He swung out of his coat and washed vigorously, thrusting his fingers through his short, curly hair and shaking his head in boyish enjoyment that was refreshing to watch.  She noticed that he had not aged much.  He seemed too cool, too self-possessed always, to show even the ordinary trace of years.  She could not understand him; yet she was surprised by a glow of affection for him now that he had returned.  As he dried his head she saw that his hair was tinged with gray, although his face was lined but little and his gray eyes were as keen and quick as ever.  If he had only shared even that part of his life with her—­down there!

“Jim!” she whispered.

He turned as he took up his coat.  “Yes, Annie?”

“If you would only promise—­”

He shook his head.  “I won’t do that.  I didn’t come to ask anything of you except to see the boy But if you need money—­”

“No.  Not that kind of money.”

“All right, girl.”  And his voice was cheery.  “I didn’t come here to make you feel bad.  And I won’t be here long.  Can’t we be friends while I’m here?  Of course the boy will know.  But no one else need know.  And—­you better see to the folks downstairs.  Some one just came in.”

She turned and walked down the hall, wondering if he had ever cared for her, and wondering if her boy, Lorry, would ever come to possess that almost unhuman quality of intense alertness, that incomprehensible coolness that never allowed him to forget what he was for an instant.

When Waring came down she did not introduce him to the boarders, a fact that sheriff Buck Hardy, who dined at the hotel, noted with some interest.  The men ate hastily, rose, and departed, leaving Hardy and Waring, who called for a second cup of coffee and rolled a cigarette while waiting.

Hardy had seen the stranger ride into town on the big buckskin.  The horse bore a Mexican brand.  The hotel register told Hardy who the stranger was.  And the sheriff of Stacey County was curious to know just what the Sonora gunman was doing in town.

Waring sat with his unlighted cigarette between his fingers.  The sheriff proffered a match.  Their eyes met.  Waring nodded his thanks and blew a smoke-ring.

“How are things down in Sonora?” queried Hardy.

“Quiet.”

Mrs. Adams questioned Waring with her eyes.  He nodded.  “This is Mr. Waring,” she said, rising.  “This is Mr. Hardy, our sheriff.”

The men shook hands.  “Mrs. Adams is a good cook,” said Waring.

A clatter of hoofs and the sound of a cheery voice broke the silence.

A young cowboy jingled into the room.  “Hello, Buck!  Hello, mother!” And Lorry Adams strode up and kissed his mother heartily.  “Got a runnin’ chance to come to town and I came—­runnin’.  How’s everything?”

Mrs. Adams murmured a reply.  Buck Hardy was watching Waring as he glanced up at the boy.  The sheriff pulled a cigar from his vest and lighted it.  In the street he paused in his stride, gazing at the end of his cigar.  Lorry Adams looked mighty like Jim Waring, of Sonora.  Hardy had heard that Waring had been killed down in the southern country.  Some one had made a mistake.