The Ridin Kid from Powder River

by Knibbs, Henry Herbert

  "Brent will be in to-day," said Brevoort. "You stick around here; and call me about noon."

  "The old man ain't takin' chances," remarked Pete.

  "You're wrong there," asserted Brevoort. "He's takin' the long chance every time, or he wouldn't be foreman of this outfit. You'll find that out if you stick round here long enough. If you don't call it takin' a chance pullin' off a trick like this one that's comin', jest try it yourself."

  "He handles men easy," asserted Pete, recalling Brent's rather fatherly advice in regard to Texas and the opportunity for a young man to go straight.

  "You sure please me most to death," drawled Brevoort. "You been a right quiet little pardner, and smilin', so I'm going to tell you somethin' that you can keep right on bein' quiet about. Sam Brent would send you or me or any man into a gun-fight, or a posse, or a jail, and never blink his eye, if he thought it was good business for him. He'd do it pleasant, too, jest like he was sendin' you to a dance, or a show. But he'd go jest as quick hisself, if he had to."

  "Then I guess we got no kick," said Pete.

  "I ain't kickin'. I'm jest puttin' you wise."

  "I ain't forgittin', Ed."

  Pete turned, following Brevoort's gaze. The man they were talking about was in sight and riding hard. Presently Brent was close enough to nod to them. Although he had ridden far and fast, he was as casual as sunshine. Neither in his voice nor his bearing was the least trace of fatigue.

  "I'm goin' to need you," he told Pete. "We're short of hands right now. If you need anything over in the line shack, go git it and come along down after Ed and me."

  Pete took the hint and left Brevoort and Brent to ride to the house together while he rode over to the shack and warmed up some coffee and beans. In an hour he was at the house. A thoroughbred stood at the hitching-rail. Pete noticed that the animal carried Brevoort's saddle. Evidently there was to be more hard riding. As Pete entered the big room, he also noticed that Brevoort was heavily armed, and carried an extra belt of cartridges. Brent was examining a rifle when Pete stepped in. "You may need this," said Brent, handing the rifle and scabbard to Pete. "Go over to the bunk-house and get another belt and some shells."

  When Pete returned, Blue Smoke was in the corral and his own saddle was on a big bay that looked like a splendid running-mate for Brevoort's mount. Pete busied himself slinging the rifle, curious as to what his new venture would or could be, yet too proud to show that he was interested.

  Brevoort, hitching up his belt, swung to his horse. Without hesitation Pete followed. Well-fed, eager and spirited, the horses lunged out into the open and settled into a long, swinging stride—a gait that was new to Pete, accustomed as he was to the shorter, quick action of the cow-pony.

  They rode south, across the sunlit expanse of emptiness between the hacienda and the line. A few hundred yards beyond the fence, Brevoort reined in. "Mexico," he said, gesturing round about. "Our job is to ride to the Ortez rancho and get that outfit movin' up this way."

  "Goin' to turn the cattle over to 'em?" queried Pete.

  "Yes—and that quick they won't know they got 'em. It's a big deal, if she goes through. If she don't, it's like to be the finish of the Olla."

  "Meanin' if the T-Bar-T and the Concho gits busy, there's like to be some smoke blowin' down this way?"

  "The same. Recollect what I was tellin' you this mornin'."

  "About Brent sendin' a man into a fight?"

  "Yes. But I wasn't figurin' on provin' it to you so quick," drawled the Texan. "Hold your horse down to a walk. We'll save speed for a spell. No, I wasn't figurin' on this. You see, when I hired out to Brent, I knew what I was doin'—so I told him I'd jest earn my pay on the white side of the border—but no Mexico for mine. That was the understandin'. Now he goes to work and sends you and me down into this here country on a job which is only fit for a Greaser. I'm goin' to see it through, but I done made my last ride for the Olla."

  "Brent was sayin' he was short of hands," suggested Pete.

  "Which is correct. But there's that José who knows every foot of the dry-spot clean to the Ortez—and he knows every hoss-thief in this sun-blasted country. Does he send José? No. He sends two white men, tellin' me that it is too big a deal to trust the Mexican with."

