The Ridin Kid from Powder River

by Knibbs, Henry Herbert

  "Anybody that's got a watch," replied Bailey.

  Pete hitched up his chaps. "I got a watch and I'd hate to bust her. If you'll hold her till I git through"—and he handed the watch to the nearest cowboy. "If you'll throw my saddle on 'im, I reckon I'll walk him round a little and see what kind of action he's got."

  "Shucks!" exclaimed Bailey; "that hoss would jest nacherally pitch you so high you wouldn't git back in time for the fall round-up, kid. He's bad."

  "Well, you said they wa'n't no job till fall, anyhow," said Pete. "Mebby I'd git back in time for a job."

  Bailey shook his head. "I was joshin'—this mornin'."

  "'Bout my ridin' that hoss? Well, I ain't. I'm kind of a stranger up here, and I reckon you fellas think, because that doggone ole soap-foot fell down with me, that I can't ride 'em."

  "Oh, mebby some of 'em," laughed Bailey.

  Pete's black eyes flashed. To him the matter was anything but a joke. "You give me a job if I stick on that hoss for fifteen seconds? Why, I'm game to crawl him and see who wins out. If I git pitched, I lose. And I'm taking all the chances."

  "Throw a saddle on him and give the kid a chanct," suggested a cowboy.

  Bailey turned and looked at Pete, whose eyes were alight with the hope of winning out—not for the sake of any brief glory, Pete's compressed lips denied that, but for the sake of demonstrating his ability to hold down a job on the ranch.

  "Rope him, Monte," said Bailey. "Take the sorrel. I'll throw the kid's saddle on him."

  "Do I git the job if I stick?" queried Pete nervously.

  "Mebby," said Bailey.

  Now Pete's watch was a long-suffering dollar watch that went when it wanted to and ceased to go when it felt like resting. At present the watch was on furlough and had been for several days. A good shake would start it going—and once started it seemed anxious to make up for lost time by racing at a delirious pace that ignored the sun, the stars, and all that makes the deliberate progress of the hours. If Pete could arrange it so that his riding could be timed by his own watch, he thought he could win, with something to spare. After a wild battle with the punchers, Blue Smoke was saddled with Pete's saddle. He still fought the men. There was no time for discussion if Pete intended to ride.

  "Go to 'im!" cried Bailey.

  Pete hitched up his chaps and crawled over the bars. "Jest time him for me," said Pete, turning to the cowboy who held his watch.

  The cowboy glanced at the watch, put it to his ear, then glanced at it again. "The durn thing's stopped!" he asserted.

  "Shake her," said Pete.

  Pete slipped into the saddle. "Turn 'im loose!" he cried.

  The men jumped back. Blue Smoke lunged and went at it. Pete gritted his teeth and hung to the rope. The corral revolved and the buildings teetered drunkenly. Blue Smoke was not a running bucker, but did his pitching in a small area—and viciously. Pete's head snapped back and forth. He lost all sense of time, direction, and place. He was jolted and jarred by a grunting cyclone that flung him up and sideways, met him coming down and racked every muscle in his body. Pete dully hoped that it would soon be over. He was bleeding at the nose. His neck felt as though it had been broken. He wanted to let go and fall. Anything was better than this terrible punishment.

  He heard shouting, and then a woman's shrill voice. Blue Smoke gave a quick pitch and twist. Pete felt something crash up against him. Suddenly it was night. All motion had ceased.

  When he came to, Mrs. Bailey was kneeling beside him and ringed around were the curious faces of the cowboys.

  "I'm the Ridin' Kid from Powder River," muttered Pete. "Did I make it?"

  "That horse liked to killed you," said Mrs. Bailey. "If I'd 'a' knew the boys was up to this … and him just a boy! Jim Bailey, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" Ma Bailey wiped Pete's face with her apron and put her motherly arm beneath his head. "If he was my boy, Jim Bailey, I'd—I'd—show you!"

  Pete raised on his elbow. "I'm all right, mam. It wa'n't his fault. I said I could ride that hoss. Did I make it?"

  "Accordin' to your watch here," said the puncher who held Pete's irresponsible timepiece, "you rid him for four hours and sixteen minutes. The hands was a-fannin' it round like a windmill in a cyclone. But she's quit, now."

