The Ridin Kid from Powder River

by Knibbs, Henry Herbert

  "Say, Doc, you got me wrong! I got the makin's all right, but I don't jest sabe rollin' 'em." Pete dug into his coat-pocket and fetched up a check-book. "Same as you paid for your hoss with."

  "This is Stockmen's Security. You have an account there?"

  "That's what the president was callin' it. I call it dough. I got the book." And Pete dug into his pocket again, watching Andover's face as that astonished individual glanced at the deposit to Pete's credit.

  "Well, you're the limit!"—and the doctor whistled. "What will you spring next?"

  "Oh, it's mine, all right. A friend was leavin' it to me. He's crossed over."

  "I s-e-e. Twenty-four thousand dollars! Young man, that's more money than I ever had at one time in my life."

  "Same here,"—and Pete grinned. "But it don't worry me none."

  "I'll make out the check for you." And Andover pulled out his fountain pen and stepped over to the auctioneer's stand. Pete signed the check and handed it to the auctioneer.

  "Don't know this man," said the auctioneer, as he glanced at the signature.

  "I'll endorse it," volunteered Andover quickly.

  "All right, Doc."

  And Andover, whose account was as close to being overdrawn as it could be and still remain an account, endorsed the check of a man worth twenty-four thousand-odd dollars, and his endorsement was satisfactory to the auctioneer. So much for professional egoism and six-cylinder prestige.

  Sheriff Owen, who had kept a mild eye on Pete, had noted this transaction. After Blue Smoke had been returned to the stables, he took occasion to ask Pete if he were still a partner to the understanding that he was on his honor not to attempt to escape.

  "I figured that deal was good till I got here," said Pete bluntly.

  "Just so, son. That's where my figuring stopped, likewise. Too much open country. If you once threw a leg over that blue roan, I can see where some of us would do some riding."

  "If I'd been thinkin' of leavin' you, it would 'a' been afore we got here, sheriff."

  "So it's 'sheriff' now, and not Jim, eh?"

  "It sure is—if you're thinkin' o' lockin' me up. You treated me white back there in El Paso—so I'm tellin' you that if you lock me up—and I git a chanct, I'll sure vamose."

  Pete's assertion did not seem to displease the sheriff in the least. To the contrary, he smiled affably.

  "That's fair enough. And if I don't lock you up, but let you stay over to the hotel, you'll hang around town till this thing is settled, eh?"

  "I sure will."

  "Will you shake on that?"

  Pete thrust out his hand. "That goes, Jim."

  "Now you're talking sense, Pete. Reckon you better run along and see what the Doc wants. He's waving to you."

  Andover sat in his car, drawing on his gloves. "I've arranged to have the horse shipped to me by express. If you don't mind, I wish you would see that he is loaded properly and that he has food and water before the car leaves—that is"—and Andover cleared his throat—"if you're around town tomorrow. The sheriff seems to allow you a pretty free hand—possibly because I assured him that you were not physically fit to—er—ride a horse. Since I saw that bank-book of yours, I've been thinking more about your case. If I were you I would hire the best legal talent in El Paso, and fight that case to a finish. You can pay for it."

  "You mean for me to hire a lawyer to tell 'em I didn't kill Sam Brent?"

  "Not exactly that—but hire a lawyer to prove to the judge and jury that you didn't kill him."

  "Then a fella's got to pay to prove he didn't do somethin' that he's arrested for, and never done?"

  "Often enough. And he's lucky if he has the money to do it. Think it over—and let me know how you are getting along. Miss Gray will be interested also."

  "All right. Thanks, Doc. I ain't forgittin' you folks."

  Andover waved his hand as he swung the car round and swept out of town. Pete watched him as he sped out across the mesa.

  Sheriff Owen was standing in the livery-stable door across the street as Pete turned and started toward him. Midway across the street Pete felt a sharp pain shoot through his chest. It seemed as though the air had been suddenly shut from his lungs and that he could neither speak nor breathe. He heard an exclamation and saw Owen coming toward him. Owen, who had seen him stop and sway, was asking a question. A dim blur of faces—an endless journey along a street and up a narrow stairway—and Pete lay staring at yellow wall-paper heavily sprinkled with impossible blue roses. Owen was giving him whiskey—a sip at a time.