  "And a fine chance of gittin' bumped off by a lousy bunch of Cholas callin' themselves soldiers, eh?"

  "You said it."

  "Well, we got good hosses, anyway. And I sabe the Mexican talk."

  "Guess that's why Brent sent you along. He knows I talk mighty little Mexican." And Brevoort gazed curiously at Pete.

  "Seein' as you feel that way about it, Ed, I got somethin' I been millin' over in my head. Now, when The Spider sent me down here he said he had some important business he wanted me to handle. Brent was to tell me. Now I don't see anything important about ridin' line or chasin' into Mexico to wake up a bunch of Greasers and tell 'em to get busy. Uncle Sammy Brent's got somethin' hid up his sleeve, Ed."

  Brevoort, riding slowly beside Pete, turned from gazing across the desert and looked Pete over from spur to sombrero with a new interest. He thought he knew now why The Spider had sent Pete to the ranch and why Brent, in turn, had sent Pete on this dangerous mission. "Is The Spider much of a friend of yours?" queried Brevoort suddenly.

  "Why, I dunno. 'Course he acted like he was—but you can't tell about him. He—he helped me out of a hole onct."

  "Did you ever help him out?"

  "Me? No, I never had the chanct."

  "Uh-huh. Well, just you pull in your hoss and run your good eye over this a minute." And Brevoort drew a folded slip of paper from his shirt-pocket and handed it to Pete. It was a brief note addressed to Brevoort and signed "J.E." It instructed Brevoort to accompany Pete Annersley to El Paso after the sale of the cattle and to see to it that the money which Annersley would have with him was deposited to the credit of James Ewell in the Stockmen's Security and Savings Bank.

  Pete had difficulty in reading the note and took some time to read it, finally handing it back to Brevoort in silence. And then, "Where did you git it? Who is 'J.E.'?"

  "From Harper. 'J.E.' is Jim Ewell—The Spider."

  "So Harper rode to Showdown and back?"

  "He took word from Brent to The Spider that the boys had started," said Brevoort.

  "And Brent—" Pete hesitated for fear of committing himself even though he trusted Brevoort. But Brevoort had no hesitation. He anticipated Pete's thought and spoke frankly.

  "Brent figured it fine. I knew why he sent you and me on this ride—but I was tryin' to find out if you was wise—or ridin' blind. If we come back, Brent won't show his hand. If we don't come back he'll collect the dough and vamoose. Kin you see a hole in the fence?"

  "You're whistlin', Ed! It's one crook tryin' to git the best of another crook. But I would 'a' said Brent was straight. I say The Spider's money goes into that there bank."

  "Same here. I ain't so dam' honest that it hurts me, but I quit when it comes to stealin' from the man that's payin' my wages."

  "Then I reckon you and me is pardners in this deal," and Pete, boyishly proffered his hand.

  Big Ed Brevoort grasped Pete's hand, and held it till the horses shied apart. "To the finish," he said.

  "To the finish," echoed Pete, and with one accord they slackened rein. The thoroughbreds reached out into that long, tireless running stride that brought their riders nearer and nearer to the Ortez rancho and the Mexican agent of the guerilla captain whose troops were so sadly in need of beef.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  A GAMBLE

  On either side of a faint trail rose the dreary, angling grotesques of the cactus, and the dried and dead stalks of the soapweed. Beyond, to the south, lay a sea of shimmering space, clear to the light blue that edged the sky-line. The afternoon sun showed copper-red through a faint haze which bespoke a change of weather. The miles between the Olla and that tiny dot on the horizon—the Ortez hacienda—seemed endless, because of no pronounced landma
rks. Pete surmised that it would be dark long before they reached their destination. Incidentally he was amazed by the speed of the thoroughbreds, who ran so easily, yet with a long, reaching stride that ate into the miles. To Pete they seemed more like excellent machines than horses—lacking the pert individuality of the cow-pony. Stall-fed and groomed to a satin-smooth glow, stabled and protected from the rains—pets, in Pete's estimation—yet he knew that they would run until they dropped, holding that long, even stride to the very end. He reached out and patted his horse on the neck. Instantly the sensitive ears twitched and the stride lengthened. Pete tightened rein gently. "A quirt would only make him crazy," he thought; and he grinned as he saw that Brevoort's horse had let out a link or two to catch up with its mate.

