THE SOMNOLENCE OF SOMERS

In this interesting little tale of the far West Mr. Stratton tells how a “tenderfoot” deliberately connived at the breaking of the law of the land, and possessed an untroubled conscience thereafter in spite of it.

“Yes, sir; th’ boss is gone,” explained the foreman of Fielding’s ranch, as Somers stepped from the buckboard and shook the dust from his clothes. “Him and th’ boys is out after Sonora Jack’s gang of cattle rustlers—and they’ll fix ’em this time. Powerful lot of trouble they’ve give’ us th’ last two years. Mr. Fielding was mighty sorry you didn’t get here in time to go. Thought mebbe a man hunt would be somethin’ new for you—kind o’ brace you up.”

Somers mentally agreed that the hunting of men, though rather strenuous for an invalid, might prove a novel and exciting diversion from the monotonous pursuit of dollars.

“You might possibly see th’ finish, though,” the foreman continued. “Tommy Evans just come in, bad hurt, and says th’ boys s’prised th’ gang up th’ Little Fork, and got most of ’em. They’re chasin’ Sonora Jack hisself now, and think they’ll catch him in th’ Alta Pass—right out yonder where you and Fielding killed th’ bear, when you was here two year ago. Fielding sent word by Tommy that if you was here, and wanted to try, you might take th’ roan thoroughbred and gallop over; he’s th’ only hoss left on th’ place that don’t buck.”

Somers’ eyes glistened.

“I’m pretty tired,” he said; “but I’ll stretch out and rest for an hour, and then, if you’ll kindly bring the roan around, I think I’ll try it. It’ll be a treat to back Dixie once more, even if I miss the finish.”

When Somers pulled himself up into the saddle the foreman delivered a parting admonition:

“If th’ trouble’s on when you reach th’ pass, better not ride too close. Mr. Fielding wouldn’t have Dixie hurt for half th’ ranch. Wouldn’t ride him hisself for fear he might get crippled in th’ muss.”

There being no evidence of “trouble”—past, present or prospective—when Somers reached the pass, he tethered the roan securely up a little ravine and climbed to a point where he could witness the approach of the chase—provided Sonora Jack had not disobligingly changed his course.

After hours of fruitless vigil Somers caught himself nodding drowsily, roused himself determinedly, and nodded again. Unaccustomed to a fiercer torridity than that afforded by a New England climate, he was gradually yielding to the soporific power of a southern sun. With each successive nod his chin sank a little lower, his eyes blinked less resolutely, until the outlines of the foothills melted and sank into the sheen of the distant desert, the ardent, turquoise sky bent low to ward off riotous columns of reeling cactus, the mountain swayed as soothingly as the cradle of long ago, and Somers dozed and dreamed.

He was in his State Street office, listening to the ticker, whose insistent clatter steadily swelled to a roar, and as he hurried toward it to watch Amalgamated, the machine burst with a mighty report—and Somers, starting up, became dimly conscious of a limping mustang loping up the pass, carrying a long, lean man, whose face was masked by a paste of sweat and alkali dust.

Slipping from the saddle of the panting beast, the man glanced swiftly about, then clambered upward, straight toward Somers, Winchester in hand. With clearing vision, Somers saw beneath the masking dust a face that brought a train of dear and dormant memories, and with an exclamation of delight he sprang to his feet.

“Tubby!” he cried. “Tubby Haines! Is it really you?”

The lean man lowered the gun that had leaped to his shoulder as Somers arose.

“Somers! Bob Somers!” he exclaimed, and scrambled up to grasp the outstretched hand.

He dropped wearily upon a boulder, wiped his dripping face with the sleeve of a flannel shirt, and stared into Somers’ face, amazement and delight shining in his keen eyes.

“Good old Scrappy Somers,” he murmured. “I can’t quite realize that you’re ’way out here, thousands of miles from home.”

“Visiting Hal Fielding,” explained Somers. “You know Fielding, of course; everybody around here does.”

“I’ve had occasional dealings with him—and got the worst of it,” Haines answered carelessly, fingering the gun at his knee and glancing eastward.

“I’ve heard that he’s pretty shrewd,” said Somers, with a laugh.

“Too keen for me,” remarked Haines. “It takes a mighty good man to get ahead of him—and stay ahead.”

“Then you’re in the cattle business, too?” queried Somers.

“In a desultory sort of way. Just now I’m thinking of getting out of it; it’s too wearing; keeps me too much on the jump.”

Somers chuckled, and patted the lean man’s broad shoulder affectionately.

