The Ridin Kid from Powder River

by Knibbs, Henry Herbert

  Back in The Spider's place men grouped round a huddled something on the floor. The Spider, who had fetched a lamp from his room, stooped and peered into the upturned face of Boca. A dull, black ooze spread and spread across the floor.

  "Boca!" he shrilled, and his face was hideous.

  "Did them coyotes git her?"

  "Who was it?"

  "Where's the kid?"

  The Spider straightened and held the lamp high. "Take her in there," and he gestured toward his room. Two of the men carried her to the couch and covered her with the folds of the serape which had slipped from her shoulders as she fell.

  "Say the word, Spider, and we'll ride 'em down!" It was "Scar-Face" who spoke, a man notorious even among his kind.

  The Spider, strangely quiet, shook his head. "They'll ride back here. They were after Young Pete. She smashed the lamp to give him a chance to shoot his way out. They figured he'd break for the back—but he went right into 'em. They don't know yet that they got her. And he don't know it." He hobbled round to the back of the bar. "Have a drink, boys, and then I'm going to close up till—" and he indicated his room with a movement of the head.

  Young Pete, riding into the night, listened for the sound of running horses. Finally he pulled his pony to a walk. He had ridden north—up the trail which the posse had taken to Showdown, and directly away from where they were searching the desert for him. And as Pete rode, he thought continually of Boca. Unaware of what had happened—yet he realized that she had been in great danger. This worried him—an uncertainty that became an obsession—until he could no longer master it with reason. He had ridden free from present hazard, unscratched and foot-loose, with many hours of darkness before him in which to evade the posse. He would be a fool to turn back. And yet he did, slowly, as though an invisible hand were on his bridle-rein; forcing him to ride against his judgment and his will. He reasoned, shrewdly, that the posse would be anywhere but at The Spider's place, just then.

  In an hour he had returned and was knocking at the door, surprised that the saloon was closed.

  At Pete's word, the door opened. The Spider, ghastly white in the lamplight, blinked his surprise.

  "Playin' a hunch," stated Pete. And, "Boca here?" he queried, as he entered.

  "In there," said The Spider, and he took the lamp from the bar.

  "What's the use of wakin' her?" said Pete. "I come back—I got a hunch—that somethin' happened when I made my get-away. But if she's all right—"

  "You won't wake her," said The Spider, and his voice sounded strange and far-away. "You better go in there."

  A hot flash shot through Pete. Then came the cold sweat of a dread anticipation. He followed The Spider to where Boca lay on the couch, as though asleep. Pete turned swiftly, questioning with his eyes. The Spider set the lamp on the table and backed from the room. Breathing hard, Pete stepped forward and lifted a corner of the serape. Boca's pretty mouth smiled up at him—but her eyes were as dead pools in the night.

  The full significance of that white face and those dull, unseeing eyes, swept through him like a flame. "Pardner!" he whispered, and flung himself on his knees beside her, his shadow falling across her head and shoulders. In the dim light she seemed to be breathing. Long he gazed at her, recalling her manner as she had raised her glass: "I drink to the young vaquero, with whom is my heart—and my life."

  Dully Pete wondered why such things should happen; why he had not been killed instead of the girl, and which one of the three deputies had fired the shot that had killed her. But no one could ever know that—for the men had all fired at him when the lamp crashed down—yet he, closer to them than Boca, had broken through their blundering fusillade. He knew that Boca had taken a great risk—and that she must have known it also. And she had taken that risk that he might win free.

  Too stunned and shaken to reason it out to any definite conclusion, Pete characteristically accepted the facts as they were as he thrust aside all thought of right or wrong and gave himself over to tearless mourning for that which Boca had been. That dead thing with dark, staring eyes and faintly smiling lips was not Boca. But where was she then?

  Slowly the lamplight paled as dawn fought through the heavy shadows of the room. The door swung open noiselessly. The Spider glanced in and softly closed the door again.

  The Spider, he of the shriveled heart and body, did the most human thing he had done for years. At the little table opposite the bar he sat with brandy and a glass and deliberately drank until he felt neither the ache of his old wounds nor the sting of this fresh thrust of fate. Then he knew that he was drunk, but that his keen, crooked mind would obey his will, unfeelingly, yet with no hesitation and no stumbling.

