his saddle-ponies, and the hand-carved piano.

But Bud had profited by the innovation. An Easterner sojourning with Bud for a season, had taught him to play two tunes--"Annie Laurie" and "Dixie." "Real hand-made music," Bud was wont to remark. And with these tunes at his disposal he was more than content. Many a long evening he sat with his huge bulk swaying in the light of the hanging lamp as he wandered around Maxwelton's braes in search of the true Annie Laurie; or hopped with heavy sprightliness across the sandy bottoms of Dixie, while Bondsman, the patient Airedale, sat on his haunches and accompanied Bud with dismal energy.

Bud was not a little proud of his accomplishment. The player was all right, but it lacked the human touch. Even when an occasional Apache strayed in and borrowed tobacco or hinted at a meal, Bud was not above entertaining the wondering red man with music. And Bud disliked Apaches.

And during these latter days Bud had had plenty of opportunity to indulge himself in music. For hours he would sit and gently strike the keys, finding unexpected harmonies that thrilled and puzzled him. The discords didn't count. And Bondsman would hunch up close with watchful eye and one ear c.o.c.ked, waiting for the familiar strains of "Annie Laurie" or "Dixie." He seemed to consider these tunes a sort of accompaniment to his song. If he dared to howl when Bud was extemporizing, Bud would rebuke him solemnly, explaining that it was not considered polite in the best circles to interrupt a soloist. And an evening was never complete without "Annie Laurie," and "Dixie," with Bondsman's mournful contralto gaming ascendance as the evening progressed.

"That dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous," Bud was wont to remark, as he rose from his labors and prepared for bed. "There I was huntin' around for that chord I lit on the other night and almost findin' it, when he has to howl like a coyote with a sore throat and spile the whole thing. I ought to learned more tunes."

It was almost dusk when Lorry topped the trail that led across the Blue Mesa to Bud's cabin. Gray Leg p.r.i.c.ked his ears, and jogged over the wide level, heading straight for the corral. The cabin was dark. Lorry hallooed. A horse in the corral answered, nickering shrilly. Lorry found some loose gramma gra.s.s in the stable and threw it to the horse. If this was Shoop's place, Shoop would not be gone long, or he'd have turned the horse to graze on the open mesa.

Lorry entered and lighted the lamp. He gazed with astonishment at the piano. But that could wait. He was hungry. In a few minutes he had a fire going, plates laid for two, had made coffee and cut bacon. He was mixing the dough for hot biscuit when he heard some one ride up. He stepped to the door. A bulky figure was pulling a saddle from a horse.

Lorry called a greeting.

"Just a minute, friend," came from the darkness.

Lorry stepped to the kitchen, and put the biscuit pan in the oven. A saddle thumped on the veranda, and Bud Shoop, puffing heavily, strode in. He nodded, filled a basin, and washed. As he polished his bald spot, his glance traveled from the stove to the table, and thence to Lorry, and he nodded approval.

"Looks like you was expectin' comp'ny," he said, smiling.

"Yep. And chuck's about ready."

"So am I," said Bud, rubbing his hands.

"I'm Adams, from Stacey."

"That don't make me mad," said Bud. "How's things over to your town?"

"All right, I guess. Mr. Torrance--"

Bud waved his hand. "Let's eat. Been out since daylight. Them biscuits is just right. Help yourself to the honey."

"There's somebody outside," said Lorry, his arm raised to pa.s.s the honey jar.

"That's my dog, Bondsman. He had to size up your layout, and he's through and waitin' to size up you. Reckon he's hungry, too. But business before pleasure is his idea mostly. He's tellin' me to let him in. That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous. When did you get in?"

"About sundown."

"Uh-uh. I seen that your horse hadn't grazed out far yet. How do you like this country?"

"Good summer country, all right. Too high for stock in winter."

"Yes. Four feet of snow on the mesa last winter. When you say 'Arizona'

to some folks, they don't think of snow so deep a hoss can't get from the woods over there to this cabin." Bud Shoop sighed and rose. "Never mind them dishes. Mornin' 'll do."

"Won't take a minute," said Lorry.

Bud's blue eyes twinkled as he waddled to the living-room. Young Adams was handy around a kitchen. He had laid plates for two, knew how to punch dough, was willing to wash the dishes without a hint, and had fed the horse in the corral.