The Ridin Kid from Powder River

by Knibbs, Henry Herbert

  Almost before he realized it he was standing under the cedar and Andy was speaking. "Thought I heard some one shoot, over toward the woods."

  As Pete did not answer, Andy thought that the horse had got away from him. "Did you get him?" he queried.

  Pete nodded dully. "I got him. He's over there—in the brush."

  "Why didn't you fetch him in? Did he get the best of you? You look like he give you a tussle."

  "I got him—twict," said Pete.

  "Twict? Say, Pete, are you loco? What's ailin' you, anyhow?"

  "Nothin'. Me and Gary just had it out. He's over there—in the brush."

  "Gary!"

  "Yes. I reckon I got him."

  "Hell!" The ruddy color sank from Andy's face. He had supposed that Gary and Cotton were by this time tracking the strayed horses toward the T-Bar-T. "Where's Cotton?" he asked.

  "I told him to fan it."

  "But, Pete—!"

  "I know. They's no use talkin', Andy. I come back to tell you—and to git your rope. Mine's over by Gary."

  "What you goin' to do, Pete?"

  "Me? Why, I'm goin' to drift as soon as I can git a saddle on Blue. Cotton he seen the shootin'—but that don't do me no good. He'll swear that I pulled first. He'd say 'most anything—he was too scared to know what come off. Gary's hand was on his gun when I let him have it—twict."

  Andy noticed then Pete's torn sleeve. "I reckon that's right. Look at that!"

  Pete turned his head and glanced at his sleeve. "Never knowed he shot—it was all done so quick." He seemed to awaken suddenly to the significance of his position. "I'll take your rope and go git Smoke. Then I'm goin' to drift."

  "But where?"

  "You're my pardner, Andy, but I ain't sayin'. Then you won't have to lie. You'll have to tell Jim—and tell him it was like I said—if Gary come at me, that would be different. I'm leavin' it to you to square me with Jim Bailey." Pete picked up the rope and started toward the spring.

  "I'm goin' with you," said White, "and ketch my hoss. I aim to see you through with this."

  In an hour they were back at the cabin with the horses. Andy White glanced at his watch. "Cotton is afoot—for I seen his hoss over there. But he can make it to the T-Bar-T in three hours. That'll give us a start of two hours, anyhow. I don't know which way you aim to ride, but—"

  "I'm playin' this hand alone," stated Pete as he saddled Blue Smoke. "No use your gittin' in bad."

  White made no comment, but cinched up his pony. Pete stepped to him and held out his hand. "So-long, Andy. You been a mighty square pardner."

  "Nothin' doin'!" exclaimed Andy. "I'm with you to the finish."

  "Nope, Andy. If we was both to light out, you'd be in it as bad as me."

  "Then what do you say if we both ride down to Concho and report to the sheriff?"

  "I tried that onct—when they killed Pop Annersley. I know how that would work."

  "But what you goin' to do?"

  "I'm ridin'," and Pete swung to his horse. Blue Smoke pitched across the clearing under the spur and rein that finally turned him toward the south. Pete's sombrero flew off as he headed for the timber. Andy, reining 'round his horse, that fretted to follow, swung down and caught up Pete's hat on the run. Pete had pulled up near the edge of the timber. Andy, as he was about to give Pete his hat, suddenly changed it for his own. "For luck!" he cried, as Pete slackened rein and Blue Smoke shot down the dim forest trail.

  Pete, perhaps influenced by Montoya's example, always wore a high-crowned black sombrero. Andy's hat was the usual gray. In the excitement of leaving, Pete had not thought of that; but as he rode, he suspected Andy's motive, and glanced back. But Andy was not following, or if he were, he was riding slowly.