“Same old Tubby!” he said. “Always wanted to take things easy. I never could understand why the boys dubbed you Tubby, when ‘Sleepy’ or ‘Lazy’ would have been so much more appropriate.”

“Called me Tubby because I was lean. Just as they named you ‘Scrappy’ because you never would fight,” the other observed.

“Why should I fight,” laughed Somers, “when I had such a valiant champion in you?”

“Well, you needed a champion,” said Haines, with a kindly gleam in his eyes. “You were about as puny as they made ’em; and fighting was fun for me—then.”

“Remember the time you licked Bully Dormer?” asked Somers, with a musing smile. “Ah, but that was a fight—and a licking.”

“The licking he got wasn’t in it with the one old MacStinger gave me that evening,” remarked Haines, grinning. “Gee, Scrappy! I can feel that birch yet. I reckon old Mac’s dead now.”

“Died in the harness. His last words were ‘Omnia Gallia.’ Remember how Anne used to cry whenever he’d wallop you? I often joke her about it yet.”

A wistful look sprang to the lean man’s eyes; he shot a quick glance at Somers, then gazed dreamily up the pass.

“Is she at Fielding’s, too, Bob?” he asked softly.

“No. I wanted her to come, but she feared the little fellows couldn’t stand the long trip.”

The crippled mustang below them whinnied expectantly. Haines turned his face eastward. Among the foothills rose a cloud of dust that lengthened westward despite the eastward breeze. Haines rose to his feet and took Somers’ hand.

“Good-by, Bob,” he said.

“You’re not going!” exclaimed Somers. “Why, we’ve only just begun to talk; and I want you to come⸺”

“I’m not going,” Haines interrupted, with an odd smile. “Not for an hour or so yet. But you are—unless you want to reverse the old order of things and fight my battle.”

He dropped to one knee behind the rocks, picked up the Winchester, and passed a hand over the belt of murderous cartridges. The thud of pounding hoofs arose faintly from the hills below. A horrible suspicion numbed Somers’ brain.

“Tubby!” he gasped. “Dear old Jack! you aren’t⸺”

The lean man looked up into the pallid face, nodded, and smiled grimly.

“Bob,” he said slowly, “when you see Anne again, I want you to tell her that I remembered her—to the last. Will you?”

“Jack,” Somers cried, “they’re more than a mile away yet; there’s time for you to escape.”

“Not on that crippled mustang. They got fresh mounts at Zell’s station. No ordinary horse could save me now, else I’d have asked you for yours long ago.”

He balanced the Winchester in his hands, and turned his rigid face away toward the mouth of the pass.

“They’d overtake me west of the pass, in the open,” he continued. “I prefer to finish the business here. I’ll get more of them—before they get me—than in a running fight.”

“But if you had Fielding’s roan⸺”

Sonora Jack looked up impatiently.

“Yes—if I had—but I haven’t. Get out now, Bob; you mustn’t be caught with me.”

“Jack,” Somers almost screamed, “the roan isn’t a hundred yards away—up that ravine—saddled and bridled, and fresh as a rose!”

He had seized Haines by the collar, and was tugging to help him to his feet.

“Hurry, for Heaven’s sake!” he cried, as Haines raced madly toward the ravine, and the echoes of galloping hoofs rang sharply up the pass.

Slowly he staggered downward to the trail as Fielding, grim, grimy and perspiring, dashed up at the head of a dozen cowboys.

“Glad to see you again, old boy,” shouted Fielding, as he sprang from the saddle. “You’re in time; we’ve got him treed. Which way did he go?”

“Who?” asked Somers drowsily, rubbing his eyes.

“Who? Why, th’ fellow that rode that mustang! Didn’t you see⸺”

He stopped short, stared, wide-eyed, up the pass, and ripped out an oath. On a distant ledge, where the trail wound around the face of a cliff, a tall man on a galloping roan was jauntily waving a sombrero toward them.

“Sonora Jack—and my roan!” roared Fielding.

“I—I believe it is,” stammered Somers, blinking stupidly. “The rascal must have stolen him while I was asleep. Never mind, Hal; I’ll pay⸺”

“While you was asleep!” Fielding bellowed. “Did you hear that, boys? Asleep! Asleep!”

He climbed back slowly into the saddle and turned his tired horse’s head eastward.

“Back home, boys,” he said wearily, with a disgusted glance at the blinking Somers. “It’s all off. Maybe some time we’ll learn why an all-wise Providence created greasers, sheepmen and tenderfeet.”