'Where'n hell's your hat?' demanded Belding, furiously. It was a ridiculous greeting. But Belding's words signified little. The dark shade of worry and solicitude crossing his face told more than his black amaze.
The ranger stopped unbuckling the saddle girths, and, looking at Belding, broke into his slow, cool laugh.
'Tom, you recollect that whopper of a saguaro up here where Carter's trail branches off the main trail to Casita? Well, I climbed it an' left my hat on top for a woodpecker's nest.'
'You've been running–fighting?' queried Belding, as if Ladd had not spoken at all.
'I reckon it'll dawn on you after a while,' replied Ladd, slipping the saddle.
'Laddy, go in the house to the women,' said Belding. 'I'll tend to your horse.'
'Shore, Tom, in a minute. I've been down the road. An' I found hoss tracks an' steer tracks goin' across the line. But I seen no sign of raiders till this mornin'. Slept at Carter's last night. That raid the other day cleaned him out. He's shootin' mad. Well, this mornin' I rode plumb into a bunch of Carter's hosses, runnin' wild for home. Some Greasers were tryin' to head them round an' chase them back across the line. I rode in between an' made matters embarrassin'. Carter's hosses got away. Then me an' the Greasers had a little game of hide an' seek in the cactus. I was on the wrong side, an' had to break through their line to head toward home. We run some. But I had a closer call than I'm stuck on havin'.'
'Laddy, you wouldn't have any such close calls if you'd ride one of my horses,' expostulated Belding. 'This broncho of yours can run, and Lord knows he's game. But you want a big, strong horse, Mexican bred, with cactus in his blood. Take one of the bunch–Bull, White Woman, Blanco Jose.'
'I had a big, fast horse a while back, but I lost him,' said Ladd. 'This bronch ain't so bad. Shore Bull an' that white devil with his Greaser name–they could run down my bronch, kill him in a mile of cactus. But, somehow, Tom, I can't make up my mind to take one of them grand white hosses. Shore I reckon I'm kinda soft. An' mebbe I'd better take one before the raiders clean up Forlorn River.'
Belding cursed low and deep in his throat, and the sound resembled muttering thunder. The shade of anxiety on his face changed to one of dark gloom and passion. Next to his wife and daughter there was nothing so dear to him as those white horses. His father and grandfather–all his progenitors of whom he had trace–had been lovers of horses. It was in Belding's blood.
'Laddy, before it's too late can't I get the whites away from the border?'
'Mebbe it ain't too late; but where can we take them??
'To San Felipe?'
'No. We've more chance to hold them here.?
'To Casita and the railroad?'
'Afraid to risk gettin' there. An' the town's full of rebels who need hosses.'
'Then straight north?'
'Shore man, you're crazy. Ther's no water, no grass for a hundred miles. I'll tell you, Tom, the safest plan would be to take the white bunch south into Sonora, into some wild mountain valley. Keep them there till the raiders have traveled on back east. Pretty soon there won't be any rich pickin' left for these Greasers. An' then they'll ride on to new ranges.'
'Laddy, I don't know the trails into Sonora. An' I can't trust a Mexican or a Papago. Between you and me, I'm afraid of this Indian who herds for me.'
'I reckon we'd better stick here, Tom....Dick, it's some good to see you again. But you seem kinda quiet. Shore you get quieter all the time. Did you see any sign of Jim out Sonoyta way?'
Then Belding led the lame horse toward the watering-trough, while the two rangers went toward the house, Dick was telling Ladd about the affair at Papago Well when they turned the corner under the porch. Nell was sitting in the door. She rose with a little scream and came flying toward them.
'Now I'll get it,' whispered Ladd. 'The women'll make a baby of me. An' shore I can't help myself.'
'Oh, Laddy, you've been hurt!' cried Nell, as with white cheeks and dilating eyes she ran to him and caught his arm.
'Nell, I only run a thorn in my ear.'
'Oh, Laddy, don't lie! You've lied before. I know you're hurt. Come in to mother.'
'Shore, Nell, it's only a scratch. My bronch throwed me.'
'Laddy, no horse every threw you.' The girl's words and accusing eyes only hurried the ranger on to further duplicity.
'Mebbe I got it when I was ridin' hard under a mesquite, an' a sharp snag–'
'You've been shot!...Mama, here's Laddy, and he's been shot!....Oh, these dreadful days we're having! I can't bear them! Forlorn River used to be so safe and quiet. Nothing happened. But now! Jim comes home with a bloody hole in him–then Dick–then Laddy!....Oh, I'm afraid some day they'll never come home.'
***
The morning was bright, still, and clear as crystal. The heat waves had not yet begun to rise from the desert.
A soft gray, white, and green tint perfectly blended lay like a mantle over mesquite and sand and cactus. The canyons of distant mountain showed deep and full of lilac haze.
Nell sat perched high upon the topmost bar of the corral gate. Dick leaned beside her, now with his eyes on her face, now gazing out into the alfalfa field where Belding's thoroughbreds grazed and pranced and romped and whistled. Nell watched the horses. She loved them, never tired of watching them. But her gaze was too consciously averted from the yearning eyes that tried to meet hers to be altogether natural.
A great fenced field of dark velvety green alfalfa furnished a rich background for the drove of about twenty