  Meanwhile Andy cheerfully put himself in the way of assisting Pete to escape. He knew the country and thought he knew where Pete was headed for. Before nightfall a posse would be riding the high country hunting the slayer of Gary. They would look for a cowboy wearing a black sombrero. Realizing the risk that he ran, and yet as careless of that risk as though he rode to a fiesta, Young Andy deliberately turned back to where Gary lay—he had not yet been to that spot—and, dismounting, picked up Pete's rope. He glanced at Gary, shivered, and swung to his horse. Riding so that his trail would be easy to read he set off toward the open country, east. The fact that he had no food with him, and that the country was arid and that water was scarce, did not trouble him. All he hoped for was to delay or mislead the posse long enough to enable Pete to reach the southern desert. There Pete might have one chance in twenty of making his final escape. Perhaps it was a foolish thing to do, but Andy White, inspired by a motive of which there is no finer, did not stop to reason about it. "He that giveth his life for a friend…" Andy knew nothing of such a quotation. He was riding into the desert, quite conscious of the natural hazards of the trail, and keen to the possibilities that might follow in the form of an excited posse not too discriminating, in their eagerness to capture an outlaw, yet he rode with a light heart. After all, Pete was not guilty of murder. He had but defended his own life. Andy's heart was light because of the tang of adventure, and a certain appreciation of what a disappointed posse might feel and express—and because Romance ran lightly beside him, heartening him on his way; Romance, whose ears are deaf to all moral considerations and whose eyes see only the true adventurer, be he priest or pirate; Romance whose eyes are blind to those who fear to dare.

  CHAPTER XVII

  A FALSE TRAIL

  "Sure he's dead!" reiterated Cotton. "Didn't I see them two holes plumb through him and the blood soakin' his shirt when I turned him over? If I'd 'a' had my gun on me that Young Pete would be right side of Steve, right now! But I couldn't do nothin' without a gun. Pete Annersley was plumb scared. That's why he killed Steve. Jest you gimme a gun and watch me ride him down! I aim to settle with that Jay."

  Cotton was talking to Houck of the T-Bar-T, blending fact and fiction in a blustering attempt to make himself believe he had played the man. During his long, foot-weary journey to the ranch he had roughly invented this speech and tried to memorize it. Through repetition he came to believe that he was telling the truth. Incidentally he had not paused to catch up his horse, which was a slight oversight, considering the trail from the Blue to his home ranch.

  "What's the matter with the gun you're packin'?" asked Houck.

  Cotton had forgotten his own gun.

  "I—it was like this, Bill. After Young Pete killed Gary, I went back to the shack and got my gun. At first, Andy White wasn't goin' to leave me have it—but I tells him to fan it. I reckon he's pretty nigh home by now."

  "Thought you said you didn't see White after the shooting—that he forked his horse and rode for the Concho? Cotton, you're lyin' so fast you're like to choke."

  "Honest, Bill! If I'd 'a' had my gun…"

  "Oh, hell! Don't try to swing that bluff. Where's your horse?"

  "I couldn't ketch him, honest."

  "Thought you said you caught him in the brush and tied him to a tree and Young Annersley threatened to kill you if you went for your saddle."

  "That's right—honest, Bill, that's what he said."

  "Then how is it that Bobby Lent caught your horse strayin' in more 'n a hour ago? Dam' if I believe a word you say. You're plumb crazy."

  "Honest, Bill. I hope to die if Steve Gary ain't layin' over there with two holes in him. He's sure dead. Do you think I footed it all the way jest because I like walkin'?"

  Houck frowned and shook his head. "You say him and Young Pete had come to words?"

  "Yep; about ole man Annersley. Steve was tellin' me about the raid when Pete steps up and tells him to say it over ag'in. Steve started to talk when Pete cuts down on him—twict. My God, he was quick! I never even seen him draw."

  "Did Gary say he was the one that plugged Annersley?"

  "Yep. Said he did it—and asked Pete what he was goin' to do about it."

  "Then Steve was drunk or crazy. You go git a h
orse and burn the trail to Concho. Tell Sutton that Young Pete Annersley killed Gary, up to the Blue Mesa. Tell him we're out after Young Pete. Can you git that straight?"

  "What if the sheriff was to pinch me for bein' in that scrap?"

  "You! In a gun-fight? No. He wouldn't believe that if you told him so. You jest tell Sutton what I said, and git goin'! Don't lie to him—or he'll spot it and pinch you dam' quick."