  "Do I git the job?" queried Pete.

  "You get right to bed! It's a wonder every bone in your body ain't broke!" exclaimed Ma Bailey.

  "Bed!" snorted Pete. He rose stiffly. His hat was gone and one spur was missing. His legs felt heavy. His neck ached; but his black eyes were bright and blinking.

  "Goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Bailey. "Why, the boy is comin' to all right!"

  "You bet!" said Pete, grinning, although he felt far from all right. He realized that he rather owed Mrs. Bailey something in the way of an expression of gratitude for her interest. "I—you, you sure can make the best pie ever turned loose!" he asserted.

  "Pie!" gasped the foreman's wife, "and him almost killed by that blue devil there! You come right in the house, wash your face, and I'll fix you up."

  "The kid's all right, mother," said Bailey placatingly.

  Mrs. Bailey turned on her husband. "That's not your fault, Jim Bailey. Such goin's-on! You great, lazy hulk, you, to go set a boy to ridin' that hoss that you dassent ride yourself. If he was my boy—"

  "Well, I'm willin'," said Pete, who began to realize the power behind the throne.

  "Bless his heart!" Mrs. Bailey put her arm about his shoulders. Pete was mightily embarrassed. No woman had ever caressed him, so far as he could remember. The men would sure think him a softy, to allow all this strange mothering; but he could not help himself. Evidently the foreman's wife was a power in the land, for the men had taken her berating silently and respectfully. But before they reached the house Pete was only too glad to feel Mrs. Bailey's arm round his shoulders, for the ground seemed unnecessarily uneven, and the trees had a strange way of rocking back and forth, although there was no wind.

  Mrs. Bailey insisted that he lie down, and she spread a blanket on her own white bed. Pete did not want to lie down. But Mrs. Bailey insisted, helping him to unbuckle his chaps and even to pull off his boots. The bed felt soft and comfortable to his aching body. The room was darkened. Mrs. Bailey tiptoed through the doorway. Pete gazed drowsily at a flaming lithograph on the wall; a basket of fruit such as was never known on land or sea, placed on a highly polished table such as was never made by human hands. The colors of the chromo grew dimmer and dimmer. Pete sighed and fell asleep.

  Mrs. Bailey, like most folk in that locality, knew something of Pete's earlier life. Rumor had it that Pete was a bad one—a tough kid—that he had even killed two cowboys of the T-Bar-T. Mrs. Bailey had never seen Pete until that morning. Yet she immediately formed her own opinion of him, intuition guiding her aright. Young Pete was simply unfortunate—not vicious. She could see that at a glance. And he was a manly youngster with a quick, direct eye. He had come to the Concho looking for work. The men had played their usual pranks, fortunately with no serious consequences. But Bailey should have known better, and she told him so that afternoon in the kitchen, while Pete slumbered blissfully in the next room. "And he can help around the place, even if it is slack times," she concluded.

  That evening was one of the happiest evenings of Pete's life. He had never known the tender solicitude of a woman. Mrs. Bailey treated him as a sort of semi-invalid, waiting on him, silencing the men's good-natured joshing with her sharp tongue, feeding him canned peaches—a rare treat—and finally enthroning him in her own ample rocking-chair, somewhat to Pete's embarrassment, and much to the amusement of the men.

  "He sure can ride it!" said a cowboy, indicating the rocking-chair.

  "Bill Haskins, you need a shave!" said Mrs. Bailey.

  The aforesaid Bill Haskins, unable to see any connection between his remark and the condition of his beard, stared from one to another of his blank-faced companions, grew red, stammered, and felt of his chin.

  "I reckon I
do," he said weakly, and rising he plodded to the bunk-house.

  "And if you want to smoke," said Mrs. Bailey, indicating another of the boys who had just rolled and lighted a cigarette, "there's all outdoors to do it in."

  This puncher also grew red, rose, and sauntered out.

