The Ridin' Kid from Powder River

by Henry Herbert Knibbs

  CHAPTER IV

  JUSTICE

  Dawn bared the smouldering evidence of that dastardly attack. Thestable and the lean-to, where Annersley had stored his buckboard and afew farm implements when winter came, the corral fence, the haystack,were feathery ashes, which the wind stirred occasionally as a raw redsun shoved up from behind the eastern hills. The chicken-coop, nearthe cabin, had not been touched by the fire. Young Pete, who hadfallen asleep through sheer exhaustion, was awakened by the cackling ofthe hens. He jumped up. It was time to let those chickens out.Strange that his pop had not called him! He rubbed his eyes, startedsuddenly as he realized that he was dressed--and then heremembered . . .

  He trembled, fearful of what he would see when he stepped into theother room. "Pop!" he whispered. The hens cackled loudly. Fromsomewhere in the far blue came the faint whistle of a hawk. A boardcreaked under his foot and he all but cried out. He stole to thewindow, scrambled over the sill, and dropped to the ground. Throughhabit he let the chickens out. They rushed from the coop and spreadover the yard, scratching and clucking happily. Pete was surprisedthat the chickens should go about their business so casually. They didnot seem to care that his pop had been killed.

  He was back to the cabin before he realized what he was doing. Fromthe doorway he saw that still form shrouded in the familiar old grayblanket. Something urged him to lift a corner of the blanket andlook--something stronger held him back. He tip-toed to the kitchen andbegan building a fire. "Pop would be gettin' breakfast," he whispered.Pete fried bacon and made coffee. He ate hurriedly, occasionallyturning his head to glance at that still figure beneath the blanket.Then he washed the dishes and put them carefully away, as his pop wouldhave done. That helped to occupy his mind, but his most difficult taskwas still before him. He dared not stay in the cabin--and yet he feltthat he was a coward if he should leave. Paradoxically he reasonedthat if his pop were alive, he would know what to do. Pete knew ofonly one thing to do--and that was to go to Concho and tell the sheriffwhat had happened. Trying his best to ignore the gray blanket, hepicked up all the cartridges he could find, and the two rifles, andbacked from the room. He felt ashamed of the fear that drove him fromthe cabin. He did not want his pop to think that he was a coward.Partners always "stuck," and yet he was running away. "Good-bye, pop,"he quavered. He choked and sobbed, but no tears came. He turned andwent to look for the horses.

  Then he remembered that the corral fence was burned, that there hadbeen no horses there when he went to let the chickens out. He followedhorse-tracks to the edge of the timber and then turned back. Thehorses had been stampeded by the flames and the shooting. Pete knewthat they might be miles from the cabin. He cut across the mesa to thetrail and trudged down toward Concho. His eyes burned and his throatached. The rifles grew heavy, but he would not leave them. It wassignificant that Pete thought of taking nothing else from the cabin,neither clothing, food, nor the money that he knew to be in Annersley'swallet in the bedroom. The sun burned down upon his unprotected head,but he did not feel it. He felt nothing save the burning ache in histhroat and a hope that the sheriff would arrest the men who had killedhis pop. He had great faith in the sheriff, who, as Annersley had toldhim, was the law. The law punished evildoers. The men who had killedpop would be hung--Pete was sure of that!

  Hatless, burning with fever and thirst, he arrived at the store inConcho late in the afternoon. A friendly cowboy from the low countryjoshed him about his warlike appearance. Young Pete was too exhaustedto retort. He marched into the store, told the storekeeper what hadhappened, and asked for the sheriff. The storekeeper saw that therewas something gravely wrong with Pete. His face was flushed and hiseyes altogether too bright. He insisted on going at once to thesheriff's office.

  "Now, you set down and rest. Just stay right here and keep your eye onthings out front--and I'll go get the sheriff." And the storekeepercoaxed and soothed Pete into giving up his rifles. Promising to returnat once, the storekeeper set out on his errand, shaking his headgravely. Annersley had been a good man, a man who commanded affectionand respect from most persons. And now the T-Bar-T men "had got him."The storekeeper was not half so surprised as he was grieved. He hadhad an idea that something like this might happen. It was a cattlecountry, and Annersley had been the only homesteader within miles ofConcho. "I wonder just how much of this the sheriff knows already," hesoliloquized. "It's mighty tough on the kid."

