forth in some act
of quick heroism or tireless faithfulness worthy of a greater tribute
than has yet been written.

Bondsman was a good soldier.

CHAPTER XXXIV

_Young Life_

Ramon was busy that afternoon transferring mattresses and blankets from
the ranch-house to the new, low-roofed bunk-house that Waring had built.
Ramon fitted up three beds--one for the cook, one for an old range-rider
that Waring had hired when his men had left to enlist, and one for
himself.

The partitions of the ranch-house had been taken down, the interior
rearranged, and the large living-room furnished in a plain, comfortable
way.

As Ramon worked he sang softly. He was happy. The senora was coming to
live with them, and perhaps Senor Jim's son. Senor Jim had been more
active of late. His lameness was not so bad as it had been. It was true
the Senor Jim did not often smile, but his eyes were kindly.

Ramon worked rapidly. There was much to do in the other house. The bale
of Navajo blankets was still unopened. Perhaps the Senor Jim would help
to arrange them in the big room with the stone fireplace. The senora
would not arrive until to-morrow, but then the home must be made ready,
that she would find it beautiful. And Ramon, accustomed to the meagerly
furnished adobes of old Mexico, thought that the ranch-house was
beautiful indeed.

Waring ate with the men in the new bunk-house that evening. After supper
he went over to the larger building and sat alone in the living-room,
gazing out of the western window. His wounds ached, and in the memory of
almost forgotten trails he grew young again. Again in Old Mexico, the
land he loved, he saw the blue crest of the Sierras rise as in a dream,
and below the ranges a tiny Mexican village of adobe huts gold in the
setting sun. Between him and the village lay the outlands, ever
mysterious, ever calling to him. Across the desert ran a thin trail to
the village. And down the trail the light feet of Romance ran swiftly as
he followed. He could even recall the positions of the different adobes;
the strings of chiles dark red in the twilight; the old black-shawled
senora who had spoken a guttural word of greeting as he had ridden up.

Back in Sonora men had said, "Waring has made his last ride." They had
told each other that a white man was a fool to go alone into that
country. Perhaps he had been a fool. But the thrill of those early days,
when he rode alone and free and men sang of him