  The low sun, touching the rim of the desert, flung long crimson shafts heavenward—in hues of rose and amethyst, against the deep umber and the purple of far spaces. From monotonous and burning desolation the desert had become a vast momentary solitude of changing beauty and enchantment. Then all at once the colors vanished, space shrank, and occasional stars trembled in the velvet roof of the night. And one star, brighter than the rest, grew gradually larger, until it became a solitary camp-fire on the level of the plain.

  "Don't like the looks of that," said Brevoort, as he pulled up his horse. "It's out in front of the 'dobe—and it means the Ortez has got company."

  "Soldiers?"

  "Looks like it."

  "Arguilla's men?"

  "I reckon so. And they're up pretty clost to the line—too clost to suit me. We'll ride round and do our talkin' with Ortez."

  "Ain't they friendly?" queried Pete.

  "Friendly, hell! Any one of 'em would knife you for the hoss you're ridin'! Hear 'em sing! Most like they're all drunk—and you know what that means. Just follow along slow; and whatever you run into don't get off your hoss."

  "Ain't them there coyotes friendly to Ortez?"

  "S' long as he feeds 'em. But that don't do us no good. Ought to be some of the Ortez riders hangin' round somewhere. They don't mix much with Arguilla's men."

  "She's a lovely lay-out," said Pete. "But I'm with you."

  Circling the ranch, Brevoort and Pete rode far out into the desert, until the camp-fire was hidden by the ranch-buildings. Then they angled in cautiously, edging past the 'dobe outbuildings and the corrals toward the hacienda. "Don't see anybody around. Guess they 're all out in front drinkin' with the bunch," whispered Brevoort. Just as Pete was about to make a suggestion, a figure rose almost beneath the horse's head, and a guttural Mexican voice told him to halt. Pete complied, telling the Mexican that they were from the Olla, that they had a message for Ortez.

  "No use arguin'," said Brevoort—and Pete caught Brevoort's meaning as another man appeared.

  "Ask him if Arguilla is here," said Brevoort. And Pete knew that these were Arguilla's men, for none of the Ortez vaquero's carried bolt-action rifles.

  The sentry replied to Pete's question by poking him in the ribs with the muzzle of his rifle, and telling his to get down muy pronto.

  "Tell him our message is for Arguilla—not Ortez," suggested Brevoort. "There's something wrong here. No use startin' anything," he added hastily, as he dismounted. "Ortez is agent for Arguilla's outfit. If you get a chance, watch what they do with our horses."

  "We came to see El Comandante," said Pete as the sentries marched them to the house. "We're his friends—and you'll be coyote-meat before mornin' if you git too careless with that gun."

  The sentry grunted and poked Pete in the back with his rifle, informing him in that terse universal idiom that he could "tell it to El Comandante."

  From the outer darkness to the glare of the light in the 'dobe was a blinding transition. Pete and Brevoort blinked at the three figures in the main room: Arguilla, who sat at the long table, his heavy features glistening with sweat, his broad face flushed to a dull red, had his hand on a bottle of American whiskey, from which he had just filled his glass. Near him sat the owner of the rancho, Ortez, a man much older, bearded and lean, with face lined and interlined by weather and age. At the closed door stood a sentry. From without came raucous laughter and the singing of the soldiers. The sentry nearest Pete told Arguilla that the Gringoes had been caught sneaking in at the back of the hacienda.

  Pete briskly corrected this statement. "We're from the Olla—about the cattle—for your army," added Pete, no whit abashed as he proffered this bit of flattery.

  "Si! You would talk with the patron then?"—and Arguilla gestured toward Ortez.

  "We got orders from Brent—he's our boss—-to make our talk to you," said Pete, glancing quickly at Brevoort.

  "How did you know that I was here with my army?" queried Arguilla.

  "Shucks! That's easy. It's in all the papers," asserted Pete, rather proud of himself, despite the hazard of the situation.

  Arguilla's chest swelled noticeably. He rose and strutted up and down the room, as though pondering a grave and weighty question. Presently he turned to Ortez. "You have heard, señor?"

