THE SOMNOLENCE OF SOMERS

                          By Frank N. Stratton

    In this interesting little tale of the far West Mr. Stratton
    tells how a “tenderfoot” deliberately connived at the
    breaking of the law of the land, and possessed an untroubled
    conscience thereafter in spite of it.

“Yes, sir; th’ boss is gone,” explained the foreman of Fielding’s ranch,
as Somers stepped from the buckboard and shook the dust from his
clothes. “Him and th’ boys is out after Sonora Jack’s gang of cattle
rustlers--and they’ll fix ’em this time. Powerful lot of trouble they’ve
give’ us th’ last two years. Mr. Fielding was mighty sorry you didn’t
get here in time to go. Thought mebbe a man hunt would be somethin’ new
for you--kind o’ brace you up.”

Somers mentally agreed that the hunting of men, though rather strenuous
for an invalid, might prove a novel and exciting diversion from the
monotonous pursuit of dollars.

“You might possibly see th’ finish, though,” the foreman continued.
“Tommy Evans just come in, bad hurt, and says th’ boys s’prised th’ gang
up th’ Little Fork, and got most of ’em. They’re chasin’ Sonora Jack
hisself now, and think they’ll catch him in th’ Alta Pass--right out
yonder where you and Fielding killed th’ bear, when you was here two
year ago. Fielding sent word by Tommy that if you was here, and wanted
to try, you might take th’ roan thoroughbred and gallop over; he’s th’
only hoss left on th’ place that don’t buck.”

Somers’ eyes glistened.

“I’m pretty tired,” he said; “but I’ll stretch out and rest for an hour,
and then, if you’ll kindly bring the roan around, I think I’ll try it.
It’ll be a treat to back Dixie once more, even if I miss the finish.”

When Somers pulled himself up into the saddle the foreman delivered a
parting admonition:

“If th’ trouble’s on when you reach th’ pass, better not ride too close.
Mr. Fielding wouldn’t have Dixie hurt for half th’ ranch. Wouldn’t ride
him hisself for fear he might get crippled in th’ muss.”

There being no evidence of “trouble”--past, present or prospective--when
Somers reached the pass, he tethered the roan securely up a little
ravine and climbed to a point where he could witness the approach of the
chase--provided Sonora Jack had not disobligingly changed his course.

After hours of fruitless vigil Somers caught himself nodding drowsily,
roused himself determinedly, and nodded again. Unaccustomed to a fiercer
torridity than that afforded by a New England climate, he was gradually
yielding to the soporific power of a southern sun. With each successive
nod his chin sank a little lower, his eyes blinked less resolutely,
until the outlines of the foothills melted and sank into the sheen of
the distant desert, the ardent, turquoise sky bent low to ward off
riotous columns of reeling cactus, the mountain swayed as soothingly as
the cradle of long ago, and Somers dozed and dreamed.

He was in his State Street office, listening to the ticker, whose
insistent clatter steadily swelled to a roar, and as he hurried toward
it to watch Amalgamated, the machine burst with a mighty report--and
Somers, starting up, became dimly conscious of a limping mustang loping
up the pass, carrying a long, lean man, whose face was masked by a paste
of sweat and alkali dust.

Slipping from the saddle of the panting beast, the man glanced swiftly
about, then clambered upward, straight toward Somers, Winchester in
hand. With clearing vision, Somers saw beneath the masking dust a face
that brought a train of dear and dormant memories, and with an
exclamation of delight he sprang to his feet.

“Tubby!” he cried. “Tubby Haines! Is it really you?”

The lean man lowered the gun that had leaped to his shoulder as Somers
arose.

“Somers! Bob Somers!” he exclaimed, and scrambled up to grasp the
outstretched hand.

He dropped wearily upon a boulder, wiped his dripping face with the
sleeve of a flannel shirt, and stared into Somers’ face, amazement and
delight shining in his keen eyes.

“Good old Scrappy Somers,” he murmured. “I can’t quite realize that
you’re ’way out here, thousands of miles from home.”

“Visiting Hal Fielding,” explained Somers. “You know Fielding, of
course; everybody around here does.”

“I’ve had occasional dealings with him--and got the worst of it,” Haines
answered carelessly, fingering the gun at his knee and glancing
eastward.

“I’ve heard that he’s pretty shrewd,” said Somers, with a laugh.

“Too keen for me,” remarked Haines. “It takes a mighty good man to get
ahead of him--and stay ahead.”

“Then you’re in the cattle business, too?” queried Somers.

“In a desultory sort of way. Just now I’m thinking of getting out of it;
it’s too wearing; keeps me too much on the jump.”

Somers chuckled, and patted the lean man’s broad shoulder
affectionately.

