The Ridin' Kid from Powder River

by Henry Herbert Knibbs

  CHAPTER XLV

  HOME FOLKS

  Noon found them within sight of the ranch-house. In an hour they wereunsaddling at the corral, having ridden in the back way, at Andy'ssuggestion, that they might surprise the folks. But it did not take themlong to discover that there were no folks to surprise. The bunk-housewas open, but the house across from it was locked, and Andy knewimmediately that the Baileys had driven to town, because the pup wasgone, and he always followed the buckboard.

  Pete was not displeased, for he wanted to shave and "slick up a bit"after his long journey. "They'll see my hoss and know that I'm back,"said Andy, as he filled the kettle on the box-stove in the bunk-house."But we can put Blue Smoke in a stall and keep him out of sight till youwalk in right from nowhere. I can see Ma Bailey and Jim and the boys!'Course Ma's like to be back in time to get supper, so mebby you'll haveto hide out in the barn till you hear the bell."

  "I ain't awful strong on that conquerin' hero stuff, Andy. I jest assoon set right here--"

  "And spoil the whole darn show! Look here, Pete,--you leave it to me andif we don't surprise Ma Bailey clean out of her--specs, why, I'll quitand go to herdin' sheep."

  "A11 right. I'm willin'. Only you might see if you kin git in the backway and lift a piece of pie, or somethin'." Which Andy managed to dowhile Pete shaved himself and put on a clean shirt.

  They sat in the bunk-house doorway chatting about the various happeningsduring Pete's absence until they saw the buckboard top the distant edgeof the mesa. Pete immediately secluded himself in the barn, while Andyhazed Blue Smoke into a box stall and hid Pete's saddle.

  Ma Bailey, alighting from the buckboard, heard Andy's brief explanationof his absence with indifference most unusual in her, and glanced sharplyat him when he mentioned having shot a wild turkey.

  "I suppose you picked it and cleaned it and got it all ready to roast,"she inquired. "Or have you just been loafing around waiting for me to doit?"

  "I et it," asserted Andy.

  Ma Bailey glared at him, shook her head, and marched into the house whileAndy helped Bailey put up the horses.

  "Ma's upset about somethin'," explained Bailey. "Seems a letter came forPete--"

  "Letter from Pete! Why, he ain't comin' back, is he?"

  "A letter for Pete. Ma says it looks like a lady's writin' on theenvelope. She says she'd like to know what female is writin' to Pete,and him goodness knows where, and not a word to say whether he's sick orbroke, or anything."

  "I sure would like to see him," said Andy fervently.

  "Well, if somebody's writin' to him here at the Concho, looks like hemight drift in one of these days. I'd sure like to know how the kid'smakin' it."

  And Bailey strode to the house, while Andy led the team to the corral.

  Later Andy appeared in the kitchen and asked Mrs. Bailey if he couldn'thelp her set the table, or peel potatoes, or something. Ma Bailey gazedat him suspiciously over her glasses. "I don't know what's ailin' you,Andy, but you ain't actin' right. First you tell me that you had to campat the Blue last night account o' killin' a turkey. Then you tell methat you et the whole of it. Was you scared you wouldn't get your shareif you fetched it home? Then you want to help me get supper. You beenup to something! You just keep me plumb wore out worrying about you.You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

  "For why, Ma? What have I done?"

  "I don't know, but it'll come to the top. There's the boys now--and mea-standing here-- Run along and set the table if you ain't so full ofwhatever is got into you that you can't count straight. Bill won't be into-night. Leastwise, Jim don't expect him." And Ma Bailey flapped herapron at him and shooed him out as though he were a chicken that haddared to poke its inquisitive neck into the kitchen.

  "Count straight!" chuckled Andy. "Mebby I know more about how many'shere than Ma does."

  Meanwhile Ma Bailey busied herself preparing supper, and it was evidentto the boys in the bunkhouse that Ma had something on her mind from thesounds which came from the kitchen. Ma scolded the potatoes as she friedthem, rebuked the biscuits because they had browned a little too soon,censured the stove for its misbehavior in having scorched the biscuits,accused the wood of being a factor in the conspiracy, reprimanded themammoth coffee-pot that threatened to deluge the steak, and finallychased Andy from the premises when she discovered that he had laid thetable with her best set of dishes.

  "Ma's steamin' about somethin'," remarked Andy as he entered thebunk-house.

  This information was received with characteristic silence as each andevery cowboy mentally straightened up, vowing silently that he wasn'tgoin' to take any chances of Ma b'ilin' over on him.

  The clatter of the pack-horse bell brought the men to their feet and theyfiled across to the house, a preternaturally silent aggregation thatconfirmed Ma Bailey's suspicion that there was something afoot.

  Andy, loitering behind them, saw Pete coming from the stables, tried tocompose himself, but could not get rid of the boyish grin, which provokedMa Bailey to mutter something which sounded like "idiot," to which thecowboys nodded in cheerful concurrence, without other comment.

  Hank Barley, the silent, was gazing surreptitiously at Ma's face when hesaw her eyes widen, saw her rise, and stand staring at the doorway asAndy clumped in, followed by Pete.

