The Ridin Kid from Powder River

by Knibbs, Henry Herbert

  "I can't, eh? Well, between you and me, Jim, I know. One of Gary's own men said that night when they were leavin' the cabin, 'It must 'a' been Steve that drilled the ole man because Steve was the only puncher who knowed where the window was and fired into it.'"

  "I didn't know that. So you aim to even up, eh?"

  "Nope. I jest aim to be ready to even up."

  Bailey strode back to his horse. "I'm goin' up in the hills and look for a deer. Want to take a little pasear with me?"

  "Suits me, Jim."

  "Come on, then."

  They mounted and rode side by side across the noon mesa.

  The ponies stepped briskly. The air was like a song. Far away the blue hills invited exploration of their timbered and mysterious silences.

  "Makes a fella feel like forgettin' everything and everybody—but jest this," said Pete, gesturing toward the ranges.

  "The bucks'll be on the ridges," remarked Bailey.

  CHAPTER XIII

  GAME

  They got their buck—a big six-point—just before the sun dipped below the flaming sky-line. In order to pack the meat in, one or the other would have to walk. Pete volunteered, but Bailey generously offered to toss up for the privilege of riding. He flipped a coin and won. "Suits me," said Pete, grinning. "It's worth walkin' from here to the ranch jest to see you rope that deer on my hoss. I reckon you'll sweat."

  It took about all of the foreman's skill and strength, assisted by Pete, to rope the deer on the pony, who had never packed game and who never intended to if he could help it. And it was a nervous horse that Pete led down the long woodland trail as the shadows grew distorted and grim in the swiftly fading light Long before they reached the mesa level it was dark. The trail was carpeted with needles of the pine and their going was silent save for the creak of the saddles and the occasional click of a hoof against an uncovered rock. Pete's horse seemed even more nervous as they made the last descent before striking the mesa. "Somethin' besides deer is bother'n' him," said Pete as they worked cautiously down a steep switchback. The horse had stopped and was trembling. Bailey glanced back. "Up there!" he whispered, gesturing to the trail above them. Pete had also been looking round, and before Bailey could speak again, a sliver of flame split the darkness and the roar of Pete's six-gun shattered the eerie silence of the hillside. Bailey's horse plunged off the trail and rocketed straight down the mountain. Pete's horse, rearing from the hurtling shape that lunged from the trail above, tore the rope from his hand and crashed down the hillside, snorting. Something was threshing about the trail and coughing horribly. Pete would have run if he had known which way to run. He had seen two lambent green dots glowing above him and had fired with that quick instinct of placing his shot—the result of long practice. The flopping and coughing ceased. Pete, with cocked gun poked ahead of him, struck a match. In its pale flare he saw the long gray shape of a mountain lien stretched across the trail. Evidently the lion had smelled the blood of the deer, or the odor of the sweating horses—a mountain lion likes horse-flesh better than anything else—and had padded down the trail in the darkness, following as close as he dared. The match flamed and spluttered out. Pete wisely backed away a few paces and listened. A little wind whispered in the pines and a branch creaked, but there came no sound of movement from the lion. "I reckon I plugged him right!" muttered Pete. "Wonder what made Jim light out in sech a hurry?" And, "Hey, Jim!" he called.

  From far below came a faint Whoo! Halloo! Then the words separate and distinct: "I—got—your—horse."

  "I—got—a—lion," called Pete shrilly.

  "Who—is lyin'—?" came from the depths below.

  Pete grinned despite his agitation. "Come—on—back!" shouted Pete. He thought he heard Bailey say something like "damn," but it may have been, "I am." Pete struck another match and stepped nearer the lion this time. The great, lithe beast was dead. The blunt-nose forty-five at close range had torn away a part of its skull. "I done spiled the head," complained Pete. In the succeeding darkness he heard the faint tinkle of shod feet on the trail.

  Presently he could distinctly hear the heavy breathing of the horse and the gentle creak of the saddle. Within speaking distance he told the foreman that he had shot a whopper of a lion and it looked as though they would need another pack-horse. Bailey said nothing until he had arrived at the angle of the switchback, when he lighted a match and gazed at the great gray cat of the rocks.

  "You get twenty dollars bounty," he told Pete. "And you sure stampeded me into the worst piece of down timber I've rode for a long time. Gosh! but you're quick with that smoke-wagon of yours! Lost my hat and liked to broke my leg ag'in' a tree, but I run plumb onto your horse draggin' a rope. I tied him down there on the flat. I figure you've saved a dozen calves by killin' that kitty-cat. Did you know it was a lion when you shot?"

