CHAPTER XI
POP ANNERSLEY'S BOY
Several days after Pete's arrival at the Concho ranch, Andy White rodein with a companion, dusty, tired, and hungry from a sojourn over nearthe Apache line. White made his report to the foreman, unsaddled, andwas washing with a great deal of splutter and elbow-motion, when someone slapped him on the back. He turned a dripping face to behold Petegrinning at him.
Andy's eyes lighted with pleasure. He stuck out a wet hand. "Did youland a job?"
"With both feet."
"Good! I was so darned tired I clean forgot you was livin'. Say, Isaw ole Jose this afternoon. We was crossin' the bottom and rode intohis camp. He said you had quit him. I asked him if you come up here,but he only shook his head and handed me the usual 'Quien sabe?' He'llnever git a sore throat from talkin' too much. Say, wait till I gitsome of this here alkali out of my ears and we'll go and eat and thenhave a smoke and talk it out. Gee! But I'm glad you landed! How'dyou work it?"
"Easy. I rid that there Blue Smoke hoss--give 'em an exhibition ofreal ridin' and the fo'man sure fell for my style."
"Uh-huh. What kind of a fall did _you_ make?"
"Well, I wasn't in shape to know--till I come to. The fellas said Idone all right till ole Smoke done that little double twist and left mestandin' in the air--only with my feet up. I ain't jest lovin' thathoss a whole lot."
Andy nodded sagely. "I tried him onct. So Bailey give you a job, eh?"
"Kind of a job. Mostly peelin' potatoes and helpin' round the house.Ma Bailey says I'm worth any two of the men helpin' round the house.And I found out one thing--what Ma Bailey says round here goes."
"You bet! She's the boss. If Ma don't like a guy, he don't work longfor the Concho. I recollect when Steve Gary quit over the T-Bar-T andcome over here lookin' for a job. Ma she sized him up, but didn't saynothin' right away. But Gary he didn't stay long enough to git asaddle warm. Ma didn't like him, nohow. He sure was a top-hand--butthat didn't help him none. He's over to the T-Bar-T now. Seen him theother day. He's got some kind of a drag there, for they took him back.Folks says--say, what's bitin' you?"
"Nothin'. You said Gary?"
"Yes. Why?"
"I was jest thinkin'."
Young Andy dried his face on the community towel, emptied the basinwith a flourish which drenched the pup and sent him yelping toward thehouse, attempted to shy the basin so that it would land right-side upon the bench--but the basin was wet and soapy and slipped. It sailedthrough the door of the bunk-house and caromed off Bill Haskins's head.Andy saw what had happened and, seizing Pete's arm, rushed him acrossthe clearing and into the house, where he grabbed Ma Bailey and kissedher heartily, scrambled backward as she pretended to threaten him withthe mammoth coffee-pot, and sat down at the table with the remark thathe was "powerful tired."
"You act like it," scoffed Mrs. Bailey.
Bill Haskins, with a face like black thunder, clumped in and asked Mrs.Bailey if she had any "stickin'-plaster."
"Cut you, Bill?"
"Bad!" said Bill, exhibiting a cut above the ear--the result of Andy'sbasin-throwing.
"Oh, you go 'long!" said Mrs. Bailey, pushing him away. "Askin' forstickin'-plaster for a scratch like that!"
Bill Haskins growled and grumbled as he took his place at the table.He kept shaking his head like a dog with a sore ear, vowing that if hefound out "who thrun that basin" there would be an empty chair at theConcho board before many days had passed.
Andy White glanced at Pete and snickered. Bill Haskins glowered andfelt of his head. "Liked to skelp me," he asserted. "Ma, I jest askyou what you would do now, if you was settin' peaceful in thebunk-house pawin' over your war-bag, lookin' for a clean shirt, and allof a sudden _whing_! along comes a warsh-basin and takes you right overthe ear. Wouldn't you feel like killin' somebody?"
"Lookin' for a clean shirt!" whispered Andy to Pete. "Did you gitthat?"
Bill "got" it--and flushed amazingly. "I was meanin' a clean--cleandress, Mrs. Bailey. A clean dress or stockin's, mebby."
"Bill was lookin' for a clean dress," snickered Andy. Pete grinned.
"Bill, I reckon it ain't your ear that needs that sticking-plaster. Aclean shirt, indeed! I'm surprised at you, William."
"Gee, Ma called him Willum!" whispered Andy. "Bill better fade."
The men tramped in, nodded to Mrs. Bailey, and sat down. Eating was aserious matter with them. They said little. It was toward the end ofthe meal, during a lull in the clatter of knives and forks, that AndyWhite suggested, _sotto voce_, but intended for the assemblage, "ThatBill always was scared of a wash-basin." This gentle innuendo was loston the men, but Bill Haskins vowed mighty vengeance.
It was evident from the start that Pete and Andy would run in doubleharness. They were the youngsters of the outfit, liked each other, andas the months went by became known--Ma Bailey had read the book--as"The Heavenly Twins." Bailey asked his good wife why "heavenly." Heaverred that "twins was all right--but as for 'heavenly'--"
Mrs. Bailey chuckled. "I'm callin' 'em 'heavenly,' Jim, to kind ofeven up for what the boys call 'em. I don't use that kind of language."