  He rose and hobbled to the outer door. A vagrant breeze stirred the stale air in the room. Back in the patio his Mexican, Manuelo, lay snoring, wrapped in a tattered blanket. The Spider turned from the doorway and gazed at the sanded spot on the floor, leaning against the bar and drumming on its edge with his nervous fingers. "He'll see her in every night-fire when he's alone—and he'll talk to her. He will see her face among the girls in the halls—and he'll go cold and speak her name, and then some girl will laugh. He will eat out his heart thinking of her—and what she did for him. He's just a kid—but when he comes out of that room … he won't give a damn if he's bumped off or not. He'll play fast—and go through every time! God! I ought to know!"

  The Spider turned and gazed across the morning desert. Far out rode a group of men. One of them led a riderless horse. The Spider's thin lips twisted in a smile.

  CHAPTER XXV

  "PLANTED—OUT THERE"

  Malvey, loafing at the ranch of Mescalero, received The Spider's message about the posse with affected indifference. He had Pete's horse in his possession, which in itself would make trouble should he be seen. When he learned from the messenger that Young Pete was in Showdown, he fumed and blustered until evening, when he saddled Blue Smoke and rode south toward the Flores rancho. From Flores's place he would ride on south, across the line to where he could always find employment for his particular talents. Experience had taught him that it was useless to go against The Spider, whose warning, whether it were based on fact or not, was a hint to leave the country.

  The posse from Concho, after circling the midnight desert and failing to find any trace of Pete, finally drew together and decided to wait until daylight made it possible to track him. As they talked together, they saw a dim figure coming toward them. Swinging from their course, they rode abruptly down a draw. Four of them dismounted. The fifth, the chief deputy, volunteered to ride out and interview the horseman. The four men on foot covered the opening of the draw, where the trail passed, and waited.

  The deputy sat his horse, as though waiting for some one. Malvey at once thought of Young Pete—then of The Spider's warning—and finally that the solitary horseman might be some companion from below the border, cautiously awaiting his approach. Half-inclined to ride wide, he hesitated—then loosening his gun he spurred his restless pony toward the other, prepared to "bull" through if questioned too closely.

  Within thirty feet of the deputy Malvey reined in. "You're ridin' late," he said, with a forced friendliness in his voice.

  "This the trail to Showdown?" queried the deputy.

  "This is her. Lookin' for anybody in particular?"

  "Nope. And I reckon nobody is lookin' for me. I'm ridin my own horse."

  It was a chance shot intended to open the way to a parley—and identify the strange horseman by his voice, if possible. It also was a challenge, if the unknown cared to accept it as such. Malvey's slow mind awakened to the situation. A streak of red flashed from his hand as he spurred straight for the deputy, who slipped from his saddle and began firing over it, shielded by his pony. A rifle snarled in the draw. Malvey jerked straight as a soft-nosed slug tore through him. Another slug shattered his thigh. Cursing, he lunged sideways, as Blue Smoke bucked. Malvey toppled and fell—an inert bulk in the dim light of the stars.<
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  The chief deputy struck a match and stooped. "We got the wrong man," he called to his companions.

  "It's Bull Malvey," said one of the deputies as the match flickered out. "I knew him in Phoenix."

  "Heard of him. He was a wild one," said another deputy.

  "Comin' and goin'! One of The Spider's bunch, and a hoss-thief right! I reckon we done a good job."

  "He went for his gun," said the chief.

  "We had him covered from the start," asserted a deputy. "He sure won't steal no more hosses."

  "Catch up his cayuse," commanded the chief deputy.

  Two of them, after a hard ride, finally put Blue Smoke within reach of a rope. He was led back to where Malvey lay.

  "Concho brand!" exclaimed the chief.

  "Young Pete's horse," asserted another.

  "There'll be hell to pay if Showdown gets wise to what happened to Bull Malvey," said the deputy, who recognized the dead outlaw.

  Dawn was just breaking when the chief deputy, disgusted with what he termed their "luck," finally evolved a plan out of the many discussed by his companions. "We got the cayuse—which will look good to the T-Bar-T boys. We ain't down here for our health and we been up against it from start to finish—and so far as I care, this is the finish. Get it right afore we start. Young Pete is dead. We got his horse." He paused and glanced sharply at Blue Smoke. "He's got the Concho brand!" he exclaimed.

