“Oh, sheep-herding!” Her disdain implied that if he were fit for nothing better than sheep-herding, the West could find precious little use for him.
“It was all I could get to do.”
“Where did you say you wrangled Mary’s little lamb?”
“In the Catalinas.”
“Whose outfit?”
Question and answer were tossed back and forth lightly, but both were watching warily.
“Outfit?” he repeated, puzzled.
“Yes. Who were you working for?”
“Don’t remember his name. He was a Mexican.”
“Must have been one of the camps of Antonio Valdez.”
“Yes, that’s it. That’s the name.”
“Only he runs his sheep in the Galiuros,” she demurred.
“Is it the Galiuros? Those Spanish names! I can’t keep them apart in my mind.”
She laughed with hard, young cruelty. “It is hard to remember what you never heard, isn’t it?”
The man was on the rack. Tiny beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. But he got a lip smile into working order.
“Just what do you mean, Miss Lee?”
“You had better get your story more pat. I’ve punched a dozen holes in it already. First you tell me you are from the East, and even while you were telling me I knew you were a Southerner from the 30 drawl. No man ever got lost from Mammoth. You gave a false name. You said you had been herding sheep, but you didn’t know what an outfit is. You wobbled between the Galiuros and the Catalinas.”
“I’m not a native. I told you I couldn’t remember Spanish names.”
“It wasn’t necessary to tell me,” she countered quickly. “A man that can’t recall even the name of his boss!”
“I’m not in the witness box, Miss Lee,” he told her stiffly.
“Not yet, but you’re liable to be soon, I reckon.”
“In a cattle rustling case, I suppose you mean.”
“No, I don’t.” She went on with her indictment of his story, though his thrust had brought the color to her cheek. “When I offered you Antonio Valdez for an employer you jumped at him. If you want to know, he happens to be our herder. He doesn’t own a sheep and never will.”
“You know all about it,” he said with obvious sarcasm.
“I know you’re not who you say you are.”
“Perhaps you know who I am then.”
“I don’t know or care. It’s none of my business. But others may think it is theirs. You can’t be so reckless with the truth without folks having notions. If I were you I’d get a story that will hang together.”
“You’re such a good detective. Maybe I could 31 get you to invent one for me,” he suggested maliciously.
Her indignation flashed. “I’m no such thing. But I’m not quite a fool. A babe in arms wouldn’t swallow that fairy tale.”
Awkward as her knowledge might prove, he could not help admiring the resource and shrewdness of the girl. She had virtually served notice that if she had a secret that needed keeping so had he.
They looked down over a desert green with bajadas, prickly pears, and mesquit. To the right, close to a spur of the hills, were the dwarfed houses of a ranch. The fans of a windmill caught the sun and flashed it back to the travelers.
“The Bar Double G. My father owns it,” Miss Lee explained.
“Oh! Your father owns it.” He reflected a moment while he studied her. “Let’s understand each other, Miss Lee. I’m not what I claim to be, you say. We’ll put it that you have guessed right. What do you intend to do about it? I’m willing to be made welcome at the Bar Double G, but I don’t want to be too welcome.”
“I’m not going to do anything.”
“So long as I remember not to remember what I’ve seen.”
The blood burned in her cheeks beneath their Arizona tan. She did not look at him. “If you like to put it that way.” 32
He counted it to her credit that she was ashamed of the bargain in every honest fiber of her.
“No matter what they say I’ve done. You’ll keep faith?”
“I don’t care what you’ve done,” she flung back bitterly. “It’s none of my affair. I told you that before. Men come out here for all sorts of reasons. We don’t ask for a bill of particulars.”
“Then I’ll be right glad to go down to the Bar Double G with you, and say thanks for the chance.”
He had dismounted when they first reached the pass. Now she swung to the saddle and he climbed behind her. They reached presently one of the nomadic trails of the cattle country which wander leisurely around hills and over gulches along the line of least resistance. This brought them to a main traveled road leading to the ranch.
They rode in silence until the pasture fence was passed.
“What am I to tell them your name is?” she asked stiffly.
He took his time to answer. “Tom Morse is a good name, don’t you think? How would T. L. Morse do?”
She offered no comment, but sat in front of him, unresponsive as the sphinx. The rigor of her flat back told him that, though she might have to keep his shameful secret for the sake of her own, he could not presume upon it the least in the world.
Melissy turned the horse over to a little Mexican 33 boy and they were just mounting the steps of the porch when a young man cantered up to the house. Lean and muscular and sunbaked, he looked out of cool, gray eyes upon a man’s world that had often put him through the acid test. The plain, cactus-torn chaps, flannel shirt open at the sinewy throat, dusty, wide-brimmed hat, revolver peeping from its leather pocket on the thigh: every detail contributed to the impression of efficiency he created. Even the one touch of swagger about him, the blue silk kerchief knotted loosely around his neck, lent color to his virile competency.
He dragged his horse to a standstill and leaped off at the same instant. “Evenin’, ’Lissie.”
She was busy lacing her shoe and did not look up. He guessed that he was being snubbed and into his eyes came a gleam of fun. A day later than he had promised, Jack Flatray was of opinion that he was being punished for tardiness.
Casually he explained. “Couldn’t make it any sooner. Burke had a hurry-up job that took us into the hills. Fellow by the name of Bellamy, wanted for murder at Nemo, Arkansas, had been tracked to Mesa. A message came over the wires to arrest him. When Burke sent me to his room he had lit out, taken a swift hike into the hills. Must a-had some warning, for he didn’t even wait for a horse.”
The dilated eyes of the girl went past the deputy to the man she had rescued. He was leaning 34 against one of the porch posts, tense and rigid, on his face the look of the hunted brought to bay.
“And did you find him?” she asked mechanically of the deputy.
“We found him. He had been trampled to death by a cattle stampede.”
Her mind groped blindly for an explanation. Her woman’s instinct told her that the man panting on the porch within six feet of the officer was the criminal wanted. There must be a mistake somewhere.
“Did you identify him?”
“I guess there is