  Ma Bailey sat down suddenly.

  "It's all right, Ma," laughed Andy, alarmed at the expression on herface. "It's just Pete."

  "Just Pete!" echoed Ma Bailey faintly. And then, "Goodness alive, child,where you been?"

  Pete's reply was lost in the shuffle of feet as the men rose and shookhands with him, asking him a dozen questions in as many seconds,asserting that he was looking fine, and generally behaving like a crowdof schoolboys, as they welcomed him to their midst again.

  Pete sat in the absent Bill Haskins's place. And "You must 'a' knowed hewas coming" asserted Avery. "Bill is over to the line shack."

  "I got a _letter_," asserted Ma Bailey mysteriously.

  "And you jest said nothin' and sprung him on us! Well, Ma, you surefooled me," said Andy, grinning.

  "You go 'long." Mrs. Bailey smiled at Andy, who had earned herforgiveness by crediting her--rather wisely--with having originated thesurprise.

  They were chatting and joking when Bill Haskins appeared in the door-way,his hand wrapped in a handkerchief.

  Ma Bailey glared at him over her spectacles. "Got any stickin'-plaster?"he asked plaintively, as though he had committed some misdemeanor. Sherose and placed a plate and chair for him as he shook hands with Pete,led him to the kitchen and inspected and bandaged his hand, which he hadjagged on a wire gate, and finally reinstated him at the table, where heproved himself quite as efficient as most men are with two hands. "GiveBill all the coffee he wants and plenty stickin'-plaster, and I reckon henever would do no work," suggested Hank Barley.

  Bill Haskins grinned good-naturedly. "I see Pete's got back," heventured, as a sort of mild intimation that there were other subjectsworth discussing. He accompanied this brilliant observation by a modestrequest for another cup of coffee, his fourth. The men rose, leavingBill engaged in his favorite indoor pastime, and intimated that Peteshould go with them. But Ma Bailey would not bear of it. Pete was goingto help her with the dishes. Andy could go, however, and Bill Haskins,as soon as he was convinced that the coffee-pot was empty. Ma Bailey'schief interest in life at the moment was to get the dishes put away, themen out of the way, and Pete in the most comfortable rocking-chair in theroom, that she might hear his account of how it all happened.

  And Pete told her--omitting no circumstance, albeit he did not accentuatethat part of his recital having to do with Doris Gray, merely mentioningher as "that little gray-eyed nurse in El Paso"--and in such an offhandmanner that Ma Bailey began to suspect that Pete was keeping something tohimself. Finally, by a series of cross-questioning, comment, andsympathetic concurrence, she arrived at the feminine conclusion that thegray-eyed nurse in El Paso
had set her cap for Pete--of course Pete wasinnocent of any such adjustment of headgear--to substantiate which sherose, and, stepping to the bedroom, returned with the letter which hadcaused her so much speculation as to who was writing to Pete, and why theletter had been directed to the Concho.

  Pete glanced at the letter, and thanked Ma Bailey as he tucked it in hispocket.

  "I don't mind if you open it, Pete," she told him. "Goodness knows howlong it's been laying in the post-office! And it, mebby, isimportant--from that doctor, or that lawyer, mebby. Oh, mebby it's fromthe bank. Sakes alive! To think of that man leaving you all that money!Mebby that bank has failed!"

  "Well, I'd be right where I started when I first comehere--broke--lookin' for a job."

  "And the boys'll worry you most to death if you try to read any lettersin the bunk-house to-night. They're waitin' to hear you talk."

  "Guess the letter can wait. I ain't such a fast reader, anyhow."

  "And you're like to lose it, carryin' it round."

  "I--I--reckon I better read it," stammered Pete helplessly.

  He felt somehow that Ma would feel slighted if he didn't. Ma Baileywatched his face as he read the rather brief note from Doris, thankinghim for his letter to her and congratulating him on the outcome of histrial, and assuring him of her confidence in his ultimate success inlife. "Little Ruth," wrote Doris, "cried bitterly when I told her thatyou had gone and would not come back. She said that when you said'good-bye' to her you promised to come back--and of course I had to tellher that you would, just to make her happy. She has lost all interest inthe puzzle game since you left, but that queer watch that you gave her,that has to be shaken before taken--and then not taken seriously--amusesher quite a bit. She gets me to wind it up--her fingers are not strongenough--and then she laughs as the hands race around. When they stop sheputs her finger on the hour and says, 'Pitty soon Pete come back.'Little Ruth misses you very much."

  Pete folded the letter and put it in his pocket. "From a friend ofmine," he said, flushing slightly.

  Ma Bailey sighed, smiled, and sighed again. "You're just itching to gosee the boys. Well, run along, and tell Jim not to set up all night." MaBailey rose, and stepping to the bedroom returned with some blankets."You'll have your old bunk. It's yours just as long as you want to stay,Pete. And--and I hope that girl in El Paso--is a--a nice--sensible--"

  "Why, Ma! What's the matter?--" as Mrs. Bailey blinked and showedunmistakable signs of emotion.

