"That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous." Halfway across the Blue Mesa, Dorothy met her ranger man. She had been watching the trail. Lorry dismounted and walked with her to the cabin. Bronson was glad to see him. They chatted for a while. Lorry would have spoken of his father's offer--of his plans, of many things he wished Bronson to know, yet he could not speak of these things until he had talked with Dorothy. He would see Bronson again. Meanwhile-- A little later Lorry went to his cabin to take stock of the implements and make his final report. He swept the cabin, picked up the loose odds and ends, closed the battered piano gently, and sat down to think. He had made his decision, and yet--he had seen Dorothy again; touched her hand, talked with her, and watched her brown eyes while he talked. The Great War seemed very far away. And here he was at home. This was his country. But he had set his face toward the High Trail. He could not turn back. Dorothy stood in the doorway, her finger at her lips. Bronson was busy writing. Lorry rose and stepped out. He stooped and lifted her to Gray Leg. She sat sideways in the saddle as he led the pony across the mesa to the veritable rim of the world. Far below lay the open country, veiled by the soft haze of distance. He gave her his hand, and she slipped to the ground and stood beside him. For the first time the tremendous sweep of space appalled her. She drew close to him and touched his arm. "What is it, Lorry?" "You said--once--that you would wait for me." "Yes. And now you are here, I'll never be lonesome again." "Were you lonesome?" "A little. I had never really waited--like that--before." He frowned and gazed into the distances. It had been easy to decide--when alone. Then he faced her, his gray eyes clear and untroubled. "I'm going to enlist," he said simply. She had hoped that he would. She wanted to think that of him. And yet, now that he had spoken, now that he was actually going--Her eyes grew big. She wanted to say that she was glad. Her lips trembled. He held out his arms. She felt their warm strength round her. On the instant she thought of begging him not to go. But his eyes were shining with a high purpose, that shamed her momentary indecision. She pressed her cheek to his. "I will wait for you," she whispered, and her face was wet with tears of happiness. She was no longer the little mother and he her boy, for in that moment he became to her the man strength of the race, his arms her refuge and his eyes her courage for the coming years. THE END End of Project Gutenberg's Jim Waring of Sonora-Town, by Knibbs, Henry Herbert