  When Sheriff Sutton and the storekeeper entered the store they foundYoung Pete in a stupor from which he did not awaken for many hours. Hewas put to bed and a doctor summoned from a distant town. It wouldhave been useless, even brutal, to have questioned Pete, so the sheriffsimply took the two rifles and the cartridges to his office, with whatinformation the storekeeper could give him. The sheriff, who hadalways respected Annersley, was sorry that this thing had happened.Yet he was not sorry that Young Pete could give no evidence. Thecattlemen would have time to pretty well cover up their tracks.Annersley had known the risks he was running when he took up the land.The sheriff told his own conscience that "it was just plain suicide."His conscience, being the better man, told him that it was "just plainmurder." The sheriff knew--and yet what could he do without evidence,except visit the scene of the shooting, hold a post-mortem, and waituntil Young Pete was well enough to talk?

  One thing puzzled Sheriff Sutton. Both rifles had been used. So theboy had taken a hand in the fight? Several shots must have been fired,for Annersley was not a man to suffer such an outrage in silence. Andthe boy was known to be a good shot. Yet there had been no news ofanyone having been wounded among the raiders. Sutton was preparing toride to the Blue and investigate when a T-Bar-T man loped up anddismounted. They talked a minute or two. Then the cowboy rode out oftown. The sheriff was no longer puzzled about the two rifles havingbeen used. The cowboy had told him that two of the T-Bar-T men hadbeen killed. That in each instance a thirty-thirty, soft-nosed slughad done the business. Annersley's rifle was an old forty-eighty-two,shooting a solid lead bullet.

  When Sheriff Button arrived at the cabin he found the empty shells onthe floor, noted the holes in the window, and read the story of theraid plainly. "Annersley shot to scare 'em off--but the kid shot tokill," he argued. "And dam' if I blame him."

  Later, when Young Pete was able to talk, he was questioned by thesheriff. He told of the raid, of the burning of the outbuildings, andhow Annersley had been killed. When questioned as to his own share inthe proceedings, Pete refused to answer. When shown the two guns andasked which was his, he invariably replied, "Both of 'em," nor could hebe made to answer otherwise. Finally Sheriff Sutton gave it up, partlybecause of public opinion, which was in open sympathy with Young Pete,and partly because he feared that in case arrests were made, and Petewere called as a witness, the boy would tell in court more than he hadthus far divulged. The sheriff thought that Pete was able to identifyone or more of the men who had entered the cabin, if he cared to do so.As it was, Young Pete was crafty. Already he distrusted the sheriff'ssincerity. Then, the fact that two of the T-Bar-T men had been killedrather quieted the public mind, which expressed itself as pretty wellsatisfied that old man Annersley's account was squared. He or the boyhad "got" two of the enemy. In fact, it was more or less of a joke onthe T-Bar-T outfit--they should have known better.

  An inquest decided that Annersley had come to his death at the hands ofparties unknown. The matter was eventually shunted to one of the manylegal sidings along the single-track law that operated in thatvicinity. Annersley's effects were sold at auction and the proceedsused to bury him. His homestead reverted to the Government, therebeing no legal heir. Young Pete was again homeless, save for thekindness of the storekeeper, who set him to work helping about theplace.

  In a few months Pete was seemingly over his grief, but he never gave upthe hope that some day he would find the man who had killed his pop.In cow-camp and sheep-camp, in town and on the range, he had oftenhea
rd reiterated that unwritten law of the outlands: "If a man tried toget you--run or fight. But if a man kills your friend or your kin--gethim." A law perhaps not as definitely worded in the retailing ofincident or example, but as obvious nevertheless as was the necessityto live up to it or suffer the ever-lasting scorn of one's fellows.

  Some nine or ten months after the inquest Young Pete disappeared. Noone knew where he had gone, and eventually he was more or lessforgotten by the folk of Concho. But two men never forgot him--thestorekeeper and the sheriff. One of them hoped that the boy might comeback some day. He had grown fond of Pete. The other hoped that hewould not come back.

  Meanwhile the T-Bar-T herds grazed over Annersley's homestead. Thefence had been torn down, cattle wallowed in the mud of the water-hole,and drifted about the place until little remained as evidence of theold man's patient toil save the cabin. That Young Pete should againreturn to the cabin and there unexpectedly meet Gary was undreamed ofas a possibility by either of them; yet fate had planned this verything--"otherwise," argues the Fatalist, "how could it have happened?"