  "Young Pete's horse was a blue roan," said a deputy. "I guess this is him—blue roan with a white blaze on his nose—so Cotton told me."

  "Looks like it!" said the chief deputy. "Well, say we got his horse, then. We're in luck for once."

  "Now it's easy diggin' down there in the draw. And it's gettin' daylight fast. I reckon that's Malvey's saddle and bridle on the blue roan. We'll just cover up all evidence of who was ridin' this hoss, drift into Showdown and eat, and then ride along up north and collect that reward. We'll split her even—and who's goin' to say we didn't earn it?"

  "Suits me," said a deputy. His companions nodded.

  "Then let's get busy. The sand's loose here. We can drag a blanket over this—and leave the rest to the coyotes."

  They scraped a long, shallow hole in the arroyo-bed and buried Malvey along with his saddle and bridle.

  The Spider smiled as he saw them coming. He was still smiling as he watched them ride up the street and tie their tired ponies to the hitching-rail. He identified the led horse as the one Malvey had stolen from Pete.

  "I see you got him," he said in his high-pitched voice.

  The chief deputy nodded. "He's planted—out there."

  "I meant the horse," said The Spider.

  Ordinarily, The Spider was a strange man. The posse thought him unusually queer just then. His eyes seemed dulled with a peculiar faint, bluish film. His manner was over-deliberate. There was something back of it all that they could not fathom. Moreover, the place was darkened. Some one had hung blankets over the windows. The deputies—four of them—followed The Spider into the saloon.

  "I guess you boys want to eat," said The Spider.

  "We sure do."

  "All right. I'll have Manuelo get you something." And he called to the Mexican, telling him to place a table in the private room—The Spider's own room, back of the bar. While the Mexican prepared breakfast, the posse accepted their chief's invitation to have a drink, which they felt they needed. Presently The Spider led the way to his room. The deputies, somewhat suspicious, hesitated on the threshold as they peered in. A lamp was burning on the table. There were plates, knives and forks, a coffee-pot, a platter of bacon… Beyond the lamp stood Young Pete, his back toward the couch and facing them. His eyes were like the eyes of one who walks in his sleep.

  The Spider held up his hand. "You're planted—out there. These gentlemen say so. So you ain't here!"

  Pete's belt and gun lay on the floor. The Spider was in his shirt-sleeves and apparently unarmed.

  The chief deputy sized up the situation in a flash and pulled his gun. "I guess we got you—this trip, Pete."

  "No," said The Spider. "You're wrong. He's planted—out there. What you staring at, boys? Pete, stand over there. Come right in, boys! Come on in! I got something to show you."

  "Watch the door, Jim," said the chief. "Ed, you keep your eye on The Spider." The chief deputy stepped to the table and peered across it at a huddled something on the couch, over which was thrown a shimmering serape. He stepped round the table and lifted a corner of the serape. Boca's sightless eyes stared up at him.

  "Christ!" he whispered. "It's the girl!" And even as he spoke he knew what had happened—that he and his men were responsible for this. His hand shook as he turned toward The Spider.

  "She—she ran into it when she— It's pretty tough, but—"

  "Your breakfast is waiting," said The Spider.

  "This was accidental," said the deputy, recovering himself, and glancing from one to another of his men. Then he turned to Pete. "Pete, you'll have to ride back with us."

  "No," said The Spider with a peculiar stubborn shrug of his shoulders. "He's planted out there. You said so."

  "That's all right, Spider. We made a mistake. This is the man we want."

  "Then who is planted out there?" queried The Spider in a soft, sing-song voice, high-pitched and startling.

  "That's our business," stated the deputy.

  "No—mine!" The Spider glanced past the deputy, who turned to face a Mexican standing in the doorway. The Mexican's hands were held belt high and they were both "filled."

  "Get the first man that moves," said The Spider in Mexican. And as he spoke his own hand flashed to his armpit, and out again like the stroke of a snake. Behind his gun gleamed a pair of black, beady eyes, as cold as the eyes of a rattler. The deputy read his own doom and the death of at least two of his men should he move a muscle. He had Young Pete covered and could have shot him down; Pete was unarmed. The deputy lowered his gun.

