CHAPTER VII
PLANS
Several nights later a horseman rode into Montoya's camp. Pete,getting supper, pretended great indifference until he heard thehorseman's voice. It was young Andy White who had come to visit, as hehad promised. Pete's heart went warm, and he immediately found anextra tin plate and put more coffee in the pot. He was glad to seeWhite, but he was not going to let White know how glad. He greeted theyoung cowboy in an offhand way, taking the attitude of being soengrossed with cooking that he could not pay great attention to a strayhorseman just then. But later in the evening, after they had eaten,the two youths chatted and smoked while Montoya listened and gazed outacross the evening mesa. He understood. Pete was tired of the sheepand would sooner or later take up with the cattle. That was naturalenough. He liked Pete; really felt as a father toward him. And theold Mexican, who was skilled in working leather, thought of thehand-carved holster and belt that he had been working on during hisspare time--a present that he had intended giving Pete when it wascompleted. There was still a little work to do on the holster; theflower pattern in the center was not quite finished. To-morrow hewould finish it--for he wanted to have it ready. If Pete stayed withhim, he would have it--and if Pete left he should have something bywhich to remember Jose de la Crux Montoya--something to remember himby, and something useful--for even then Montoya realized that if YoungPete survived the present hazards that challenged youth and anadventurous heart, some day, as a man grown, Pete would thoroughlyappreciate the gift. A good holster, built on the right lines and onefrom which a gun came easily, would be very useful to a man of Pete'sinclinations. And when it came to the fit and hang of a holster,Montoya knew his business.
Three weeks later, almost to a day, the sheep were grazing below thetown of Concho, near the camp where Pete had first visited Montoya andelected to work for him. On the higher levels several miles to theeast was the great cattle outfit of the Concho; the home-buildings,corrals, and stables. Pete had seen some of the Concho boys--chancevisitors at the homestead on the Blue--and he had been thinking ofthese as the sheep drifted toward Concho. After all, he was notequipped to ride, as he had no saddle, bridle, chaps, boots, and noteven a first-class rope. Pete had too much pride to acknowledge hislack of riding-gear or the wherewithal to purchase it, even should hetie up with the Concho boys. So when Andy White, again visiting thesheep-camp, told Pete that the Concho foreman had offered noencouragement in regard to an extra hand, Pete nodded as though thematter were of slight consequence, which had the effect of stirringAndy to renewed eloquence anent the subject--as Pete had hoped. Theboys discussed ways and means. There was much discussion, but novisible ways and means. Andy's entire wealth was invested in his owngay trappings. Pete possessed something like seventeen dollars. Butthere is nothing impossible to youth--for when youth realizes theimpossible, youth has grown a beard and fears the fire.
Both boys knew that there were many poor Mexicans in the town of Conchowho, when under the expansive influence of wine, would part with almostanything they or their neighbors possessed, for a consideration. Therewere Mexicans who would sell horse, saddle, and bridle for that amount,especially when thirsty--for seventeen dollars meant unlimited vino anda swaggering good time--for a time. Pete knew this only too well. Hesuggested the idea to Andy, who concurred with enthusiasm.
"Cholas is no good anyhow," blurted Andy. "You ain't robbin' nobodywhen you buy a Chola outfit. Let's go!"
Montoya, who sat by the fire, coughed.
"'Course, I was meanin' some Cholas," said Andy.
The old herder smiled to himself. The boys amused him. He had beenyoung once--and very poor. And he had ridden range in his youthfuldays. A mild fatalist, he knew that Pete would not stay long, andMontoya was big enough not to begrudge the muchacho any happiness.
"I'm goin' over to town for a spell," explained Pete.
Montoya nodded.
"I'm comin' back," Pete added, a bit embarrassed.
"Bueno. I shall be here."
Pete, a bit flustered, did not quite catch the mild sarcasm, but hebreathed more freely when they were out of sight of camp. "He's sure awhite Mexican," he told Andy. "I kind o' hate to leave him, at that."
"You ain't left him yet," suggested Andy with the blunt candor of youth.