  "Nope, or I'd 'a' sure beat the hosses down the grade. I jest cut loose at them two green eyes a-burnin' in the brush and whump! down comes Mr. Kitty-cat almost plumb atop me. Mebby I wasn't scared! I was wonderin' why you set off in sech a hurry. You sure burned the ground down the mountain."

  "Just stayin' with my saddle," laughed Bailey. "Old Frisco here ain't lost any lions recent."

  "Will he pack?"

  "I dunno. Wish it was daylight."

  "Wish we had another rope," said Pete. "My rope is on my hoss and yours is cinchin' the deer on him. And that there lion sure won't lead. He's dead."

  "'Way high up in the Mokiones,'" chanted Bailey.

  "'A-trippin' down the slope'!" laughed Pete. "And we ain't got no rope. But say, Jim, can't we kind of hang him acrost your saddle and steady him down to the flats?"

  "I'll see what I can do with the tie-strings. I'll hold Frisco. You go ahead and heave him up."

  Pete approached the lion and tried to lift it, but it weaved and slipped from his arms. "Limper 'n wet rawhide!" asserted Pete.

  "Are you that scared? Shucks, now, I'd 'a' thought—"

  "The doggone lion, I mean. Every time I heave at him he jest folds up and lays ag'in' me like he was powerful glad to see me. You try him."

  The horse snorted and shied as the foreman slung the huge carcass across the saddle and tied the lion's fore feet and hind feet with the saddle-strings. They made slow progress to the flats below, where they had another lively session with Pete's horse, who had smelled the lion. Finally with their game roped securely they set out on foot for the ranch.

  The hunting, and especially Pete's kill, had drawn them close together. They laughed and talked, making light of high-heeled boots that pinched and blistered as they plodded across the starlit mesa.

  "Let's put one over on the boys!" suggested Pete. "We'll drift in quiet, hang the buck in the slaughter-house, and then pack the kitty-cat into the bunk-house and leave him layin' like he was asleep, by Bill Haskins's bunk. Ole Bill allus gits his feet on the floor afore he gits his eyes open. Mebby he won't step high and lively when he sees what he's got his feet on!"

  Bailey, plodding ahead and leading Frisco, chuckled. "I'll go you, Pete, but I want you to promise me somethin'."

  "Shoot!"

  Bailey waited for Pete to come alongside. "It's this way, Pete—and this here is plain outdoor talk, which you sabe. Mrs. Bailey and me ain't exactly hatin' you, as you know. But we would hate to see you get into trouble on account of Gary or any of the T-Bar-T boys. And because you can shoot is a mighty good reason for you to go slow with that gun. 'T ain't that I give two whoops and a holler what happens to Gary. It's what might happen to you. I was raised right here in this country and I know jest how those things go. You're workin' for the Concho. What you do, the Concho's got to back up. I couldn't hold the boys if Gary got you, or if you got Gary. They'd be hell a-poppin' all over the range. Speakin' personal, I'm with you to the finish, for I know how you feel about Pop Annersley. But you ain't growed up yet. You got plenty time to think. If you are a-hankerin' for Gary's scalp, when you git to be twenty-one, why, go to it. But you're a kid yet, and
a whole lot can happen in five or six years. Mebby somebody'll git Gary afore then. I sure hope they do. But while you're worldly for me—jest forget Gary. I ain't tellin' you you got to. I'm talkin' as your friend."

  "I'll go you," said Pete slowly. "But if Steve Gary comes at me—"

  "That's different. Let him talk—and you keep still. Keepin' still at the right time has saved many a man's hide. Most folks talk too much."

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE KITTY-CAT

  Pete and Bailey took off their boots just before they entered the bunk-house. They lugged the defunct mountain lion in and laid it by Bill Haskins's bunk.