  Pete blinked and drew a deep breath. "Give me a gun, Spider—and we'll shoot it out with 'em, right here."

  The Spider laughed. "No. You're planted out there. These gents say so. I'm working this layout."

  "Put up your gun, Ed," said the chief, addressing the deputy who had The Spider covered. "He's fooled us, proper."

  "Let 'em out, one at a time," and The Spider gestured to the Mexican, Manuelo. "And tell your friends," he continued, addressing the chief deputy, "that Showdown is run peaceful and that I run her."

  When they were gone The Spider turned to Pete. "Want to ride back to Concho?"

  Pete, who had followed The Spider to the saloon, did not seem to hear the question. Manuelo was already sweeping out with a broom which he had dipped in a water-bucket—as casually busy as though he had never had a gun in his hand. Something in the Mexican's supreme indifference touched Pete's sense of humor. He shrugged his shoulders.

  "Who's goin' to tell her father?" he queried, gesturing toward the inner room.

  "He knows," said The Spider, who stood staring at the Mexican.

  "You're drunk," said Pete.

  "Maybe I'm drunk," echoed The Spider. "But I'm her father."

  Pete stepped forward and gazed into The Spidery scarred and lined face. "Hell!" Then he thrust out his hand. "Spider, I reckon I'll throw in with you."

  CHAPTER XXVI

  THE OLLA

  The Spider's system of bookkeeping was simple, requiring neither pen nor paper, journal nor day-book. He kept a kind of mental loose-leaf ledger with considerable accuracy, auditing his accounts with impartiality. For example, Scar-Face and three companions just up from the border recently had been credited with twenty head of Mexican cattle which were now grazing on The Spider's border ranch, the Olla. Scar-Face had attempted to sell the cattle to the leader of a Mexican faction whose only assets at the time were ammunition and hope. Scar-Face had met this chieftain by appointment at an abandoned ranch-house. Argument ensued. The Mexican talked grandiloquently of "Liberty, Fraternity, and
Equality." Scar-Face held out for cash. The Mexican leader needed beef. Scar-Face needed money. As he had rather carelessly informed the Mexican that he could deliver the cattle immediately, and realizing his mistake,—for he knew that the Mexican would straightway summon his retainers and take the cattle in the name of "Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality,"—Scar-Face promptly shot this self-appointed savior of Mexico, mortally wounded one of his two companions, and finally persuaded the other to help drift the cattle north with a promise of a share of the profits of the enterprise.

  The surviving Mexican rode to Showdown with Scar-Face and his companions, received his share of the sale in cash,—which he squandered at The Spider's place,—and straightway rode back across the border to rejoin his captainless comrades and appoint himself their leader, gently insinuating that he himself had shot the captain whom he had apprehended in the treachery of betraying them to a rival aggregation of ragged Liberties, Fraternities, and Equalities.

  The Spidery mental ledger read: "Scar-Face—Debit, chuck, liquor, and lodging"—an account of long standing—"and forty dollars in cash. Credit—twenty head of cattle, brand unknown."

  Scar-Face's account was squared—for the time being.

  Pete was also on The Spider's books, and according to The Spider's system of accounts, Pete was heavily in debt to him. Not that The Spider would have ever mentioned this, or have tried to collect. But when he offered Pete a job on his ranch he shrewdly put Pete in the way of meeting his obligations.

  Cattle were in demand, especially in Mexico, so ravaged by lawless soldiery that there was nothing left to steal. One outlaw chieftain, however, was so well established financially that his agents were able to secure supplies from a mysterious source and pay for them with gold, which also came from an equally mysterious source—and it was with these agents that The Spider had had his dealings. His bank account in El Paso was rolling up fast. Thus far he had been able to supply beef to the hungry liberators of Mexico; but beef on the hoof was becoming scarce on both sides of the border. Even before Pete had come to Showdown, The Spider had perfected a plan to raid the herds of the northern ranches. Occasional cowboys drifting to Showdown had given him considerable information regarding the physical characteristics of the country roundabout these ranches, the water-holes, trails, and grazing.