"Not so bad!" reflected Fred Ross, as he pa.s.sed in to his meal. "Not so bad! The law ain't after him, anyhow. Now, if he's let that demijohn alone to-day, I reckon he's all right. Pretty tough on him, maybe, to leave him alone, but--"

The ins and outs of the business transaction attempted by Dorales, the transaction concerning Number Sixteen, had, of course, not been made public. But the general gist of the matter was an open secret. The joke on Dorales was huge, and was immensely appreciated.

The meal over, Ross went out to his car in order to get his tobacco. He idly observed that alongside his own flivver had been run another, a dust-white flivver with new tires. He paid no attention to it until he was drawn by the sound of a voice which he instantly recognized. He stood quiet, listening, looking toward the two figures on the far side of the dust-white flivver; they did not see him at all.

"No'm," said the voice which Ross had recognized. "No'm, I couldn't get no work to Magdalena. Things is in a goshly-gorful state in the printing business! I done walked here, aiming to make for Saint Johns, over the Arizony line. Seein's you're headed that way, ma'am, if ye could give me a lift--"

"Walked here, did ye?" cut in a voice strange to Ross. "Had any vittles?"

"Not to speak of, ma'am. I'm busted."

"Well, you trot right in alongside o' me. Hurry up, now-ain't got much time to waste. My land, of all the fool men-and at your age! Hurry up."

The two figures departed toward the stirrup-high open flooring that formed a porch the length of the frame building. One was the figure of Dad Griffith. The other was the figure of a very large woman, harsh of features; she was clad in ragged but neat khaki, and beneath her chin were tied the strings of an old black bonnet. Against her wrinkled features glowed two bright-blue eyes with the brilliancy of living jewels, giving the lie to their surrounding tokens of age. She was unknown to Fred Ross.

Filling his pipe, the homesteader sought out the store, and, with inevitable delays, set to work making his purchases. This was an occupation demanding ceremony. Other men were here on the same errand, and there was gossip of crops, land, and war to be swapped. This was the forum of the countryside, the agora of the scattered ranches.

Thus it happened that by the time Ross went to his car with an armload of supplies old Dad Griffith had finished his meal and was lounging on the steps of the stirrup-high porch. He started up at sight of Ross, who paid no attention to him, and followed the rancher out to the car.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, eagerly. "Where's that there partner of mine?"

Ross dumped his purchases into the car and turned. He desired only to be rid of this parasite, to be rid of him for good and all-and to rid Thady Shea of him.

"He's where you left him, old-timer-and where you're not wanted."

"Is-is he all right?"

"Sure. I fed him whiskey until he got well. He's there now with a demijohn. I never seen a man able to swallow more red licker than that partner of yours! But you needn't go showing your nose around there, savvy? He's workin' for me and you're not wanted."

"You go to h.e.l.l!" spluttered the wrathful ancient. "You goshly-gorful old ranch hand! That's what you are!"

Ross laughed, swung about to his flivver, and cranked up. He turned the car and vanished amid a trail of dust, leaving the ancient to sputter senile threats and curses. He accounted himself well rid of that old vagabond, in which he was quite right.

It was late in the afternoon when Ross got home; the trail to his canon from the county road was wretchedly rough. As he drove, he began to blame himself for having left Thady Shea all alone, throughout the day from sunrise to sunset, with that wicker demijohn. He began to think that he had stacked the cards too heavily. He began to think that his desire to test Thady Shea had been a mite too strong.

He drove up to the shed, seeing no sign of his guest. The house, too, was deserted. Ross went straight to the corner cupboard and jerked open the door. The clean wicker demijohn was gone. It was not in the house.

"h.e.l.l's bells!" quoth Ross, savagely.

He strode outside and scanned the vicinity. Nothing was in sight. The team was gone. He walked up the canon, seeing that the lower flat was empty of life. At the turn he came in sight of the upper flat, and paused.

The team was there; Thady Shea had been plowing. Thady Shea was there, too, but he was not plowing. He was standing at one corner of the flat beside a pile of brush. He was lifting something in his hand. It was the wicker demijohn. He set it on his arm and laid the mouth to his lips.

Ross could see him drink, gulpingly. He drank long, avidly, until Ross swore in blank amazement that a man could drink thus; he drank as the sun-cracked earth drinks water.

Ross strode forward. Thady Shea turned to meet him.

"h.e.l.lo, Ross! I was just knocking off work for the day. Drink?"