  Pete propped the lion's head up with one of Haskin's boots. The effect was realistic enough. The lion lay stretched out in a most natural way, apparently gazing languidly at the sleeping cow-puncher. This was more or less accidental, as they dare not light the lamp for fear of waking the men. Bailey stole softly to the door and across to the house. Pete undressed and turned in, to dream of who knows what ghostly lions prowling through the timberlands of the Blue Range. It seemed but a few minutes when he heard the clatter of the pack-horse bell that Mrs. Bailey used to call the men to breakfast. The chill gray half-light of early morning discovered him with one cautious eye, gazing across at Haskins, who still snored, despite the bell. "Oh, Bill!" called Pete. Haskins's snore broke in two as he swallowed the unlaunched half and sat up rubbing his eyes. He swung his feet down and yawned prodigiously. "Heh—hell!" he exclaimed as his bare feet touched the furry back of the lion. Bill glanced down into those half-closed eyes. His jaw sagged. Then he bounded to the middle of the room. With a whoop he dashed through the doorway, rounded into the open, and sprinted for the corral fence, his bare legs twinkling like the side-rods of a speeding locomotive and his shirt-tail fluttering in the morning breeze. Andy White leaped from his bunk, saw the dead lion, and started to follow Haskins. Another cowboy, Avery, was dancing on one foot endeavoring to don his overalls.

  Hank Barley, an old-timer, jumped up with his gun poised, ready for business. "Why, he's daid!" he exclaimed, poking the lion with the muzzle of his gun.

  Pete rose languidly and began to dress. "What's all the hocus, fellas? Where's Haskins?"

  "Bill he done lit out like he'd lost somethin'," said Barley. "Now I wonder what young ijjut packed that tree-cat in here last night? Jim said yesterday he was goin' to do a little lookin' round. Looks like he sure seen somethin'."

  "Yes," drawled Pete. "Jim and me got a buck and this here lion. We didn't have time to git anything else."

  "Too bad you didn't git a bear and a couple of bob-cats while you was at it."

  "Hey, boys!" called Andy from the doorway. "Come see Bill!"

  The men crowded to the door. Perched on the top rail of the corral fence sat Bill Haskins shivering and staring at the house. "We killed your bed-feller!" called Barley. "He done et your pants afore we plugged him, but I kin lend you a pair. You had better git a-movin' afore Ma Bailey—"

  "Ssh!" whispered Andy White. "There's Ma standin' in the kitchen door and—she's seen Bill!"

  Bill also realized that he had been seen by Mrs. Bailey. He shivered and shook, teetering on the top rail until indecision got the better of his equilibrium. With a wild backward flip he disappeared from the high-line of vision. Ma Bailey also disappeared. The boys doubled up and groaned as Bill Haskins crawled on all fours across the corral toward the shelter of the stable.

  "Oh, my Gosh!" gasped Barley. "S-s-ome—body—sh-shoot me and put me out of my m-misery!"

  A few seconds later Bailey crossed the yard carrying an extra pair of those coverings most essential to male comfort and equanimity.

  It was a supernaturally grave bevy of cow-punchers that gathered round the table that morning. Ma Bailey's silence was eloquent of suppressed indignation. Bailey also seemed subdued. Pete was as placid as a sleeping cherub. Only Andy White seemed really overwrought. He seemed to suffer internally. The sweat stood out on Bill Haskins's red face, but his appetite was in no way impaired. He ate rapidly and drank much coffee. Ma Bailey was especially gracious to him. Presently from Pete's end of the table came a faint "Me-e-ow!" Andy White put down his cup of coffee and excusing himself fled from the room, Pete stared after him as though greatly astonished. Barley the imperturbable seemed to be suffering from internal spasms, and presently left the table. Blaze Andrews, the quietest of the lot, also departed without finishing his breakfast.

  "Ain't you feelin' well, Ma?" queried Pete innocently.

  Bailey rose and said he thought he would "go see to the horses"—a very unusual procedure for him. Pete also thought it was about time to depart. He rose and nodded to Bill. "Glad to see you back, Bill." Then he went swiftly.

  Haskins heaved a sigh. "I—doggone it—I—You got any sticking-plaster, Ma?"

  "Yes, William"—and "William" because Ma Bailey was still a bit indignant, although she appreciated that Bill was more sinned against than sinning. "Yes, William. Did you hurt yourself?"

  "Stepped on a nail—er—this mawnin'. I—I wasn't lookin' where I stepped."

  "What started you out—that way?" queried Mrs. Bailey.

  "Why, hell, Ma—I—wasn't meanin' hell, Ma,—but somebody—I reckon I know who—plants a mountain lion right aside my bunk last night when I was sleepin'. Fust thing this mawnin' I heard that bell and jumped out o' my bunk plumb onto the cuss. Like to bruk my neck. That there lion was a-lookin' right up into my face, kind of sleepy-eyed and smilin' like he was hungry. I sure didn't stop to find out. 'Course, when I got my wind, I knowed it was a joke. I reckon I ought to kill somebody—"

  "A lion, Bill? Hev you been drinkin'?"

