Jim Waring of Sonora-Town; Or, Tang of Life. Henry Herbert Knibbs

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СКАЧАТЬ smile faded from Quigley's face. Without knowing just why he did it, he relinquished the sack.

      Waring turned to Donovan. "I'll take care of this, Bill. As I told you before, you can't bluff worth a damn."

      Waring strode to the door. At Quigley's choked exclamation of protest, the gunman whirled round. Donovan stood by the desk, a gun weaving in his hand.

      "You ought to know better than to pull a gun on me," said Waring. "Never throw down on a man unless you mean business, Bill."

      The door clicked shut.

      Donovan stood gazing stupidly at Quigley. "By cripes!" he flamed suddenly. "I'll put Jim Waring where he belongs. He can't run a whizzer like that on me!"

      "I'd go slow," said Quigley. "You don't know what kind of a game Waring will play."

      Donovan grabbed the telephone and called up the Sonora police.

Chapter IV

       Table of Contents

       The Silver Crucifix

      When in Sonora, Waring frequented the Plaza Hotel. He had arranged with the management that his room should always be ready for him, day or night. The location was advantageous. Nearly all the Americans visiting Sonora and many resident Americans stopped at the Plaza. Waring frequently picked up valuable bits of news as he lounged in the lobby. Quietly garbed when in town, he passed for a well-to-do rancher or mining man. His manner invited no confidences. He was left much to himself. Men who knew him deemed him unaccountable in that he never drank with them and seldom spoke unless spoken to. The employees of the hotel had grown accustomed to his comings and goings, though they seldom knew where he went or definitely when he would return. His mildness of manner was a source of comment among those who knew him for what he was. And his very mildness of manner was one of his greatest assets in gaining information. Essentially a man of action, silent as to his plans and surmises, yet he could talk well when occasion demanded.

      It was rumored that he was in the employ of the American Government; that he had been disappointed in a love affair; that he had a wife and son living somewhere in the States; that for very good reasons he could not return to the States; that he was a dangerous man, well paid by the Mexican Government to handle political matters that would not bear public inspection. These rumors came to him from time to time, and because he paid no attention to them they were accepted as facts.

      About an hour after he had left Donovan's office, Waring entered the Plaza Hotel, nodded to the clerk, and passed on down the hallway. He knocked at a door, and was answered by the appearance of a stout, smooth-shaven man in shirt-sleeves. They chatted for a minute or two. Waring stepped into the room. Presently he reappeared, smiling.

      After dinner he strolled out and down the street. At a corner he edged through the crowd, and was striding on when some one touched his arm. He turned to confront the Mexican youth, Ramon. Waring gestured to Ramon to follow, and they passed on down the street until near the edge of the town. In the shadow of an adobe, Waring stopped.

      Ramon glanced up and down the street. "The police—they have asked me where is my Uncle José. I have told them that I do not know. The police they asked me that."

      "Well?"

      "But it is not that why I come. They told me to go to my home. It was when I was in the prison that the policia talked in the telephone. He spoke your name and the name of Señor Bill Donovan of the Ortez Mine. I heard only your name and his, but I was afraid. You will not tell them that I was with my Uncle José?"

      "No. And thanks, Ramon. I think I know what they were talking about. Go back home, pronto. If you were to be seen with me—"

      "The señor is gracious. He has given me my life. I have nothing to give—but this." And Ramon drew the little silver crucifix from his shirt and pressed it in Waring's hand.

      "Oh, here, muchacho—"

      But Ramon was already hastening down a side street. Waring smiled and shook his head. For a moment he stood looking at the little crucifix shining on the palm of his hand. He slipped it into his pocket and strode back up the street. For an hour or more he walked about, listening casually to this or that bit of conversation. Occasionally he heard Mexicans discussing the Ortez robbery. Donovan's name, Waring's own name, Vaca's, and even Ramon's were mentioned. It seemed strange to him that news should breed so fast. Few knew that he had returned. Possibly Donovan had spread the report that the bandits had made their escape with the money. That would mean that Waring had been outwitted. And Donovan would like nothing better than to injure Waring's reputation.

      Finding himself opposite the hotel, Waring glanced about and strode in. As he entered the hallway leading to his room three men rose from the leather chairs near the lobby window and followed him. Waring's door closed. He undressed and went to bed. He had been asleep but a few minutes when some one rapped on the door. He asked who it was. He was told to open in the name of the city of Sonora. He rose and dressed quickly.

      When he opened the door two Sonora policemen told him to put up his hands. Donovan stood back of them, chewing a cigar. One of the policemen took Waring's gun. The other searched the room. Evidently he did not find what he sought.

      "When you get through," said Waring, eyeing Donovan grimly, "you might tell me what you're after."

      "I'm after that thousand," said Donovan.

      "Oh! Well, why didn't you say so? Just call in Stanley, of the bank. His room is opposite."

      Donovan hesitated. "Stanley's got nothing to do with this."

      "Hasn't he?" queried Waring. "Call him in and see."

      One of the police knocked at Stanley's door.

      The bank cashier appeared, rubbing his eyes. "Hello, Bill! Hello, Jim!

       What's the fuss?"

      "Stanley, did I deposit a thousand dollars in gold to the credit of the

       Ortez Mine this afternoon?"

      "You did."

      "Just show Donovan here the receipt I asked you to keep for me."

      "All right. I'll get it."

      Donovan glanced at the receipt. "Pretty smooth," he muttered.

      Waring smiled. His silence enraged Donovan, who motioned to the police to leave the room.

      Waring interrupted. "My gun?" he queried mildly.

      One of the police handed the gun to Waring.

      Their eyes met. "Why, hello, Pedro!" And Waring's voice expressed innocent surprise. "When did you enroll as a policeman?"

      Donovan was about to interrupt when the policeman spoke: "That is my business."

      "Which means Bill here has had you sworn in to-day. Knew you would like to get a crack at me, eh? You ought to know better, Salazar."

      "Come on!" called Donovan.

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