  "Nothing, Pete. I reckon your coming back so sudden and all you beenthrough, and that letter, kind of upset me. D-does she powder her face,Pete?"

  "Who? You mean Miss Gray? Why, what would she do that for?"

  "Does she wear clothes that--that cost lots of money?"

  "Great snakes, Ma! I dunno. I never seen her except in the hospital,dressed jest like all the nurses."

  "Is--is she handsome?"

  "Say, Ma, you let me hold them blankets. They're gittin' you all saggeddown. Why, she ain't what I'd say was _handsome_, but she sure gotpretty eyes and hair--and complexion--and the smoothest little hands--andshe's built right neat. She steps easy--like a thoroughbred filly--andshe's plumb sensible, jest like you folks."

  This latter assurance did not seem to comfort Ma Bailey as much as theimplied compliment might intimate.

  "And there's only one other woman I ever saw that made me feel right tohome and kind o' glad to have her round, like her. And she's got grayeyes and the same kind of hair, and--"

  "Sakes alive, Pete Annersley! Another?"

  "Uh-huh. And I'm kissin' her good-night--right now." And Pete grabbedthe blankets and as much of Ma Bailey as could be included in that largearmful, and kissed her heartily.

  "He's changed," Ma Bailey confided to herself, after Pete haddisappeared. "Actin' like a boy--to cheer me up. But it weren't no boythat set there readin' that letter. It was a growed man, and no wonder.Yes, Pete's changed, bless his heart!"

  Ma Bailey did not bless Pete's heart because he had changed, however, norbecause he had suffered, nor yet because he was unconsciously in lovewith a little nurse in El Paso, nor yet because he kissed her, butbecause she liked him: and because no amount of money or misfortune,blame or praise, could really change him toward his friends. What MaBailey meant was that he had grown a little more serious, a little moregentle in his manner of addressing her--aside from saying good-night--anda little more intense in a quiet way. To sum it all up, Pete had justbegun to think--something that few people do on the verdant side offorty, and rather dread having to do on the other side of that mile-post.

  A week later, as they sat at table asking one another whether Ma Baileyhad took to makin' pies ag'in jest for practice or for Pete, and plaguingthat good woman considerably with their good-natured banter, it occurredto Bill Haskins to ask Pete if he were going to become a permanent memberof the family or if he were simply visiting; only Bill said, "Are youaimin' to throw in with us--or are you goin' to curl your tail and drift,when the snow flies?"

  "I reckon I'll drift," said Pete.

  This was news. Andy White demurred forcibly. Bailey himself seemedsurprised, and even old Hank Barley, the silent, expressed himself asmildly astonished.

  "We figured you'd stay till after the round-up, anyhow," said Bailey.

  "Reckon it's too tame for Pete here," growled Andy.

  "That's no fault of yours, Andrew," observed Ma Bailey.

  "You're always peckin' at me," grumbled Andy, who detested being called"Andrew" quite as much as that robust individual known to his friends asBill detests being called "Willie"--and Ma Bailey knew it.

  "So you aim to leave us," said Haskins, quite unaware of Ma Bailey's eyewhich glared disapproval of the subject.

  "Pete's going--next Tuesday--and just to set your mind at rest and giveyou a chance to eat your supper"--Bill had been doing scarcely anythingelse since he sat down--"Pete has a right good reason to go."

  "Kin I have another cup of coffee?" queried Bill.

  "Sakes alive, yes! I reckon that's what's ailing you."

  "I only had three, Ma."

  "Pete is going away _on business_," asserted Ma Bailey.

  "Huh," snorted Andy.

  Bailey glanced at his wife, who telegraphed to him to change the subject.And that good man, who had been married twenty-five years, changed thesubject immediately.

  But Andy did not let it drop. After supper he cornered Pete in thebunk-house, and following some wordy fencing, ascertained that Pete wasgoing to Tucson for the winter to get an education. Pete blushinglyadmitted that that was his sole intent, swore Andy to secrecy, and toldhim that he had discussed the subject with Ma Bailey, who had advised himto go.

  "So you're quittin' the game," mourned Andy.

  "Nope, jest beginnin'."

  "Well, you might 'a' said somethin', anyhow."

  Pete put his hand on Andy's shoulder. "I wa'n't sure--till yesterday. I_was_ goin' to tell _you_, Andy. Shucks! Didn't I tell you about themoney and everything--and you didn't say a word to the boys. I ain'tforgittin'."

  "Oh, I knowed havin' money wouldn't swell you up. It ain't that. Only,I was wonderin'--"

  "So was I, Andy. And I been wonderin' for quite a spell. Come on outand let's go set on the corral bars and smoke and--jest smoke."

  But they did more than just smoke. The Arizona stars shot wondrousshafts of white fire through the nipping air as the chums sensed thecomfortable companionship of horses moving slowly about the corral; andthey heard the far, faint call of the coyote as a drift of wind broughtthe keen tang of the distant timberlands. They talked together as onlyyouth may talk with youth, when Romance lights the trail, when the heartspeaks from itself to heart in sympathy. Yet their chat was not withouthumor or they would not have been Pete and Andy.