  "Drinkin'! Why, Ma, I ain't had a drop sence—"

  "I reckon I better go see what's in that bunk-house," said Mrs. Bailey, rising. "I'll get you that stickin'-plaster when I come back."

  Mrs. Bailey realized that something unusual had started Bill Haskins on his wild career that morning, but she could not quite believe that there was a mountain lion—alive or dead—in the bunk-house until she saw the great beast with her own amazed eyes. And she could not quite believe that Pete had shot the lion until Bailey himself certified to Pete's story of the hunt. Mrs. Bailey, for some feminine reason, felt that she had been cheated. Bailey had not told her about the lion. She had been indignant with Haskins for his apparently unseemly conduct, and had been still more indignant with Pete when she appreciated that he was at the bottom of the joke. But Haskins was innocent and Pete was now somewhat of a hero. The good woman turned on her husband and rebuked him roundly for allowing such "goings-on." Bailey took his dressing-down silently. He felt that the fun had been worth it. Pete himself was rather proud and obviously afraid he would show it. But the atmosphere settled to normal when the men went to work. Pete was commissioned to skin and cut up the deer. Later in the day he tackled the lion, skinned it, fleshed out the nose, ears, and eyelids, and salted and rolled the hide. Roth, the storekeeper at Concho, was somewhat of a taxidermist and Mrs. Bailey had admired the lion-skin.

  Pete felt that he could have used the twenty dollars bounty, but he was nothing if not generous. That afternoon he rode to Concho with the lion-skin tied behind the cantle. He returned to the ranch late that night. Next morning he was mysteriously reticent about the disappearance of the hide. He intended to surprise Ma Bailey with a real Christmas present. No one guessed his intent. Pete was good at keeping his own counsel.

  A few evenings later the men, loafing outside the bunk-house, amused themselves by originating titles for the chief actors in the recent range-drama. Pete, without question, was "The Lion Tamer," Bailey was "Big-Chief-not-Afraid-of-a-Buck." Ma Bailey was "Queen of the Pies"—not analogous to the drama but flattering—and Haskins, after some argument and much suggestion, was entitled "Claw-Hammer." Such titles as "Deer-Foot," "Rail-Hopper," "Back-Flip Bill," "Wind-Splitter," and the like were discarded in favor of "Claw-Hammer"—for the unfortunate Bill had stepped on a rusty nail in his recent exodus fro
m the lion's den, and was at the time suffering from a swollen and inflamed foot—really a serious injury, although scoffed at by the good-natured Bill himself despite Mrs. Bailey's solicitude and solution of peroxide.

  Winter, with its thin shifts of snow, its intermittent sunshiny days, its biting winds that bored through chaps and heavy gloves, was finally borne away on the reiterant, warm breezes of spring. Mrs. Bailey was the proud and happy possessor of a lion-skin rug—Pete's Christmas present to her—proud of the pelt itself and happy because Young Pete had foregone the bounty that he might make the present, which was significant of his real affection. Coats and heavy overshoes were discarded. Birds sang among sprouting aspen twigs, and lean, mangy-looking coyotes lay on the distant hillsides soaking in the warmth. Gaunt cattle lowed in the hollows and spring calves staggered about, gazing at this new world with round, staring eyes.

  Houck, the T-Bar-T foreman, had discussed with Bailey the advisability of defining a line between the two big ranches. They came to an agreement and both stated that they would send men to roughly survey the line, fix upon landmarks, and make them known to the riders of both outfits. Bailey, who had to ride from Concho to the railroad to meet a Kansas City commission man, sent word back to the Concho to have two men ride over to Annersley's old homestead the following day. Mrs. Bailey immediately commissioned Young Pete and Andy to ride over to the homestead, thinking that Pete was a particularly good choice as he knew the country thereabouts. She cautioned the boys to behave themselves—she always did when Andy and Pete set out together—and giving them a comfortable package of lunch, she turned to her household work.

  "I'm takin' Blue Smoke," stated Pete as Andy packed his saddle to the corral.

  "You're takin' chances then," observed Andy.

  "Oh, I got him so he knows which way is north," asserted Pete. "I been gittin' acquainted with that cayuse, Chico."

  "Yes. I seen you settin' on the ground watchin' him buck your saddle off a couple of times," snorted Andy.