  Bailey and the two remaining cowboys shuffled their feet, wondering who would be the next to suffer the slings and arrows of Ma Bailey's indignation. They considered the Blue Smoke episode closed. Evidently Ma Bailey did not. Bailey himself wisely suggested that they go over to the bunk-house. It would be cooler there. The cowboys rose promptly and departed. But they were cowboys and not to be silenced so easily.

  They loved Ma Bailey and they dearly loved to tease her. Strong, rugged, and used to activity, they could not be quiet long. Mrs. Bailey hitched a chair close to Pete and had learned much of his early history—for Pete felt that the least he could do was to answer her kindly questions—and he, in turn, had been feeling quite at home in her evident sympathy, when an unearthly yell shattered the quiet of the summer evening. More yells—and a voice from the darkness stated that some one was hurt bad; to bring a light. Groans, heartrending and hoarse, punctuated the succeeding silence. "It's Jim," the voice asserted. "Guess his leg's bruk."

  The groaning continued. Mrs. Bailey rose and seized the lamp. Pete got up stiffly and followed her out. One of the men was down on all fours, jumping about in ludicrous imitation of a bucking horse; and another was astride him, beating him not too gently with a quirt. As Ma Bailey came in sight the other cowboys swung their hats and shouted encouragement to the rider. Bailey was not visible.

  "Stay with 'im!" cried one. "Rake 'im! He's gittin' played out! Look out! He's goin' to sunfish! Bust 'im wide open!"

  It was a huge parody of the afternoon performance, staged for Ma Bailey's special benefit. Suddenly the cowboy who represented Blue Smoke made an astounding buck and his rider bit the dust.

  Ma Bailey held the lamp aloft and gazed sternly at the two sweating, puffing cowboys. "Where's Bailey?" she queried sharply.

  One of the men stepped forward and doffing his hat assumed an attitude of profound gravity. "Blue there, he done pitched your husband, mam, and broke his leg. Your husband done loped off on three laigs, to git the doctor to fix it."

  "Let me catch sight of him and I'll fix it!" she snorted. "Jim, if you're hidin' in that bunk-house you come out here—and behave yourself. Lord knows you are old enough to know better."

  "That's right, mam. Jim is sure old enough to know better 'n to behave hisself. You feed us so plumb good, mam, that we jest can't set still nohow. I reckon it was the pie that done it. Reckon them dried apples kind of turned to cider."

  Mrs. Bailey swung around with all the dignity of a liner leaving harbor, and headed for the house.

  "Is she gone?" came in a hoarse whisper.

  "You come near this house to-night and you'll find out!" Mrs. Bailey advised from the doorway.

  "It's the hay for yours, Jim," comforted a cowboy.

  Pete hesitated as to which course were better. Finally he decided to "throw in" with the men.

  Bailey lighted the hanging lamp in the bunk-house, and the boys shuffled in, grinning sheepishly. "You're sure a he-widder to-night," said Bill Haskins sympathetically.

  Bailey grinned. His good wife was used to such pranks. In fact the altogether unexpected and amusing carryings on of the boys did much toward lightening the monotony when times were dull, as they were just then. Had the boys ceased to cut up for any length of time, Ma Bailey would have thought them ill and would have doctored them accordingly.

  Pete became interested in watching Bill Haskins endeavor to shave himself with cold water by the light of the hanging lamp.

  Presently Pete's attention was diverted to the cowboy whom Mrs. Bailey had sent outdoors to smoke. He had fished up from somewhere a piece of cardboard and a blue pencil. He was diligently lettering a sign which he eventually showed to his companions with no little pride. It read:

  "NO SMOKING ALOUD."

  Pete did not see the joke, but he laughed heartily with the rest. The laughter had just about subsided when a voice came from across the way: "Jim, you come right straight to bed!"

  Bailey indicated a bunk for Pete and stepped from the bunk-house.

  Presently the boys heard Mrs. Bailey's voice. "Good-night, boys."

  "Good-night, Ma!" they chorused heartily.

  And "Good-night, Pete," came from the house.

  "Good-night, Ma!" shrilled Pete, blushing.

  "I'm plumb sore!" asserted Haskins. "'Good-night, boys,' is good enough for us. But did you hear what come after! I kin see who gits all the extra pie around this here ranch! I've half a mind to quit."

  "What—eatin' pie?"