  "You always was a wise one," asserted Andy; "pickin' out a professionalnurse for _your_ girl ain't a bad idee."

  "I had a whole lot to do with pickin' her out, didn't I
?"

  "Well, you can't make me believe that she did the pickin', for you wastellin' me she had good eyes."

  "I reckon it was the Doc that did the pickin',"' suggested Pete.

  "Well, I suppose the next thing you'll be givin' the preacher a chanct."

  "Nope. Next thing I'll be givin' Miss Gray a chanct to tell me I'm adoggone idiot--only she don't talk like that."

  "Then it'll be because she don't know you like I do. But you're lucky--No tellin'--" Andy climbed down from the bars.

  "No tellin' what?" queried Pete.

  "No tellin' you how much I sure want you to win, pardner--because youknow it."

  Pete leapt from the top rail square on to Andy, who, taken off his guard,toppled and fell. They rolled over and over, not even trying to miss thepuddle of water beside the drinking-trough. Andy managed to get his freehand in the mud and thought of feeding some of it to Pete, but Pete wastoo quick for him, squirming loose and making for the bunkhouse at topspeed.

  Pete entrenched himself in the far corner of the room where Bill Haskinswas reading a novel,--exceedingly popular, if the debilitated conditionof the pages and covers were any criterion,--when Andy entered, holdingone hand behind him in a suspicious manner. Pete wondered what wascoming when it came. Andy swung his arm and plugged a fair-sizedmud-ball at Pete, which missed him and hit the innocent and unsuspectingBill on the ear, and stayed there. Bill Haskins, who was at the momenthelping the hero hold a spirited pair of horses while the heroine climbedto a seat in the romantic buckboard, promptly pulled on the reins andshouted "Whoa!" and the debilitated novel came apart in his hands with asoft, ripping sound. It took Bill several seconds to think of somethingto say, and several more to realize just what had happened. He openedhis mouth--but Andy interrupted with "Honest, Bill, I wasn't meanin' tohit you. I was pluggin' at Pete, there. It was his fault; he went andhid out behind you. Honest, Bill--wait and I'll help you dig that theremud out of your ear."

  Bill shook his head and growled as he scraped the mud from his face andneck. Andy, gravely solicitous, helped to remove the mud andaffectionately wiped his fingers in Bill's hair.

  "Here--what in hell you doin'!" snorted Bill.

  "That's right! I was forgittin'! Honest, Bill!"

  "I'll honest you! I'll give you somethin' to forgit." But Andy did notwait.

  A little later Bill appeared at the kitchen door and plaintively asked MaBailey if she had any sticking-plaster.

  "Sakes alive! Now what you done to yourself, William?"

  "Nothin' this time, Miss Bailey. I--I done tore a book--and jest want tofix it."

  When Bill returned to the bunk-house with the "sticking-plaster," Peteand Andy both said they were sorry for the occurrence, but Bill wasmighty suspicious of their sincerity. They were silent while Billlaboriously patched up the book and settled himself to take up the reinswhere he had dropped them. The heroine had just taken her seat besidethe driver--when-- "It's a darned shame!" said a voice, Pete's voice.

  "It sure is--and Bill jest learnin' to read. He might 'a' spelled out awhole page afore mornin'."

  "I wa'n't meanin' Bill," asserted Pete.

  "Oh, you won't bother Bill none. He can't hear you. His off ear is fullof mud. Go on and say anything you like about him."

  Bill slowly laid down his book, stepped to his bunk, and drew hissix-shooter from its holster. He marched back to the table and laid thegun quite handy to him, and resumed his chair.

  Bill Haskins was long-suffering--but both Andy and Pete realized that itwas high time to turn their bright particular talents in some otherdirection. So they undressed and turned in. They had been asleep anhour or two before Bill closed his book regretfully, picked up his gun,and walked to his bunk. He stood for a moment gazing at Andy, and thenturned to gaze at Pete. Then he shook his head--and a slow smile lightedhis weathered face. For despite defunct mountain lions, bent nails, andother sundries, Bill Haskins liked Andy and Pete--and he knew if it cameto a test of friendship that either of them would stand by him to thelast dollar, or the last shot even, as he would have gladly done to helpthem.

  CHAPTER XLVI

  THE RIDIN' KID FROM POWDER RIVER

  The first thing Pete did when he arrived in Tucson was to purchase asuit as near like that which he had seen Andover wear as possible.Pete's Stetson was discarded for a soft felt of ordinary dimensions.He bought shoes, socks, and some underwear, which the storekeeperassured him was the latest thing, but which Pete said "looked more likechicken-wire than honest-to-Gosh cloth," and fortified by his new andinconspicuous apparel, he called on the principal of the high schooland told him just why he had come to Tucson. "And I'd sure look queersettin' in with all the kids," Pete concluded. "If there's any way ofmy ketchin' up to my size, why, I reckon I kin pay."