  With Cotton gone, Houck saddled up and rode out to where one of his men was mending fence. "Take your horse and git all the boys you can reach before night. Young Pete Annersley shot Steve over to the Blue this mornin'."

  The cowboy, unlike Cotton, whistled his surprise, dropped his tools, mounted, and was off before Houck had reined back toward the ranch-house.

  It was near twelve that night when a quiet band of riders dismounted at the Annersley cabin, separated, and trailed off in the darkness to look for Gary. One of them found him where he had fallen and signaled with his gun. They carried Gary to the cabin. In the flickering light of the open stove they saw that he was still alive. There was one chance in a thousand that he could recover. They washed his wounds and one of the men set out toward Concho, to telephone to Enright for a doctor. The rest grouped around the stove and talked in low tones, waiting for daylight. "Chances are the kid went south," said Houck, half to himself.

  "How about young White?" queried a cowboy.

  "I dunno. Either he rode with Pete Annersley or he's back at the Concho. Daylight'll tell."

  "If Steve could talk—" said the cowboy.

  "I guess Steve is done for," said Houck. "I knew Young Pete was a tough kid—but I didn't figure he'd try to down Steve."

  "Supposin' they both had a hand in it—White and Young Pete?"

  Houck shook his head. "Anybody got any whiskey?" he asked.

  Some one produced a flask. Houck knelt and raised Gary's head, tilting the flask carefully. Presently Gary's lips moved and his chest heaved.

  "Who was it? White?" questioned Houck.

  Gary moved his head in the negative.

  "Young Pete?" Gary's white lips shaped to a faint whisper—"Yes."

  One of the men folded a slicker and put it under Gary's head.

  Houck stood up. "I guess it's up to us to get Pete Annersley."

  "You can count me out," said a cowboy immediately. "Steve was allus huntin' trouble and it looks like he found it this trip. They's plenty without me to ride down the kid. Young Pete may be bad—but I figure he had a dam' good excuse when he plugged Steve, here. You can count me out."

  "And me," said another. "If young Pete was a growed man—"

  "Same here," interrupted the third. "Any kid that's got nerve enough to down Steve has got a right to git away with it. If you corner him he's goin' to fight—and git bumped off by a bunch of growed men—mebby four to one. That ain't my style."

  Houck turned to several cowboys who had not spoken. They were Gary's friends, of his kind—in a measure. "How is it, boys?" asked Houck.

  "We stick," said one, and the others nodded.

  "Then you boys"—and Houck indicated the first group—"can ride back to the ranch. Or, here, Larkin, you can stay with Steve till the doc shows up. The rest of you can drift."

  Without waiting for dawn the men who had refused to go out after Pete rode back along the hill-trail to the ranch. But before they left, Houck took what hastily packed food they had and distributed it among the posse, who packed it in their saddle-pockets. The remaining cowboys lay down for a brief sleep. They were up at dawn, and after a hasty breakfast set out looking for tracks. Houck himself discovered Andy White's tracks leading from the spot where Gary had been found, and calling the others together, set off across the eastern mesa.

  Meanwhile Andy White was sleeping soundly in a coulee many miles from the homestead, and just within sight of a desert ranch, to which he had planned to ride at daybreak, ask for food and depart, leaving the impression that he was Pete Annersley in haste to get beyond the reach of the law. He had stopped at the coulee because he had found grass and water for his horse and because he did not want to risk being found at the ranch-house. A posse would naturally head for the ranch to search and ask questions. Fed and housed he might oversleep and be caught. Then his service to Pete would amount to little. But if he rode in at daybreak, ahead of the posse, ate and departed, leaving a hint as to his assumed identity, he could mislead them a day longer at least. He built all his reasoning on the hope that the posse would find and follow his tracks.

  Under the silent stars he slept, his head on his saddle, and near him lay Pete's black sombrero.

