Daughter of the Sun | Page 2

had worn a
thick black veil, that somehow she just seemed young and that he'd bet
she was too darn pretty to be wasting herself on Rios, when Jim
Kendric himself landed in their midst.
He was powdered with alkali dust from the soles of his boots to the
crown of his black hat and he looked unusually tall because he was

unusually gaunt. He had ridden far and hard. But the eyes were the
same old eyes of the same old headlong Jim Kendric, on fire on the
instant, dancing with the joy of striking hands with the old-timers,
shining with the man's supreme joy of life.
"I'm no drinking man and you know it," he shouted at them, his voice
booming out and down the quiet blistering street. "And I'm no
gambling man. I'm steady and sober and I'm a regular fool for
conservative investments! But there's a time when a glass in the hand is
as pat as eggs in a hen's nest and a man wants to spend his money free!
Come on, you bunch of devil-hounds; lead me to it."
It was the rollicking arrival which they had counted on since this was
the only way Jim Kendric knew of getting back among old friends and
old surroundings. There was nothing subtle about him; in all things he
was open and forthright and tempestuous. In a man's hardened and
buffeted body he had kept the heart of a harum-scarum boy.
"It's only a step across the line into Old Town," he reminded them.
"And the Mexico gents over there haven't got started reforming yet.
Blaze the trail, Benny. Shut up your damned old store and postoffice,
Homer, and trot along. It's close to sunset any way; I'll finance the
pilgrimage until sunup."
When he mentioned the "postoffice" Homer Day was recalled to his
official duties as postmaster. He gave Kendric the letter from Bruce
West. Kendric ripped open the envelope, glanced at the contents,
skimming the lines impatiently. Then he jammed the letter into his
pocket.
"Just as I supposed," he announced. "Bruce has a sure thing in the way
of the best cattle range you ever saw; he'll make money hand over fist.
But," and he chuckled his enjoyment, "he's just a trifle too busy scaring
off Mexican bandits and close-herding his stock to get any sleep of
nights. Drop him a postcard, Homer; tell him I can't come. Let's step
over to Old Town."
"Ruiz Rios is in town, Jim," he was informed.

"I know," he retorted lightly. "But I'm not shooting trouble nowadays.
Getting older, you know."
"How'd you know?" asked Homer.
"Bruce said so in his letter; Rios is a neighbor down in Lower
California. Now, forget Ruiz Rios. Let's start something."
There were six Americans in the little party by the time they had
walked the brief distance to the border and across into Old Town.
Before they reached the swing doors of the Casa Grande the red ball of
the sun went down.
"Fat Ortega knows you're coming, Jim," Kendric was advised. "I guess
everybody in town knows by now."
And plainly everybody was interested. When the six men, going in two
by two, snapped back the swinging doors there were a score of men in
the place. Behind the long bar running along one side of the big room
two men were busy setting forth bottles and glasses. The air was hazy
with cigarette smoke. There was a business air, an air of readiness and
expectancy about the gaming tables though no one at this early hour
had suggested playing. Ortega himself, fat and greasy and pompous,
leaned against his bar and twisted a stogie between his puffy,
pendulous lips. He merely batted his eyes at Kendric, who noticed him
not at all.
A golden twenty dollar coin spun and winked upon the bar impelled by
Jim's big fingers and Kendric's voice called heartily:
"I'd be happy to have every man here drink with me."
The invitation was naturally accepted. The men ranged along the bar,
elbow to elbow; the bartenders served and, with a nod toward the man
who stood treat, poured their own red wine. Even Ortega, though he
made no attempt toward a civil response, drank. The more liquor
poured into a man's stomach here, the more money in Ortega's pocket
and he was avaricious. He'd drink in his own shop with his worst

enemy provided that enemy paid the score.
Kendric's friends were men who were always glad to drink and play a
game of cards, but tonight they were gladder for the chance to talk with
"Old Headlong." When he had bought the house a couple of rounds of
drinks, Kendric withdrew to a corner table with a dozen of his old-time
acquaintances and for upward