Pete pondered. Tucked under his arm were the two bobcat skins and thecoyote-hide. He would try to sell them to the storekeeper, Roth. Alltold, he would then have about twenty dollars. That was quite a lot ofmoney--in Concho.
Roth was closing shop when they entered town. He greeted Peteheartily, remarked at his growth and invited him in. Pete introducedAndy, quite unnecessarily, for Andy knew the storekeeper. Pete gazedat the familiar shelves, boxes and barrels, the new saddles and rigs,and in fact at everything in the store save the showcase whichcontained the cheap watches, trinkets, and six-shooters.
"I got a couple o' skins here," he said presently. "Mebby you couldbuy 'em."
"Let's see 'em, Pete."
Pete unfolded the stiff skins on the counter.
"Why, I'll give you two dollars for the lot. The cat-skins are allright. The coyote ain't worth much."
"All right. I--I'm needin' the money right now," stammered Pete--"orI'd give 'em to you."
"How you making it?" queried Roth.
"Fine! But I was thinkin' o' makin' a change. Sheep is all right--butI'm sick o' the smell of 'em. Montoya is all right, too. It ain'tthat."
Roth gazed at the boy, wondering if he would say anything about thesix-gun. He liked Pete and yet he felt a little disappointed that Peteshould have taken him altogether for granted.
"Montoya was in--yesterday," said Roth.
"Uh-huh? Said he was comin' over here. He's back in camp. Me andAndy was lookin' for a Chola that wants to sell a hoss."
"Mighty poor lot of cayuses round here, Pete. What you want with ahorse?"
"'T ain't the hoss. It's the saddle an' bridle I'm after. If I wereto offer to buy a saddle an' bridle I'd git stuck jest as much for 'emas I would if I was to buy the whole works. Might jest as well havethe hoss. I could trade him for a pair of chaps, mebby."
"Goin' to quit the sheep business?"
"Mebby--if I can git a job ridin'."
"Well, good luck. I got to close up. Come over and see me before youbreak camp."
"I sure will! Thank you for the--for buyin' them hides."
Pete felt relieved--and yet not satisfied. He had wanted to speakabout the six-shooter he had taken--but Andy was there, and, besides,it was a hard subject to approach gracefully even under the mostfavorable auspices. Perhaps, in the morning . . .
"Come on over to Tony's Place and mebby we can run into a Mex thatwants to sell out," suggested Andy.
Pete said good-night to Roth.
"Don't you boys get into trouble," laughed Roth, as they left. He hadnot even hinted about the six-shooter. Pete thought that thestorekeeper was "sure white."
The inevitable gaunt, ribby, dejected pony stood at the hitching-railof the saloon. Pete knew it at once for a Mexican's pony. No whiteman would ride such a horse. The boys inspected the saddle, which wasnot worth much, but they thought it would do. "We could steal 'im,"suggested Andy, laughing. "Then we could swipe the rig and turn thecayuse loose."
For a moment this idea appealed to Pete. He had a supreme contempt forMexicans. But suddenly he seemed to see himself surreptitiously takingthe six-shooter from Roth's showcase--and he recalled vividly how hehad felt at the time--"jest plumb mean," as he put it. Roth had beenmighty decent to him. . . . The Mexican, a wizened little man,cross-eyed and wrinkled, stumbled from the saloon.
"Want to sell your hoss?" Pete asked in Mexican.
"Si! How much you give?" said the other, coming right to the point.
"Ten dollars."
"He is a good horse--very fast. He is worth much more. I sell him fortwenty dollars."
"Si."
Andy White put h
is hand on Pete's shoulder. "Say, Pete," he whispered,"I know this hombre. The poor cuss ain't hardly got enough sense todie. He comes into town reg'lar and gits drunk and he's got a wholecorral full of kids and a wife, over to the Flats. I'm game, but it'skinda tough, takin' his hoss. It's about all he's got, exceptin' ameasly ole dog and a shack and the clothes on his back. That saddleain't worth much, anyhow."
Pete thought it over. "It's his funeral," he said presently.