  In the disillusioning light of morning, that which Andy had taken to be a ranch-house dwindled to a goat-herder's shack fronted by a brush-roofed lean-to. Near it was a diminutive corral and a sun-faded tent. The old Indian herder seemed in no way surprised to see a young rider dismount and approach cautiously—for Andy had entered into the spirit of the thing. He paused to glance apprehensively back and survey the western horizon. Andy greeted the Indian, who grunted his acknowledgment in the patois of the plains.

  "Any vaqueros ride by here this morning?" queried Andy.

  The herder shook his head.

  "Well, I guess I got time to eat," said Andy.

  A faint twinkle touched the old Indian's eyes, but his face was as expressionless as a dried apple.

  "Si," he said.

  "But not a whole lot of time," asserted Andy.

  The Indian rose and fetched a pail of goat's milk and some tortillas from the shack. He shuffled back to his hermitage and reappeared with a tin cup. Andy, who meanwhile had consumed one leathery tortilla, shook his head. "Never mind the cup, amigo." He tilted the pail and drank—paused for breath, and drank again. He set the pail down empty. "I was some dry," he said, smiling. "Got any more of these rawhide flapjacks?"

  The herder nodded, stooped to enter the shack, and came out with a half-dozen of the tortillas, which Andy rolled and stuffed in his saddle-pocket. "Mighty good trail bread!" he said enthusiastically. "You can't wear 'em out."

  Again the herder nodded, covertly studying this young rider who did not look like an outlaw, whose eye was clear and untroubled. Well, what did it matter?—a man must eat.

  The old Indian had given unquestioningly from his poverty, with the simple dignity of true hospitality. As for who this stranger was, of what he had done—that was none of his affair. A man must eat.

  "I'm payin' for this,"—and Andy proffered a silver dollar.

  The other turned the piece round in his fingers as though hesitating to accept it.

  "Si. But has not the señor some little money?"

  "That's all right, amigo. Keep it."

  The herder shook his head, and held up two fingers. Andy smiled. "I get you! You don't aim to bank all your wealth in one lump. Lemme see? All I got left is a couple of two-bit pieces. Want 'em?" The herder nodded and took the two coins and handed back the dollar. Then he padded stolidly to the shack and reappeared, bearing a purple velvet jacket which was ornamented with buttons made from silver quarters. He held it up, indicating that two of the buttons were missing. "Muchacha," he grunted, pointing toward the south.

  "I get you. Your girl is out looking after the goats, and you aim to kind of surprise her with a full set of buttons when she gets back. She'll ask you right quick where you got 'em, eh?"

  A faint grin touched the old Indian's mouth. The young vaquero was of the country. He understood.

  "Well, it beats me," said Andy. "Now, a white man is all for the big money. He'd take the dollar, get it changed, and be two-bits ahead, every time. But I got to drift along. Say, amigo, if any of my friends come a-boilin down this way, jest tell 'em that Pete—that's me—was in a hurry, and headed east. Sabe?"

  "Si."

  "Pete—with the black sombrero." Andy touched his hat.

  "Si. 'Pete.'"

  "Adios. Wisht I could take a goat along. That milk was sure comfortin'."

  The herd
er watched Andy mount and ride away. Then he plodded back to the shack and busied himself patiently soldering tiny rings on the silver pieces, that the set of buttons for his daughter's jacket might be complete. He knew that the young stranger must be a fugitive, otherwise he would not have ridden into the desert so hurriedly. He had not inquired about water, nor as to feed for his horse. Truly he was in great haste!

  Life meant but three things to the old Indian. Food, sleep, and physical freedom. He had once been in jail and had suffered as only those used to the open sky suffer when imprisoned. The young vaquero had eaten, and had food with him. His eyes had shown that he was not in need of sleep. Yet he had all but said there would be men looking for him.

  The old Indian rose and picked up a blanket. In the doorway he paused, surveying the western horizon. Satisfied that no one was in sight, he padded out to where Andy had tied his horse and swept the blanket across the tracks in the loose sand. Walking backwards he drew the blanket after him, obliterating the hoof-prints until he came to a rise where the ground was rocky. Without haste he returned and squatted in the shack. He was patiently working on a silver piece when some one called out peremptorily.