There was a fly in Pete's coffee, however. Young Andy White had been detailed to ride another section of the country. Bailey had wisely separated these young hopefuls, fearing that competition—for they were always striving to outdo each other—might lead to a hard fall for one or both. Moreover, they were always up to some mischief or other—Andy working the schemes that Pete usually invented for the occasion. Up to the time that he arrived at the Concho ranch, Young Pete had never known the joy of good-natured, rough-and-tumble horseplay, that wholesome diversion that tries a man out, and either rubs off the ragged edges of his temper or marks him as an undesirable and to-be-let-alone. Pete, while possessing a workable sense of humor, was intense—somewhat quick on the trigger, so to speak. The frequent roughings he experienced served to steady him, and also taught him to distinguish the tentative line between good-natured banter and the veiled insult.
Unconsciously he studied his fellows, until he thought he pretty well knew their peculiarities and preferences. Unrealized by Pete, and by themselves, this set him apart from them. They never studied him, but took him for just what he seemed—a bright, quick, and withal industrious youngster, rather quiet at times, but never sullen. Bailey, whose business it was to know and handle men, confided to his wife that he did not quite understand Pete. And Mrs. Bailey, who was really fond of Pete, was consistently feminine when she averred that it wasn't necessary to understand him so long as he attended to his work and behaved himself, which was Mrs. Bailey's way of dodging the issue. She did not understand Pete herself. "He does a heap of thinking—for a boy," she told Bailey. "He's got something' besides cattle on his mind," Bailey asserted. Mrs. Bailey had closed the question for the time being with the rather vague assertion, "I should hope so."
The first real inkling that Andy White had of Pete's deeper nature was occasioned by an incident during the round-up.
The cutting-out and branding were about over. The Concho men, camped round their wagon, were fraternizing with visitors from the Blue and T-Bar-T. Every kind of gossip was afloat. The Government was going to make a game preserve of the Blue Range. Old man Dobson, of the Eight-O-Eight, had fired one of his men for packing whiskey into the camp: "Dobson was drunk hisself!" was asserted. One sprightly and inventive son-of-saddle-leather had brought a pair of horse-clippers to the round-up. Every suffering puncher in the outfit had been thrown and clipped, including the foreman, and even the cattle inspector. Rumor had it that the boys from the Blue intended to widen their scope of operation and clip everybody. The "gentleman [described in the vernacular] who started to clip my [also described] head'll think he's tackled 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 we started in on the sheep," said this individual, and he spoke not jestingly, but with a vicious meaning in his voice, that silenced the talk.
Bailey was there and Houck, the T-Bar-T foreman, Bud Long, foreman of the Blue, and possibly some fifteen or eighteen visiting cowboys. The strident ill-nature of the speaker challenged argument, but the boys were in good-humor.
"What you pickin' on Montoya for?" queried a cowboy, laughing. "He ain'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 Gary talkin'. Don't you go mixin' with Gary. He's right quick with his gun. 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! The man who had led the raid on Pop Annersley's homestead. Pete knew that he would meet Gary some day, and he was curious to see the man who was responsible for the killing of Annersley. He had no definite plan—did not know just what he would do when he met him. Time had dulled the edge of Pete's earlier hatred and experience had taught him to leave well enough alone. But that strident voice, edged with malice, had stirred bitter memories. Pete felt that should he keep silent it would reflect on his loyalty to both Montoya and Annersley. There were men there who knew he had worked for Montoya. They knew, but hardly expected that Pete would take up Gary's general challenge. He was but a youth—hardly more than a boy. The camp was somewhat surprised when Pete 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 he indicated 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 said you'd kill me if I talked about that shootin'. I was a kid then—and I was sure scared of the bunch that busted into the shack—three growed men ag'in' a kid—a-threatenin' what they'd do to the man that bumped off two of their braves. You was askin' who talked up awhile back. It was 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 his gun…
Bailey got up quietly, and turning his back on Gary told Pete and Andy to 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 young roosters to be crowin' that way," he chuckled.
Everybody laughed except Gary. "But it ain't too late for full-growed roosters to crow!" he asserted.
Long chuckled again. "Nope. I jest crowed."