  Ortez nodded. And in that nod Brevoort read the whole story. Ortez was virtually a prisoner on his own ranch. The noble captain of Liberty had been known to use his best friends in this way.

  "When will the cattle arrive at the Olla?" asked Arguilla, seating himself.

  "To-morrow, Señor Comandante. That is the word from Sam Brent."

  "And you have come for the money, then?"

  Pete barely hesitated. "No. Brent said there ain't no hurry about that. He said you could figure on two hundred head"—Pete recalled Harper's statement—"and that you would send your agent over to the Olla with the cash."

  Arguilla glanced at Ortez. "You have heard, señor?"

  Ortez nodded dejectedly. He had heard, but he dare not speak. As the trusted agent of the financiers backing Arguilla, he had but recently been given the money for the purchase of these supplies, and almost on the heels of the messenger bearing the money had come Arguilla, who at once put Ortez under arrest, conveyed the money to his own coffers, and told the helpless Ortez that he could settle with the Gringo Brent according to the understanding between them.

  Brevoort, silently eying Arguilla, saw through the scheme. Arguilla had determined to have both the money and the cattle. This explained his unwonted presence at the Ortez hacienda.

  Arguilla took a stiff drink of whiskey, wiped his mustache and turned to Brevoort. "You have heard?" he said.

  Brevoort knew enough Mexican to understand the question. "We'll tell Brent that everything is all right," he said easily. "But he's a dam' liar," he added in an undertone to Pete. Brevoort had made the mistake of assuming that because he did not understand Mexican, Arguilla did not understand English. Arguilla did not hear all that Brevoort said, but he caught the one significant word. His broad face darkened. These Gringoes knew too much! He would hold them until the cattle had been delivered—and then they could join his army—or be shot. A mere detail, in either event.

  "Put these men under arrest!" he commanded the sentries. "If they escape—you are dead men."

  "What's the idee—" began Pete, but the noble captain waved his hand, dismissing all argument, along with the sentries, who marched their prisoners to the stable and told them plainly that they had much rather shoot them than be bothered with watching them; a hint that Pete translated for Brevoort's benefit.

  One of the sentries lighted a dusty lantern and, placing it on the floor of a box stall, relieved his captives of their belts and guns. The sentries squatted at the open end of the stall and talked together while Brevoort and Pete sat each in a corner staring at the lantern.

  Presently Brevoort raised his head. "Find out if either of 'em sabe American talk," he whispered.

  "You sabe my talk?" queried Pete.

  One of the sentries turned to stare at Pete. The Mexican shook his head.

  "You're a liar by the watch—and your father was a pig and the son of a pig, wasn't he?" asked Pete, smiling pleasantl
y.

  "Si!" said the Mexican, grinning as though Pete had made a friendly joke.

  "And the other fella there, with ears like the barndoor in a wind, he's jest nacherally a horn-toad that likes whiskey and would jest as soon knife his mother as he would eat a rattlesnake for supper, eh?" And Pete smiled engagingly.

  "Si. It is to laugh."

  "You sabe whiskey?"

  The Mexican shook his head.

  "You sabe dam' fool?" Pete's manner was serious as though seeking information.

  Again the Mexican shook his head.

  "He sure don't," said Pete, turning to Brevoort—"or he'd 'a' jest nacherally plugged me. If a Chola don't know what whiskey or dam' fool means, he don't know American."

  Meanwhile the two guards had turned to the natural expedient of gambling for Pete's belt and gun. The elaborately carved holster had taken their fancy. Pete and his companion watched them for a while.

  Presently Pete attracted Brevoort's attention by moving a finger. "Hear anything?" he whispered.

  "I hear 'em eatin'," said Brevoort. He was afraid to use the word "horses."

  Pete nodded. "Speakin' of eatin'—you hungry, Ed?"

  "Plumb empty. But I didn't know it till you asked me."

  "Well, I been feelin' round in the hay—and right in my corner is a nest full of eggs. There's so doggone many I figure that some of 'em is gettin' kind of ripe. Did you ever git hit in the eye with a ripe egg?"