"Oh, my love has a gun And that gun he can use, But he's quit his gun fighting As well as his booze.
And he's sold him his saddle, His spurs, and his rope, And there's no more cow-punching And that's what I hope."The alkali dust, swirled back by a little breeze, billowed up and choked him. Behind, the mules coughed, their coats whitening with the powder. Far ahead in the distance lay the westerly mountains. They looked an hour away, and yet every man and beast in the outfit knew that hour after hour they were doomed, by the enchantment of the land, to plod ahead without apparently getting an inch nearer. The only salvation was to forget the mountains and to fill the present moment full of little things.
But Senor Johnson, to-day, found himself unable to do this. In spite of his best efforts he caught himself straining toward the distant goal, becoming impatient, trying to measure progress by landmarks--in short acting like a tenderfoot on the desert, who wears himself down and dies, not from the hardship, but from the nervous strain which he does not know how to avoid. Senor Johnson knew this as well as you and I. He cursed himself vigorously, and began with great resolution to think of something else.
He was aroused from this by Tom Rich, riding alongside. "Somebody coming, Senor," said he.
Senor Johnson raised his eyes to the approaching cloud of dust.
Silently the two watched it until it resolved into a rider loping easily along. In fifteen minutes he drew rein, his pony dropped immediately from a gallop to immobility, he swung into a graceful at-ease attitude across his saddle, grinned amiably, and began to roll a cigarette.
"Billy Ellis," cried Rich.
"That's me," replied the newcomer.
"Thought you were down to Tucson?"
"I was."
"Thought you wasn't comin' back for a week yet?""Tommy," proffered Billy Ellis dreamily, "when you go to Tucson next you watch out until you sees a little, squint-eyed Britisher. Take a look at him. Then come away. He says he don't know nothin' about poker. Mebbe he don't, but he'll outhold a warehouse."But here Senor Johnson broke in: "Billy, you're just in time.
Jed has hurt his foot and can't get on for a week yet. I want you to take charge. I've got a lot to do at the ranch.""Ain't got my war-bag," objected Billy.
"Take my stuff. I'll send yours on when Parker goes.""All right."
"Well, so long."
"So long, Senor." They moved. The erratic Arizona breezes twisted the dust of their going. Senor Johnson watched them dwindle. With them seemed to go the joy in the old life. No longer did the long trail possess for him its ancient fascination. He had become a domestic man.
"And I'm glad of it," commented Senor Johnson.
The dust eddied aside. Plainly could be seen the swaying wagon, the loose-riding cowboys, the gleaming, naked backs of the herd.
Then the veil closed over them again. But down the wind, faintly, in snatches, came the words of Jim Lester's song:
"Oh, Sam has a gun That has gone to the bad, Which makes poor old Sammy Feel pretty, damn sad, For that gain it shoots high, And that gun it shoots low, And it wabbles about Like a bucking bronco!"Senor Johnson turned and struck spurs to his willing pony.