Ross took the demijohn. He looked at Thady Shea with hard, bitter cold eyes. His eyes softened as he remembered his misgivings. After all, was it not his own fault? He lifted the demijohn on his arm and laid the mouth to his lips.

"h.e.l.l!" He spluttered in stark surprise. He stared at the demijohn, stared at the smiling Thady Shea. "h.e.l.l! I thought--"

Thady Shea laughed. It was a deep, sonorous laugh.

"I couldn't stand it, Ross," he said. "That cursed jug was too much for me. So I emptied out the whiskey and filled it with water, and went to work. I'm sorry about the whiskey-I'll pay you back."

"d.a.m.n the whiskey!" roared Fred Ross, delightedly, and wiped his lips.

"Come on back to the shack and let's eat!"

For the first time in long days, the two men talked over their meal.

They talked of the world outside, talked of ranch gossip, talked of the war and the government and the high price of wool. Ross meant to run some sheep up at the head of the canon, and discoursed on the project at length. Not until their pipes were going, and the red afterglow was shrouding the fading day, did he mention what he had learned at Datil.

"Heard something over to the hotel," he mentioned, casually. "They were talking about you. It appears that Abel Dorales has called off the sheriff and withdrawn all charges agin' you. He's lookin' for you his own self, I hear. Makin' it a personal matter."

Thady Shea drew a deep breath. Nothing to fear from the law, then! The more personal menace of Abel Dorales he did not consider at all.

"I'll tell you what happened-if you don't mind," he said, diffidently.

It was the first time, since that day when he had felled Ross with the cup, that personalities had been touched upon between them.

He told his story. Ross made no comment whatever; in that story he perceived that Thady Shea was a queer, impulsive child, a man whose fear and reason were overruled by his impulses, a man whose primitive soul arose in a lonely grandeur of sincerity, of absolute and wonderful sincerity. Ross felt awed, as a man feels awed when confronted by the mystery of a child's soul.

The name of Mehitabel Crump meant nothing to the rancher; he had perhaps heard of her in past years, but had forgotten her name. When Thady Shea fell silent, Ross knocked the dottle from his pipe and filled it anew.

"You watch out for Dorales," he said. "I know him. He's bad med'cine."

"So everyone says," returned Shea, gravely serious. "I hadn't found it so."

Ross seemed to discern humour in this, and chuckled. "Think ye'll stay here, Shea? Glad to have ye."

"Unless something turns up-yes. I-well, I haven't found that purpose we spoke about once. I'm trying hard. I'm trying to find it, to make it come, to figure out what I must do. Yet I seem all helpless, bewildered--"

"I never heard of any one puttin' a rush label on Providence, not with any success to mention," said Ross, dryly. "You're lookin' so hard for something that you can't find it. You're too d.a.m.n serious. About sixty, ain't ye? Well, at sixty you're goin' through what ye should ha' gone through at thirty or less. Limber up your joints an' take it easier, pardner. Wait for what turns up, an' remember G.o.d ain't dealing from a cold deck."

Here was wisdom, and Thady Shea tried to accept it.

Upon the following afternoon Thady Shea was laboriously plowing the upper flat. Down at the shack, Fred Ross was cleaning house. He was cleaning house in his own simple and thorough fashion. He took everything outside in the sun. Then he set to work with a bucket of suds and a broom, and scrubbed the walls, floor, and ceiling; he was figuring on papering the walls a little later. The result of this cleaning was damp but satisfactory.

Having returned most of his belongings to their proper places, Ross was engaged in fitting together the iron bed. He heard the grinding roar of a car coming up the canon trail in low gear, and went to the doorway. A dust-white flivver was approaching. As he watched, it came up to the shed and halted. There was but one person in the car.

From the dust-white flivver alighted a tall, large woman clad in old but neat khaki, upon her head a black bonnet. With surprise, Ross recognized her; it was the woman whom he had seen at Datil the previous day. It was the woman who had bought Dad Griffith a meal, and who, presumably, had given the ancient a lift toward the Arizona line.

She approached the doorway and transfixed Ross with keen, glittering blue eyes. Her look was one of unmistakable truculence, of hostility.

"Your name Ross?" she demanded.

"It is, ma'am," he meekly answered. "Will--"

"My name's Mehitabel Crump, with a Mrs. for a handle," she stated. "You got a man by the name o' Shea workin' here?"