  "How do you feel now?" queried the sheriff.

  "I'm all right. Somethin' caught me quick—out there."

  "Your lungs have been working overtime. Too much fresh air all at once. You'll feel better tomorrow."

  "I reckon you won't have to set up and watch the front door," said Pete, smiling faintly.

  "Or the back door. You're in the Sanborn House—room 11, second floor, and there's only one other floor and that's downstairs. If you want any thing—just pound on the floor. They'll understand."

  "About payin' for my board—"

  "That's all right. I got your money—and your other stuff that I might need for evidence. Take it easy."

  "Reckon I'll git up," said Pete. "I'm all right now."

  "Better wait till I come back from the office. Be back about six. Got to write some letters. Your case—called next Thursday." And Sheriff Owen departed, leaving Pete staring at yellow wallpaper sprinkled with blue roses.

  CHAPTER XLII

  "OH, SAY TWO THOUSAND"

  Just one week from the day on which Pete arrived in Sanborn he was sitting in the witness chair, telling an interested judge and jury, and a more than interested attorney for the defense, the story of his life—"every hour of which," the attorney for the defense shrewdly observed in addressing the court, "has had a bearing upon the case."

  Pete spoke quietly and at times with considerable unconscious humor. He held back nothing save the name of the man who had killed Brent, positively refusing to divulge Brevoort's name. His attitude was convincing—and his story straightforward and apparently without a flaw, despite a spirited cross-examination by the State. The trial was brief, brisk, and marked by no wrangling. Sheriff Owen's testimony, while impartial, rather favored the prisoner than otherwise.

  In his address to the jury, Pete's attorney made no appeal in respect to the defendant's youth, his struggle for existence, or the defendant's willingness to stand trial, for Pete had unwittingly made that appeal himself in telling his story. The attorney for the defense summed up briefly, thanking the jury for listening to him—and then suddenly whirled and pointed his finger at the sheriff.

  "I ask you as sheriff of Sanborn County why you allowed the defendant his personal liberty, unguarded and unattended, pending this trial."

  "Because he gave his word that he would not attempt to escape," said Sheriff Owen.

  "That's it!" cried the attorney. "The defendant gave his word. And if Sheriff Owen, accustomed as he is to reading character in a man, was willing to take this boy's word as a guarantee of his presence here, on trial for his life, is there a man among us who (having heard the defendant testify) is willing to stand up and say that he doubts the defendant's word? If there is I should like to look at that man! No!

  "Gentlemen, I would ask you to recall the evidence contained in the letter written by former employers of the defendant, substantiating my assertion that this boy has been the victim of circumstances, and not the victim of perverse or vicious tendencies. Does he look like a criminal? Does he act like a criminal? I ask you to decide."

  The jury was out but a few minutes, when they filed into court and returned a verdict of "Not guilty."

  The attorney for the defense shook hands with Pete, and gathered up his papers.

  Outside the courtroom several of the jury expressed a desire to make Pete's acquaintance, curiously anxious to meet the man who had known the notorious Spider personally. Pete was as
ked many questions. One juror, a big, bluff cattleman, even offered Pete a job—"in case he thought of punchin' cattle again, instead of studyin' law"—averring that Pete "was already a better lawyer than that shark from El Paso, at any turn of the trial."

  Finally the crowd dwindled to Owen, the El Paso lawyer, two of Owen's deputies, and Pete, who suggested that they go over to the hotel until train-time.

  When Pete came to pay the attorney, whom Andover had secured following a letter from Pete, the attorney asked Pete how much he could afford. Pete, too proud to express ignorance, and feeling mightily impressed by the other's ability, said he would leave that to him.

  "Well, including expenses, say two thousand dollars," said the attorney.

  Pete wrote the check and managed to conceal his surprise at the amount, which the attorney had mentioned in such an offhand way. "I'm thankin' you for what you done," said Pete.

  "Don't mention it. Now, I'm no longer your legal adviser, Annersley, and I guess you're glad of it. But if I were I'd suggest that you go to some school and get an education. No matter what you intend to do later, you will find that an education will be extremely useful, to say the least. I worked my way through college—tended furnaces in winter and cut lawns in summer. And from what Andover tells me, you won't have to do that. Well, I think I'll step over to the station; train's due about now."