“Same old Tubby!” he said. “Always wanted to take things easy. I never
could understand why the boys dubbed you Tubby, when ‘Sleepy’ or ‘Lazy’
would have been so much more appropriate.”

“Called me Tubby because I was lean. Just as they named you ‘Scrappy’
because you never would fight,” the other observed.

“Why should I fight,” laughed Somers, “when I had such a valiant
champion in you?”

“Well, you needed a champion,” said Haines, with a kindly gleam in his
eyes. “You were about as puny as they made ’em; and fighting was fun for
me--then.”

“Remember the time you licked Bully Dormer?” asked Somers, with a musing
smile. “Ah, but that _was_ a fight--and a licking.”

“The licking he got wasn’t in it with the one old MacStinger gave me
that evening,” remarked Haines, grinning. “Gee, Scrappy! I can feel that
birch yet. I reckon old Mac’s dead now.”

“Died in the harness. His last words were ‘_Omnia Gallia_.’ Remember how
Anne used to cry whenever he’d wallop you? I often joke her about it
yet.”

A wistful look sprang to the lean man’s eyes; he shot a quick glance at
Somers, then gazed dreamily up the pass.

“Is she at Fielding’s, too, Bob?” he asked softly.

“No. I wanted her to come, but she feared the little fellows couldn’t
stand the long trip.”

The crippled mustang below them whinnied expectantly. Haines turned his
face eastward. Among the foothills rose a cloud of dust that lengthened
westward despite the eastward breeze. Haines rose to his feet and took
Somers’ hand.

“Good-by, Bob,” he said.

“You’re not going!” exclaimed Somers. “Why, we’ve only just begun to
talk; and I want you to come----”

“I’m not going,” Haines interrupted, with an odd smile. “Not for an hour
or so yet. But you are--unless you want to reverse the old order of
things and fight my battle.”

He dropped to one knee behind the rocks, picked up the Winchester, and
passed a hand over the belt of murderous cartridges. The thud of
pounding hoofs arose faintly from the hills below. A horrible suspicion
numbed Somers’ brain.

“Tubby!” he gasped. “Dear old Jack! you aren’t----”

The lean man looked up into the pallid face, nodded, and smiled grimly.

“Bob,” he said slowly, “when you see Anne again, I want you to tell her
that I remembered her--to the last. Will you?”

“Jack,” Somers cried, “they’re more than a mile away yet; there’s time
for you to escape.”

“Not on that crippled mustang. They got fresh mounts at Zell’s station.
No ordinary horse could save me now, else I’d have asked you for yours
long ago.”

He balanced the Winchester in his hands, and turned his rigid face away
toward the mouth of the pass.

“They’d overtake me west of the pass, in the open,” he continued. “I
prefer to finish the business here. I’ll get more of them--before they
get me--than in a running fight.”

“But if you had Fielding’s roan----”

Sonora Jack looked up impatiently.

“Yes--if I had--but I haven’t. Get out now, Bob; you mustn’t be caught
with me.”

“Jack,” Somers almost screamed, “the roan isn’t a hundred yards away--up
that ravine--saddled and bridled, and fresh as a rose!”

He had seized Haines by the collar, and was tugging to help him to his
feet.

“Hurry, for Heaven’s sake!” he cried, as Haines raced madly toward the
ravine, and the echoes of galloping hoofs rang sharply up the pass.

Slowly he staggered downward to the trail as Fielding, grim, grimy and
perspiring, dashed up at the head of a dozen cowboys.

“Glad to see you again, old boy,” shouted Fielding, as he sprang from
the saddle. “You’re in time; we’ve got him treed. Which way did he go?”

“Who?” asked Somers drowsily, rubbing his eyes.

“Who? Why, th’ fellow that rode that mustang! Didn’t you see----”

He stopped short, stared, wide-eyed, up the pass, and ripped out an
oath. On a distant ledge, where the trail wound around the face of a
cliff, a tall man on a galloping roan was jauntily waving a sombrero
toward them.

“Sonora Jack--and my roan!” roared Fielding.

“I--I believe it is,” stammered Somers, blinking stupidly. “The rascal
must have stolen him while I was asleep. Never mind, Hal; I’ll pay----”

“While you was asleep!” Fielding bellowed. “Did you hear that, boys?
_Asleep! Asleep!_”

He climbed back slowly into the saddle and turned his tired horse’s head
eastward.

“Back home, boys,” he said wearily, with a disgusted glance at the
blinking Somers. “It’s all off. Maybe some time we’ll learn why an
all-wise Providence created greasers, sheepmen and tenderfeet.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 1906 issue
of The Popular Magazine.]