"That's all right--but dam' if I want to bury him." And Andy, thesprightly, rolled a cigarette and eyed Pete, who stood pondering.
Presently Pete turned to the Mexican. "I was only joshin' you, amigo.You fork your cayuse and fan it for home."
Pete felt that his chance of buying cheap equipment had goneglimmering, but he was not unhappy. He gestured to Andy. Togetherthey strode across to the store and sat on the rough wood platform.Pete kicked his heels and whistled a range tune. Andy smoked andwondered what Pete had in mind. Suddenly Pete rose and pulled up hisbelt. "Come on over to Roth's house," he said. "I want to see him."
"He's turned in," suggested Andy.
"That's all right. I got to see him."
"I'm on! You're goin' to pay somethin' down on a rig, and git him tolet you take it on time. Great idee! Go to it!"
"You got me wrong," said Pete.
Roth had gone to bed, but he rose and answered the door when he heardPete's voice. "Kin I see you alone?" queried Pete.
"I reckon so. Come right in."
Pete blinked in the glare of the lamp, shuffled his feet as he slowlycounted out eighteen dollars and a half. "It's for the gun I took," heexplained.
Roth hesitated, then took the money.
"All right, Pete. I'll give you a receipt. Just wait a minute."
Pete gazed curiously at the crumpled bit of paper that Roth fetchedfrom the bedroom. "I took a gun an' cartriges for Wagges. You nevergiv me Wages."
Pete heaved a sigh. "I reckon we're square."
Roth grinned. "Knowed you'd come back some day. Reckon you didn'tfind a Mexican with a horse to sell, eh?"
"Yep. But I changed my mind."
"What made you change your mind?"
"I dunno."
"Well, I reckon I do. Now, see here, Pete. You been up against it'most all your life. You ain't so bad off with old Montoya, but I sabehow you feel about herding sheep. You want to get to riding. Butfirst you want to get a job. Now you go over to the Concho and tellBailey--'he's the foreman--that I sent you, and that if he'll give youa job, I'll outfit you. You can take your time paying for it."
Pete blinked and choked a little. "I ain't askin' nobody to _give_ menothin'," he said brusquely.
"Yes, you be. You're asking Bailey for a job. It's all right to askfor something you mean to pay for, and you'll pay for your job byworkin'. That there rig you can pay for out of your wages. I wasalways intending to do something for you--only you didn't stay. Ireckon I'm kind o' slow. 'Most everybody is in Concho. And seeing asyou come back and paid up like a man--I'm going to charge that gun upagainst wages you earned when you was working for me, and credit youwith the eighteen-fifty on the new rig. Now you fan it back to Montoyaand tell him what you aim to do and then if you got time, come overto-morrow and pick out your rig. You don't have to take it till youget your job."
Pete twisted his hat in his hands. He did not know what to say.Slowly he backed from the room, turned, and strode out to Andy White.Andy wondered what Pete had been up to, but waited for him to speak.
Presently Pete cleared his throat. "I'm coming over to your wickiupto-morrow and strike for a job. I got the promise of a rig, all right.Don't want no second-hand rig, anyhow! I'm the Ridin' Kid from PowderRiver and I'm comin' with head up and tail a-rollin'."
"Whoopee!" sang Andy, and swung to his pony.
"I'm a-comin'!" called Pete as Andy clattered away into the night.
Pete felt happy and yet strangely subdued. The dim road flickeredbefore him as he trudged back to the sheep-camp. "Pop would 'a' doneit that way," he said aloud. And for a space, down the darkening roadhe walked in that realm where the invisible walk, and beside himtrudged the great, rugged shape of Annersley, the spirit of the old manwho always "played square," feared no man, and fulfilled a purpose inthe immeasurable scheme of things. Pete knew that Annersley would havebeen pleased. So it was that Young Pete paid the most honorable debtof all, the debt to memory that the debtor's own free hand may pay ornot--and none be the wiser, save the debtor. Pete had "played square."It was all the more to his credit that he hated like the dickens togive up his eighteen dollars and a half, and yet had done so.
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