Pete graduated from peeling potatoes and helping about the house toriding line with young Andy, until the fall round-up called for allhands, the loading of the chuck-wagon and a farewell to the lazy daysat the home ranch. The air was keen with the tang of autumn. Thehillside blue of spruce and pine was splashed here and there with therich gold of the quaking asp. Far vistas grew clearer as the haze ofsummer heat waned and fled before the stealthy harbingers of winter.In the lower levels of the distant desert, heat waves still pulsedabove the grayish brown reaches of sand and brush--but the desert wasfifty, sixty, eighty miles away, spoken of as "down there" by theriders of the high country. And Young Pete, detailed to help "gather"in some of the most rugged timberland of the Blue, would not havechanged places with any man. He had been allotted a string of ponies,placed under the supervision of an old hand, entered on the pay-roll atthe nominal salary of thirty dollars a month, and turned out to do hisshare in the big round-up, wherein riders from the T-Bar-T, the Blue,the Eight-O-Eight, and the Concho rode with a loose rein and a quickspur, gathering and bunching the large herds over the high country.
There was a fly in Pete's coffee, however. Young Andy White had beendetailed to ride another section of the country. Bailey had wiselyseparated these young hopefuls, fearing that competition--for they werealways striving to outdo each other--might lead to a hard fall for oneor both. Moreover, they were always up to some mischief or other--Andyworking the schemes that Pete usually invented for the occasion. Up tothe time that he arrived at the Concho ranch, Young Pete had neverknown the joy of good-natured, rough-and-tumble horseplay, thatwholesome diversion that tries a man out, and either rubs off theragged edges of his temper or marks him as an undesirable andto-be-let-alone. Pete, while possessing a workable sense of humor, wasintense--somewhat quick on the trigger, so to speak. The frequentroughings he experienced served to steady him, and also taught him todistinguish the tentative line between good-natured banter and theveiled insult.
Unconsciously he studied his fellows, until he thought he pretty wellknew their peculiarities and preferences. Unrealized by Pete, and bythemselves, this set him apart from them. They never studied him, buttook him for just what he seemed--a bright, quick, and withalindustrious youngster, rather quiet at times, but never sullen.Bailey, whose business it was to know and handle men, confided to hiswife that he did not quite understand Pete. And Mrs. Bailey, who wasreally fond of Pete, was consistently feminine when she averred that itwasn't necessary to understand him so long as he attended to his workand behaved himself, which was Mrs. Bailey's way of dodging the issue.She did not understand Pete herself. "He does a heap of thinking--fora boy," she told Bailey. "He's got something' besides cattle on hismind," Bailey asserted. Mrs. Bailey had closed the question for thetime being with the rather vague asserti
on, "I should hope so."
The first real inkling that Andy White had of Pete's deeper nature wasoccasioned by an incident during the round-up.
The cutting-out and branding were about over. The Concho men, campedround their wagon, were fraternizing with visitors from the Blue andT-Bar-T. Every kind of gossip was afloat. The Government was going tomake a game preserve of the Blue Range. Old man Dobson, of theEight-O-Eight, had fired one of his men for packing whiskey into thecamp: "Dobson was drunk hisself!" was asserted. One sprightly andinventive son-of-saddle-leather had brought a pair of horse-clippers tothe round-up. Every suffering puncher in the outfit had been thrownand clipped, including the foreman, and even the cattle inspector.Rumor had it that the boys from the Blue intended to widen their scopeof operation and clip everybody. The "gentleman [described in thevernacular] who started to clip my [also described] head'll think he'stackled a tree-kitty," stated a husky cowboy from the T-Bar-T.
Old Montoya's name was mentioned by another rider from the T-Bar-T.Andy who was lying beside Pete, just within the circle of firelight,nudged him.
"We run every nester out of this country; and it's about time westarted in on the sheep," said this individual, and he spoke notjestingly, but with a vicious meaning in his voice, that silenced thetalk.
Bailey was there and Houck, the T-Bar-T foreman, Bud Long, foreman ofthe Blue, and possibly some fifteen or eighteen visiting cowboys. Thestrident ill-nature of the speaker challenged argument, but the boyswere in good-humor.
"What you pickin' on Montoya for?" queried a cowboy, laughing. "Heain't here."
Pete sat up, naturally interested in the answer.
"He's lucky he ain't," retorted the cow-puncher.
"_You're_ lucky he ain't," came from Pete's vicinity.
"Who says so?"
Andy White tugged at Pete's sleeve. "Shut up, Pete! That's Steve Garytalkin'. Don't you go mixin' with Gary. He's right quick with hisgun. What's a-bitin' you, anyhow?"
"Who'd you say?" queried Pete.
"Gary--Steve Gary. Reckon you heard of him."
"Who says I'm lucky he ain't here?" again challenged Gary.
"Shut up, Steve," said a friendly cowboy. "Can't you take a josh?"
"Who's lookin' for a row, anyhow?" queried another cowboy. "I ain't."