  The principal thought it might be arranged. For instance, he would beglad to give Pete--he said Mr. Annersley--an introduction to aninstructor, a young Eastern scholar, who could possibly spare three orfour evenings a week for private lessons. Progress would dependentirely upon Pete's efforts. Many young men had studied thatway--some of them even without instruction. Henry Clay, for instance,and Lincoln. And was Mr. Annersley thinking of continuing with hisstudies and entering college, or did he merely wish to becomeconversant with the fundamentals?

  "If I kin git so I can throw and hog-tie some of them fundamentalswithout losin' my rope, I reckon I'll be doin' all I set out to do.No--I guess I'd never make a top-hand, ridin' for you. But my rope istied to the horn--and I sure aim to stay with whatever I git my loopon."

  "I get your drift--and I admire your purpose. Incidentally andspeaking from a distinctly impersonal--er--viewpoint" (no doubt ahigh-school principal may speak from a viewpoint, or even sit on one ifhe cares to), "your colloquialisms are delightful--and sufficientlyforceful to leave no doubt as to your sincerity of purpose."

  "Meanin' you sabe what I'm gittin' at, eh?"

  The principal nodded and smiled.

  "I thought that was what you was tryin' to say. Well, professor--"

  "Dr. Wheeler, if you please."

  "All right, Doc. But I didn't know you was a doc too."

  "Doctor of letters, merely."

  Pete suspected that he was being joked with, but the principal's mannerwas quite serious. "If you will give me your address, I will drop aline to Mr. Forbes," said the principal.

  Pete gave his name and address. As Principal Wheeler wrote them downin his notebook he glanced up at Pete curiously. "You don't happen tobe the young man--er--similarity of names--who was mixed up in thatshooting affair in El Paso? Name seemed familiar. No doubt acoincidence."

  "It wa'n't no coincidence--it was a forty-five," stated Pete.

  The principal stared at Pete as though he half-expected to see him pulla gun and demand an education instanter. But Pete's smile helped theprincipal to pull himself together. "Most extraordinary!" heexclaimed. "I believe the courts exonerated you?"

  "That ain't all they did to me," Pete assured him. "Nope. You gotthat wrong. But I reckon they would 'a' done it--if I hadn't 'a' hiredthat there lawyer from El Paso. He sure exonerated a couple o'thousand out o' me. And the judge turned me loose."

  "Most extraordinary!"

  "It was that lawyer that told me I ought to git a education," exclaimedPete.

  "Of course! Of course! I had forgotten it for the moment. Well, hereis Mr. Forbes's address. I think you will find him at his room almostany evening."

  "I'll be there!"

  "Very good! I suppose you are aware that it is illegal to carryconcealed weapons inside the city limits?"

  "I get you, Doc, but I ain't packin' a gun, nohow."

  As the weeks went by and the winter sun swung farther south, Mr.Forbes, the young Eastern scholar, and Pete began to understand eachother. Pete, who had at first considered the young Easterner affected,and rather effeminate, slowly realized that he was mistaken. Forbeswas a sincere and manly fellow, wh
o had taken his share of hard knocksand who suffered ill health uncomplainingly--an exile of his chosenenvironment, with little money and scarce a companion to share hisloneliness.

  As for Forbes, he envied Pete his abundant health and vigor and admiredhis unspoiled enthusiasm. Pete's humor, which somehow suggested toForbes the startling and inexplicable antics of a healthy colt, meltedForbes's diffidence, and they became friends and finally chums. Petereally learned as much through this intimacy as he did from his books:perhaps more. It was at Pete's suggestion that Forbes took to riding ahorse, and they spent many afternoons on the desert, drifting slowlyalong while they discussed different phases of life.

  These discussions frequently led to argument, sincere on Pete's part,who never realized that Forbes's chief delight in life was to get Petestarted, that he might enjoy Pete's picturesque illustration of thepoint, which, more often than not, was shrewdly sharp and convincing.No amount of argument, no matter how fortified by theory and example,could make Pete change his attitude toward life; but he eventually cameto see life from a different angle, his vision broadening to a widerperspective as they climbed together, Forbes loitering on familiarground that Pete might not lose the trail and find himself entangled insome unessential thicket by the way.

  Forbes was not looking well. His thin face was pinched; his eyes werelistless. Pete thought that Forbes stayed indoors too much. "Whydon't you go get a cayuse and ride?" he suggested.

  "Never was on a horse in my life."

  "Uh-huh. Well, you been off one too long."

  "I'd like to. But I can't afford it."

  "I don't mean to buy a horse--jest hire one, from the livery. I wasthinkin' of gettin' out on the dry-spot myself. I'm plumb sick oftown."

  "You would have to teach me."

  "Shucks! There's nothin' to learn. All you got to do is to fork yourcayuse and ride. I'd sure be glad to go with you."

  "That's nice of you. Well, say to-morrow afternoon, then. But whatabout horses?"

  "We got a session to-morrow. What's the matter with this afternoon?The sun's shinin', and there ain't much wind, and I can smell the oledesert, a-sizzlin'. Come on!"

  They were in Forbes's room. The Easterner laid his book aside andglanced down at his shoes. "I haven't a riding-costume."