  "Nope! Joshin' Ma. She allus gits the best of us."

  CHAPTER XI

  POP ANNERSLEY'S BOY

  Several days after Pete's arrival at the Concho ranch, Andy White rode in with a companion, dusty, tired, and hungry from a sojourn over near the Apache line. White made his report to the foreman, unsaddled, and was washing with a great deal of splutter and elbow-motion, when some one slapped him on the back. He turned a dripping face to behold Pete grinning at him.

  Andy's eyes lighted with pleasure. He stuck out a wet hand. "Did you land a job?"

  "With both feet."

  "Good! I was so darned tired I clean forgot you was livin'. Say, I saw ole José this afternoon. We was crossin' the bottom and rode into his 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'll never git a sore throat from talkin' too much. Say, wait till I git some of this here alkali out of my ears and we'll go and eat and then have a smoke and talk it out. Gee! But I'm glad you landed! How'd you work it?"

  "Easy. I rid that there Blue Smoke hoss—give 'em an exhibition of real 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 I done all right till ole Smoke done that little double twist and left me standin' in the air—only with my feet up. I ain't jest lovin' that hoss 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 long for the Concho. I recollect when Steve Gary quit over the T-Bar-T and come over here lookin' for a job. Ma she sized him up, but didn't say nothin' right away. But Gary he didn't stay long enough to git a saddle warm. Ma didn't like him, nohow. He sure was a top-hand—but that didn't help him none. He's over to the T-Bar-T now. Seen him the other 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 basin with a flourish which drenched the pup and sent him yelping toward the house, attempted to shy the basin so that it would land right-side up on the bench—but the basin was wet and soapy and slipped. It sailed through 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 across the clearing and into the house, where he grabbed Ma Bailey and kissed her heartily, scrambled backward as she pretended to threaten him with the mammoth coffee-pot, and sat down at the table with the remark that he 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's basin-throwing.

  "Oh,
you go 'long!" said Mrs. Bailey, pushing him away. "Askin' for stickin'-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 he found out "who thrun that basin" there would be an empty chair at the Concho board before many days had passed.

  Andy White glanced at Pete and snickered. Bill Haskins glowered and felt of his head. "Liked to skelp me," he asserted. "Ma, I jest ask you what you would do now, if you was settin' peaceful in the bunk-house pawin' over your war-bag, lookin' for a clean shirt, and all of a sudden whing! along comes a warsh-basin and takes you right over the ear. Wouldn't you feel like killin' somebody?"

  "Lookin' for a clean shirt!" whispered Andy to Pete. "Did you git that?"

  Bill "got" it—and flushed amazingly. "I was meanin' a clean—clean dress, 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. A clean 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 a serious matter with them. They said little. It was toward the end of the meal, during a lull in the clatter of knives and forks, that Andy White suggested, sotto voce, but intended for the assemblage, "That Bill always was scared of a wash-basin." This gentle innuendo was lost on the men, but Bill Haskins vowed mighty vengeance.

  It was evident from the start that Pete and Andy would run in double harness. They were the youngsters of the outfit, liked each other, and as the months went by became known—Ma Bailey had read the book—as "The Heavenly Twins." Bailey asked his good wife why "heavenly." He averred that "twins was all right—but as for 'heavenly'—"

  Mrs. Bailey chuckled. "I'm callin' 'em 'heavenly,' Jim, to kind of even 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 to riding line with young Andy, until the fall round-up called for all hands, the loading of the chuck-wagon and a farewell to the lazy days at the home ranch. The air was keen with the tang of autumn. The hillside blue of spruce and pine was splashed here and there with the rich gold of the quaking asp. Far vistas grew clearer as the haze of summer heat waned and fled before the stealthy harbingers of winter. In the lower levels of the distant desert, heat waves still pulsed above the grayish brown reaches of sand and brush—but the desert was fifty, sixty, eighty miles away, spoken of as "down there" by the riders of the high country. And Young Pete, detailed to help "gather" in some of the most rugged timberland of the Blue, would not have changed 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 at the nominal salary of thirty dollars a month, and turned out to do his share 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 quick spur, gathering and bunching the large herds over the high country.