The men laughed. Pete's face was somber in the firelight. Gary! Theman who had led the raid on Pop Annersley's homestead. Pete knew thathe would meet Gary some day, and he was curious to see the man who wasresponsible for the killing of Annersley. He had no definite plan--didnot know just what he would do when he met him. Time had dulled theedge of Pete's earlier hatred and experience had taught him to leavewell enough alone. But that strident voice, edged with malice, hadstirred bitter memories. Pete felt that should he keep silent it wouldreflect on his loyalty to both Montoya and Annersley. There were menthere who knew he had worked for Montoya. They knew, but hardlyexpected that Pete would take up Gary's general challenge. He was buta youth--hardly more than a boy. The camp was somewhat surprised whenPete got to his feet and stepped toward the fire.
"I'm the one that said you was lucky Montoya wasn't here," he asserted."And I'm leavin' it to my boss, or Bud Long, or your own boss"--and heindicated Houck with a gesture--"if I ain't right."
"Who in hell are you, anyhow?" queried Gary,
"Me? I'm Pop Annersley's boy, Pete. Mebby you recollec' you saidyou'd kill me if I talked about that shootin'. I was a kid then--and Iwas sure scared of the bunch that busted into the shack--three growedmen ag'in' a kid--a-threatenin' what they'd do to the man that bumpedoff two of their braves. You was askin' who talked up awhile back. Itwas me."
Gary was on his feet and took a step toward Pete when young Andy rose.Pete was his bunkie. Andy didn't want to fight, but if Gary pulled hisgun . . .
Bailey got up quietly, and turning his back on Gary told Pete and Andyto saddle up and ride out to relieve two of the boys on night-herd.
It was Bud Long who broke the tension. "It's right late for youngroosters to be crowin' that way," he chuckled.
Everybody laughed except Gary. "But it ain't too late for full-growedroosters to crow!" he asserted.
Long chuckled again. "Nope. I jest crowed."
Not a man present missed the double-meaning, including Gary. And Garydid not want any of Long's game. The genial Bud had delicatelyintimated that his sympathies were with the Concho boys. Then therewere Bailey and Bill Haskins and several others among the Concho outfitwho would never see one of their own get the worst of it. Gary turnedand slunk away toward his own wagon. One after another the T-Bar-Tboys rose and followed. The Annersley raid was not a popular subjectwith them.
Bailey turned to Long. "Thanks, Bud."
"'Mornin', Jim," said Long facetiously. "When 'd you git here?"
Two exceedingly disgruntled young cowboys saddled up and rode out tothe night-herd. They had worked all day, and now they would have toride herd the rest of the night, for it was nearing twelve. As reliefmen they would have to hold their end of the herd until daybreak.
"I told you to shut up," complained Andy.
"I wasn't listenin' to you," said Pete,
"Yes! And this is what we git for your gittin' red-headed about a oleMexican sheep-herder. But, honest, Pete, you sure come clost togittin' yours. Gary mebby wouldn't 'a' pulled on you--but he'd 'a'sure trimmed you if Bailey hadn't stepped in."
"He'd never put a hand on me," stated Pete.
"You mean you'd 'a' plugged 'im?"
"I'm meanin' I would."
"But, hell, Pete, you ain't no killer! And they's no use gettin'started that way. They's plenty as would like to see Gary bumpedoff--but I don't want to be the man to do it. Suppose Gary did leadthat raid on ole man Annersley? That's over and done. Annersley isdead. You're livin'--and sure two dead men don't make a live one.What's the good o' takin' chances like that?"
"I dunno, Andy. All I know is that when Gary started talkin' aboutMontoya I commenced to git hot inside. I knowed I was a fool--but Ijest had to stand up and tell him what he was. It wa'n't me doin' it.It was jest like somethin' big a-pullin' me onto my feet and makin' metalk like I did. It was jest like you was ridin' the edge of somesteep and bad goin' and a maverick takes over and you know you got nobusiness to put your hoss down after him. But your saddle isa-creakin' and a-sayin', 'Go git 'im!'--and you jest nacherally go.Kin you tell me what makes a fella do the like of that?"
"I dunno, Pete. But chasin' mavericks is different."
"Mebby. But the idee is jest the same."
"Well, I'm hopin' you don't git many more of them idees right soon.I'm sure with you to the finish, but I ain't wishful to git mine thatway."
"I ain't askin' you to," said Pete, for he was angry with himselfdespite the logic of his own argument.
They were near the herd. Andy, who had flushed hotly at Pete's ratherungenerous intimation, spurred his pony round and rode toward a dimfigure that nodded in the starlight. Pete whirled his own pony androde in the opposite direction.
Toward dawn, as they circled, they met again.
"Got the makin's?" queried Pete.
"Right here," said Andy.
As Pete took the little sack of tobacco, their hands touched andgripped. "I seen you standin' side of me," said Pete, "when I wastalkin' to Gary."
"You was dreaming" laughed Andy. "That was your shadow."
"Mebby," asserted Pete succinctly. "But I seen out of the corner of myeye that that there shadow had its hand on its gun. And _I_ suredidn't."
The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Page 11