  "Well, you can get one for a dollar and four-bits--copper-riveted, andsure easy and comfortable. I'll lend you a pair of boots."

  "All right. I'll try it once, at least."

  Forbes felt rather conspicuous in the stiff new overalls, rolled up atthe bottom, over Pete's tight high-heeled boots, but nobody paid anyattention to him as he stumped along beside Pete, on the way to thelivery.

  Pete chose the horses, and a saddle for Forbes, to whom he gave a fewbrief pointers anent the art of swinging up and dismounting. They setout and headed for the open. Forbes was at first nervous; but asnothing happened, he forgot his nervousness and gave himself to gazingat the great sun-swept spaces until the horses broke into a trot, whenhe turned his entire attention to the saddle-horn, clinging to itaffectionately with his free hand.

  Pete pulled up. "Say, amigo, it's ag'inst the rules to choke thatthere horn to death. Jest let go and clamp your knees. We'll lope 'ema spell."

  Forbes was about to protest when Pete's horse, to which he hadapparently done nothing, broke into a lope. Forbes's horse followed.It was a rough experience for the Easterner, but he enjoyed it untilPete pulled up suddenly. Forbes's own animal stopped abruptly, butForbes, grabbing wildly at the horn, continued, and descended in agraceful curve which left him sitting on the sand and blinking up atthe astonished animal.

  "Hurt you?" queried Pete.

  "I think not-- But it was rather sudden. Now what do I do?"

  "Well, when you git rested up, I'd say to fork him ag'in. He's suretame."

  "I--I thought he was rather wild," stammered Forbes, getting to hisfeet.

  "Nope. It was you was wild. I reckon you like to scared him to death.Nope! Git on him from this side."

  "He seems a rather intelligent animal," commented Forbes as he preparedfor the worst.

  "Well, we kin call him that, seein' there's nobody round to hear us.We'll walk 'em a spell."

  Forbes felt relieved. And realizing that he was still alive anduninjured, he relaxed a bit. After they had turned and headed fortown, he actually enjoyed himself.

  Next day he was so stiff and sore that he could scarcely walk, but hiseye was brighter. However, he begged off from their proposed ride thefollowing afternoon. Pete said nothing; but when the next ridingafternoon arrived, a week later, Forbes was surprised to see Pete,dressed in his range clothes. Standing near the curb were two horses,saddled and bridled. "Git on your jeans and those ole boots of mine.I fetched along a extra pair of spurs."

  "But, Annersley--"

  "I can't ride 'em both."

  "It's nice of you--but really, I can't afford it."

  "Look here, Doc, what you can't afford is to set in that room a-readin'all day. And the horse don't cost you a cent. I had a talk with theold-timer that runs the livery, and when he seen I was onto my job, hewas plumb tickled to death for me to exercise the horses. One of 'emneeds a little educatin'."

  "That's all right. But how about my horse?"

  "Why, I brought him along to keep the other horse company. I can'thandle 'em both. Ain't you goin' to help me out?"

  "Well, if you put it that way, I will this time."

  "Now you're talkin' sense."

  Several weeks later they were again riding out on the desert andenjoying that refreshing and restful companionship which is bestexpressed in silence, when Pete, who had been gazing into the distance,pulled up his restive horse and sat watching a moving something thatsuddenly disappeared. Forbes glanced at Pete, who turned and nodded asif acknowledging the other's unspoken question. They rode on.

  A half-hour later, as they pulled up at the edge of the arroyo, Forbeswas startled by Pete's "Hello, neighbor!" to an apparently empty world.

  "What's the joke?" queried Forbes.

  The joke appeared suddenly around the bend in the arroyo--a big,weather-bitten joke astride of a powerful horse. Forbes uttered anexclamation as the joke whipped out a gun and told them to "Put 'emup!" in a tone which caused Forbes's hands to let go the reins and risehead-high without his having realized that he had made a movement.Pete was also picking invisible peaches from the air, which furtherconfirmed Forbes's hasty conclusion that they were both doing the rightthing.

  "_I ain't got a gun on me, Ed._" Pete had spoken slowly anddistinctly, and apparently without the least shadow of trepidation.Forbes, gazing at the grim, bronzed face of the strange horseman,nervously echoed Pete's statement. Before the Easterner could realizewhat had actually happened, Pete and the strange rider had dismountedand were shaking hands: a transition so astonishing that Forbes forgotto lower his hands and sat with them nervously aloft as thoughimploring the Rain-God not to forget his duty to mankind.

  Pete and the stranger were talking. Forbes could catch an occasionalword, such as "The Spider--ElPaso--White-Eye--Hospital--Sonora--Sanborn--Sam Brent--"

  Pete turned and grinned. "I reckon you can let go the--your holt, Doc.This here is a friend of mine."

  Forbes sighed thankfully. He was introduced to the friend, whom Petecalled Ed, but whose name had been suddenly changed to Bill. "We usedto ride together," explained Pete.

  Forbes tactfully withdrew, realizing that whatever they had to talkabout was more or less confidential.