  "You'll tell Doc Andover how it come out?"

  "Of course. He'll want to know. Take care of yourself. Good-bye!"

  Owen and his deputies strolled over to the station with the El Paso attorney. Pete, standing out in front of the hotel, saw the train pull in and watched the attorney step aboard.

  "First, Doc Andover says to hire a good lawyer, which I done, and good ones sure come high." Pete sighed heavily—then grinned. "Well, say two thousand—jest like that! Then the lawyer says to git a education. Wonder if I was to git a education what the professor would be tellin' me to do next. Most like he'd be tellin' me to learn preachin' or somethin'. Then if I was to git to be a preacher, I reckon all I could do next would be to go to heaven. Shucks! Arizona's good enough for me."

  But Pete was not thinking of Arizona alone—of the desert, the hills and the mesas, the cañons and arroyos, the illimitable vistas and the color and vigor of that land. Persistently there rose before his vision the trim, young figure of a nurse who had wonderful gray eyes… "I'm sure goin' loco," he told himself. "But I ain't so loco that she's goin' to know it."

  "I suppose you'll be hitting the trail over the hill right soon," said Owen as he returned from the station and seated himself in one of the ample chairs on the hotel veranda. "Have a cigar."

  Pete shook his head.

  "They're all right. That El Paso lawyer smokes 'em."

  "They ought to be all right," asserted Pete.

  "Did he touch you pretty hard?"

  "Oh, say two thousand, jest like that!"

  The sheriff whistled. "Shooting-scrapes come high."

  "Oh, I ain't sore at him. What makes me sore is this here law that sticks a fella up and takes his money—makin' him pay for somethin' he never done. A poor man would have a fine chance, fightin' a rich man in court, now, wouldn't he?"

  "There's something in that. The Law, as it stands, is all right."

  "Mebby. But she don't stand any too steady when a poor man wants to fork her and ride out of trouble. He's got to have a morral full of grain to git her to stand—and even then she's like to pitch him if she gits a chanct. I figure she's a bronco that never was broke right."

  "Well,"—and Owen smiled,—"we got pitched this time. We lost our case."

  "You kind o' stepped up on the wrong side," laughed Pete.

  "I don't know about that. Somebody killed Sam Brent."

  "I reckon they did. But supposin'—'speakin' kind o' offhand'—that you had the fella—and say I was witness, and swore the fella killed Brent in self-defense—where would he git off?"

  "That would depend entirely on his reputation—and yours."

  "How about the reputation of the fella that was killed?"

  "Well, it was Brent's reputation that got you off to-day, as much as your own. Brent was foreman for The Spider, which put him in bad from the start, and he was a much older man than you. He was the kind to do just what you said he did—try to hold you up and get The Spider's money. It was a mighty lucky thing for you that you managed to get that money to the bank before they got you. You were riding straight all right, only you were on the wrong side of the fence, and I guess you knew it."

  "I sure did."

  "Well, it ain't for me to tell you which way to head in. You know what you're doing. You've got what some folks call Character, and plenty of it. But you're wearin' a reputation that don't fit."

  "Same as clothes, eh?"—and Pete grinned.

  "Yes. And you can change them—if you want to change 'em."

  "But that there character part stays jest the same, eh?"

  "Yes. You can't change that."

  "Don't know as I want to. But I'm sure goin' to git into my other clothes, and take the trail over the hill that you was talkin' about."

  "There are six ways to travel from here,"—and the sheriff's eyes twinkled.

  "Six? Now I figured about four."

  "Six. When it comes to direction, the old Hopis had us beat by a couple of trails. They figured east, west, north, and south, straight down and straight up."

  "I git you, Jim. Well, minin' never did interest me none—and as for flyin', I sure been popped as high as I want to go. I reckon I'll jest let my hoss have his head. I reckon him and me has got about the same idee of what looks good."

  "That pony of yours has never been in El Paso, has he?" queried the sheriff.

