"He said he came back to see you."

"Well, he's my father, anyway," said Lorry.




Chapter VIII


_Lorry_

In the low hills west of Stacey, Lorry was looking for strays. He worked
alone, whistling as he rode, swinging his glasses on this and that
arroyo and singling out the infrequent clumps of greasewood for a touch
of brighter color in their shadows. He urged his pony from crest to
crest, carelessly easy in the saddle, alive to his work, and quietly
happy in the lone freedom of thought and action.

He felt a bit proud of himself that morning. Only last night he had
learned that he was the son of Waring of Sonora; a name to live up to,
if Western standards meant anything, and he thought they did.

The fact that he was the son of James Waring overcame for the time being
the vague disquietude of mind attending his knowledge that his mother
and father had become estranged. He thought he understood now why his
mother had made him promise to go unarmed upon the range. His
companions, to the last man, "packed a gun."