  Presently Pete approached Forbes and asked him if he had any money withhim. Forbes had five dollars and some small change. "I'm borrowin'this till to-morrow," said Pete, as he dug into his own pocket, andwithout counting the sum total, gave it to the stranger.

  Brevoort stuffed the money in his pocket and swung to his horse. "Youbetter ride in with us a ways," suggested Pete. "The young fella don'tknow anything about you--and he won't talk if I pass the word to him.Then I kin
go on ahead and fetch back some grub and some more dineros."

  Forbes found the stranger rather interesting as they rode back towardTucson; for he spoke of Mexico and affairs below the line--amazingthings to speak of in such an offhand manner--in an impersonal andinteresting way.

  Within two miles of the town they drew up. "Bill, here," explainedPete, "is short of grub. Now, if you don't mind keepin' him company,why, I'll fan it in and git some. I'll be back right soon."

  "Not at all! Go ahead!" Forbes wanted to hear more of first-handexperiences south of the line. Forbes, who knew something of Pete'shistory, shrewdly suspected that the stranger called "Bill" had a goodreason to ride wide of Tucson--although the Easterner did not quiteunderstand why Pete should ride into town alone. But that was merelyincidental.

  It was not until Pete had returned and the stranger had departed,taking his way east across the desert, that Pete offered anexplanation--a rather guarded explanation, Forbes realized--of therecent happenings. "Bill's keepin' out on the desert for his health,"said Pete. "And, if anybody should ask us, I reckon we ain't seen him."

  "I think I understand," said Forbes.

  And Forbes, recalling the event many months later, after Pete had leftTucson, thought none the less of Pete for having helped an old friendout of difficulties. Forbes was himself more than grateful toPete--for with the riding three times a week and Pete's robustcompanionship, he had regained his health to an extent far beyond hishopes.

  Pete rejected sixteen of the seventeen plans he had made that winterfor his future, often guided by what he read in the occasional lettersfrom Doris, wherein he found some rather practical suggestions--for hewrote frankly of his intent to better himself, but wisely refrainedfrom saying anything that might be interpreted as more than friendship.

  Pete had not planned to go to El Paso quite as soon as he did; and itwas because of an unanswered letter that he went. He had written earlyin March and it was now May--and no reply.

  If he had waited a few days longer, it is possible that he would nothave gone at all, for passing him as he journeyed toward Texas was aletter from Doris Gray in which she intimated that she thought theircorrespondence had better cease, and for the reason--which she did notintimate--that she was a bit afraid that Pete would come to El Paso,and stay in El Paso until she had either refused to see him--it wassignificant that she thought of refusing to see him, for he wasactually worth looking at--or until he had asked her a question towhich there was but one answer, and that was "no." Just why Dorisshould have taken it for granted that he would ask her that question isa matter which she never explained, even to herself. Pete had nevermade love to her in the accepted sense of the term. He had done muchbetter than that, although he was entirely unconscious of it. But thatpsychological moment--whatever that may mean--in the affairs of Dorisand Pete was rapidly approaching,--a moment more often anticipated bythe female of the species than by the male.

  Just what kept Pete from immediately rushing to the hospital andproclaiming his presence is another question that never can beanswered. Pete wanted to do just that thing--but he did not. Instead,he took a modest room at a modest hotel, bought himself somepresentable clothing, dropped in to see Hodges of the Stockmen'sSecurity, and spent several days walking about the streets mentallypreparing himself to explain just why he _had_ come to El Paso, finallyarriving at the conclusion that he had come to see little Ruth. Dorishad said that Ruth had missed him. Well, he had a right to drop in andsee the kid. And he reckoned it was nobody's business if he did.

  He had avoided going near the General Hospital in his strolls abouttown, viewing that building from a safe distance and imagining allsorts of things. Perhaps Miss Gray had left. Perhaps she was ill. Orshe might have married! Still, she would have told him, he thought.

  Doris never knew what a struggle it cost Pete--to say nothing of hardcash--to purchase that bottle of perfume. But he did it, marching intoa drug-store and asking for a bottle of "the best they had," and payingfor it without a quiver. Back in his room he emptied about half of thebottle on his handkerchief, wedged the handkerchief into his pocket,and marched to the street, determination in his eye, and the fumes ofhalf a vial of Frangipanni floating in his wake.

  Perhaps the Frangipanni stimulated him. Perhaps the overdose deadenedhis decision to stay away from the hospital. In any event, thatafternoon he betook himself to the hospital, and was fortunate infinding Andover there, to whom he confided the obvious news that he wasin town--and that he would like to see little Ruth for a minute, if itwas all right.

  Andover told him that little Ruth had been taken to her home a monthago--and Pete wondered how she could still miss him, as Miss Gray hadintimated in her last letter. And as he wondered he saw light--not agreat light, but a faint ray which was reflected in his face as heasked Andover when Miss Gray would be relieved from duty, and if itwould be possible to see her then.

  Andover thought it might be possible, and suggested that he let MissGray know of Pete's presence; but some happy instinct caused Pete toveto that suggestion.