  "Nope. Reckon it would be mighty interestin' for him—and the folks that always figured a sidewalk was jest for folks and not for hosses—but I ain't lookin' for excitement, nohow."

  "Reckon that blue roan will give you all you want, any way you ride. He hasn't been ridden since you left him here."

  "Yes—and it sure makes me sore. Doc Andover said I was to keep off a hoss for a week yet. Sanborn is all right—but settin' on that hotel porch lookin' at it ain't."

  "Well, I'd do what the Doc says, just the same. He ought to know."

  "I see—he ought to. He sure prospected round inside me enough to know how things are."

  "You might come over to my office when you get tired of sitting around here. There ain't anything much to do—but I've got a couple of old law books that might interest you—and a few novels—and if you want some real excitement I got an old dictionary—"

  "That El Paso lawyer was tellin' me I ought to git a education. Don't know but what this is a good chanct. But I reckon I'll try one of them novels first. Mebby when I git that broke to gentle I can kind o' ride over and fork one of them law books without gittin' throwed afore I git my spurs hooked in good. But I sure don't aim to take no quick chances, even if you are ridin' herd for me."

  "That lawyer was right, Pete. And if I had had your chance, money, and no responsibilities—at your age, I wouldn't have waited to pack my war-bag to go to college."

  "Well, I figured you was educated, all right. Why, that there lawyer was sayin' right out in court about you bein' intelligent and well-informed, and readin' character."

  "He was spreading it on thick, Pete. Regular stuff. What little I know I got from observation—and a little reading."

  "Well, I aim to do some lookin' around myself. But when it comes to readin' books—"

  "Reckon I'll let you take 'Robinson Crusoe'—it's a bed-rock story. And if you finish that before you leave, I'll bet you a new Stetson that you'll ask for another."

  "I could easy win that hat,"—and Pete grinned.

  "Not half as easy as you could afford to lose it."

  "Meanin' I could buy one 'most any time?"

  "No. I'll let you figure out what I meant." And the sturdy little sheriff heaved himself out of a most comfortable cha
ir and waddled up the street, while Pete stared after him trying to reconcile bow-legs and reading books, finally arriving at the conclusion that education, which he had hitherto associated with high collars and helplessness, might perhaps be acquired without loss of self-respect. "It sure hadn't spoiled Jim Owen," who was "as much of a real man as any of 'em"—and could handle talk a whole lot better than most men who boasted legs like his. Why, even that El Paso lawyer had complimented Owen on his "concise and eloquent summary of his findings against the defendant." And Pete reflected that his lawyer had not thrown any bouquets at any one else in that courtroom.

  Just how much a little gray-eyed nurse in El Paso had to do with Pete's determination to browse in those alien pastures is a matter for speculation—but a matter which did not trouble Pete in the least, because it never occurred to him; evident in his confession to Andy White, months later: "I sure went to it with my head down and my ears laid back, takin' the fences jest as they come, without stoppin' to look for no gate. I sure jagged myself on the top-wire, frequent, but I never let that there Robinson Crusoe cuss git out of sight till I run him into his a home-corral along with that there man-eatin' nigger of his'n."

  So it would seem that not even the rustle of skirts was heard in the land as Pete made his first wild ride across the pleasant pastures of Romance—for Doris had no share in this adventure, and, we are told, the dusky ladies of that carnivorous isle did not wear them.

  CHAPTER XLIII

  A NEW HAT—A NEW TRAIL

  The day before Pete left Sanborn he strolled over to the sheriff's office and returned the old and battered copy of "Robinson Crusoe," which he had finished reading the night previous. "I read her, clean through," asserted Pete, "but I'd never made the grade if you hadn't put me wise to that there dictionary. Gosh! I never knowed there was so many ornery words bedded down in that there book."

  "What do you think of the story?" queried the sheriff.

  "If that Robinson Crusoe guy had only had a hoss instead of a bunch of goats, he sure could have made them natives ramble. And he sure took a whole lot of time blamin' himself for his hard luck—always a-settin' back, kind o' waitin' for somethin'—instead of layin' out in the brush and poppin' at them niggers. He wa'n't any too handy at readin' a trail, neither. But he made the grade—and that there Friday was sure one white nigger."