  "It ain't important," he told Andover. "I'll jest mosey around aboutsix, and step in for a minute. Don't you say I'm in town!"

  Andover gazed curiously after Pete as the latter marched out. Thesurgeon shook his head. Mixed drinks were not new to Andover, but hecould not for the life of him recognize what Pete had been drinking.

  Doris, who had not been thinking of Pete at all,--as she was not aspiritualist, and had always doubted that affinities were other thaneasy excuses for uneasy morals,--came briskly down the hospital steps,gowned in a trim gray skirt and a jacket, and a jaunty turban that hidjust enough of her brown hair to make that which was visible the morealluring. She almost walked into Pete--for, as it has been stated, shewas not thinking of him at all, but of the cozy evening she would spendwith her sister at the latter's apartments on High Street.Incidentally Doris was thinking, just a little, of how well her gownand turban became her, for she had determined never to let herselfbecome frowsy and slipshod--Well--she had not to look far for herantithesis.

  "Why, Mr. Annersley!"

  Pete flushed, the victim of several emotions. "Good-evenin', MissGray. I--I thought I'd jest step in and say 'Hello' to that littlekid."

  "Oh! Ruth?" And Doris flushed just the least bit herself. "Why,little Ruth is not here now."

  "Shucks! Well, I'm right glad you are! Was you goin' somewhere?"

  "Yes. Out to my sister's on High Street."

  "I only been in town two or three days, so I don't know jest where HighStreet is, but I reckon I could find my way back all right." And Peteso far forgot the perfume as to smile in his old, boyish way.

  Doris did some rapid mental calculation and concluded that herlatest--or rather her last--letter had just about arrived in Tucson,and of course Pete had not read it. That made matters a littledifficult. But there was no reason in the world why he should not walkwith her to her sister's.

  Pete saw no reason why he should not, either, but rather a veryattractive reason why he should.

  Without further word they turned and walked down the street, Doriswondering what in the world had induced Pete to immerse himself inFrangipanni, and Pete wondering if there was ever a prettier girl inthe world than Doris Gray.

  And because Pete wanted to talk about something entirely impersonal, heat once began to ask her what she thought of his latest plan, which wasto purchase an interest in the Concho, spend his summers working withthe men and his winters in Tucson, studying with Forbes about whom hehad written to her.

  Doris thought it was a splendid plan. She was sure--quiteimpersonally--that he would make a success of anything he attempted.

  Pete was not so sure, and he told her so. She joked him for doubtinghimself. He promptly told her that he didn't doubt himself for aminute, but that he did doubt the willingness of the person whom hehoped to make a partner in the venture.

  "Not Mr. Forbes?" she queried, glancing quickly
at Pete's serious face.

  "Nope. It's you."

  They walked another block without speaking; then they walked stillanother. And they had begun to walk still another when Pete suddenlypulled his handkerchief from his pocket and threw it in the gutter."That doggone perfume is chokin' me to death!" he blurted. And Doris,despite herself, smiled.

  They were out where the streets were more open and quiet now. The sunwas close to the edge of the desert, far in the west. Doris's handtrembled just the least bit as she turned to say "good-night." Theyhad stopped in front of a house, near the edge of town. Pete's facewas a bit pale; his dark eyes were intense and gloomy.

  Quite unconscious of what he was doing, he pulled out his watch--a newwatch that possessed no erratic tendencies. Suddenly Doris thought ofPete's old watch, and of little Ruth's extreme delight in itsirresponsible hands whirling madly around, and of that night when Petehad been brought to the hospital. Suddenly there were two tearstrembling on her lashes, and her hand faltered. Then, being a sensibleperson, she laughed away her emotion, for the time being, and invitedPete in to supper.

  Pete thought Doris's sister a mighty nice girl, plumb sensible and nota bit stuck up. And later, when this "plumb sensible" person declaredthat she was rather tired and excused herself and disappeared, afterbidding Pete good-night, he knew that she was a sensible person. Hecouldn't see how she could help it, being the sister of Doris.

  "So I'll be sayin' good-night," stated Pete a few minutes later, as hestood by the door, proud and straight and as vital as a flame.

  But he didn't say it, at least coherently. Doris's hand was on hissleeve. Pete thought she had a mighty pretty hand. And as for hereyes--they were gray and misty and warm . . . and not at all like hehad ever seen them before. He laughed happily, "You look plumblonesome!" he said.

  "I--I was."

  Pete dropped his hat, but he did not know it until, well--severalminutes later, when Doris gave it to him.

  It was close to midnight when a solitary policeman, passing down a sidestreet, heard a nocturnal singer inform dark and empty High Street thathe was

  "The Ridin' Kid from Powder River,"--

  with other more or less interesting details.

  Pete felt a hand on his shoulder. "You better cut that out!" said theofficer.

  Pete whirled and his hand flickered toward his hip. "You go plumbto--" Pete hesitated. The officer sniffed suspiciously. Petegrinned--then proffered his hand with irresistible enthusiasm.

  "Sure I'll cut it out."

  THE END

  The Riverside Press

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  U.S.A.