Not a man present missed the double-meaning, including Gary. And Gary did not want any of Long's game. The genial Bud had delicately intimated that his sympathies were with the Concho boys. Then there were Bailey and Bill Haskins and several others among the Concho outfit who would never see one of their own get the worst of it. Gary turned and slunk away toward his own wagon. One after another the T-Bar-T boys rose and followed. The Annersley raid was not a popular subject with 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 to the night-herd. They had worked all day, and now they would have to ride herd the rest of the night, for it was nearing twelve. As relief men 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 ole Mexican sheep-herder. But, honest, Pete, you sure come clost to gittin' 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 bumped off—but I don't want to be the man to do it. Suppose Gary did lead that raid on ole man Annersley? That's over and done. Annersley is dead. 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' about Montoya I commenced to git hot inside. I knowed I was a fool—but I jest 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' me talk like I did. It was jest like you was ridin' the edge of some steep
and bad goin' and a maverick takes over and you know you got no business to put your hoss down after him. But your saddle is a-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 that way."
"I ain't askin' you to," said Pete, for he was angry with himself despite the logic of his own argument.
They were near the herd. Andy, who had flushed hotly at Pete's rather ungenerous intimation, spurred his pony round and rode toward a dim figure that nodded in the starlight. Pete whirled his own pony and rode 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 and gripped. "I seen you standin' side of me," said Pete, "when I was talkin' to Gary."
"You was dreaming" laughed Andy. "That was your shadow."
"Mebby," asserted Pete succinctly. "But I seen out of the corner of my eye that that there shadow had its hand on its gun. And I sure didn't."
CHAPTER XII
IN THE PIT
The round-up was over. A trainload of Concho steers was on its way East, accompanied by four of the Concho boys. The season had been a good one and prices were fair. Bailey was feeling well. There was no obvious reason for his restlessness. He had eaten a hearty breakfast. The sky was clear, and a thin, fragrant wind ran over the high mesa, a wind as refreshing as a drink of cold mountain water on a hot day. Suddenly it occurred to Bailey that the deer season was open—that "the hunting winds were loose." Somewhere in the far hills the bucks were running again. A little venison would be a welcome change from a fairly steady diet of beef.
Bailey saddled up, and hung his rifle under the stirrup-leather. He tucked a compact lunch in his saddle-pockets, filled a morral with grain and set off in the direction of the Blue Range.
Once on the way and his restlessness evaporated. He did not realize that deer-hunting was an excuse to be alone.
Jim Bailey, however, was not altogether happy. He was worried about Young Pete. The incident at the round-up had set him thinking. The T-Bar-T and the Concho men were not over-friendly. There were certain questions of grazing and water that had never been definitely settled. The Concho had always claimed the right to run their cattle on the Blue Mesa with the Blue Range as a tentative line of demarcation. The T-Bar-T always claimed the Blue as part of their range. There had been some bickering until the killing of Annersley, when Bailey promptly issued word to his men to keep the Concho cattle north of the homestead. He had refused to have anything to do with the raid, nor did he now intend that his cattle should be an evidence that he had even countenanced it.
Young Pete had unwittingly stirred up the old enmity. Any untoward act of a cowboy under such circumstances would be taken as expressive of the policy of the foreman. Even if Pete's quarrel was purely a personal matter there was no telling to what it might lead. The right or wrong of the matter, personally, was not for Bailey to decide. His duty was to keep his cattle where they belonged and his men out of trouble. And because he was known as level-headed and capable he held the position of actual manager of the Concho—owned by an Eastern syndicate—but he was too modest and sensible to assume any such title, realizing that as foreman he was in closer touch with his men. They told him things, as foreman, that as manager he would have heard indirectly through a foreman—qualified or elaborated as that official might choose.
As he jogged along across the levels Bailey thought it all over. He would have a talk with Young Pete when he returned and try to show him that his recent attitude toward Gary militated against the Concho's unprinted motto: "The fewer quarrels the more beef."
Halfway across the mesa there was what was known as "The Pit "; a circular hole in the plain; rock-walled, some forty or fifty yards in diameter and as many yards deep. Its bottom was covered with fine, loose sand, a strange circumstance in a country composed of tufa and volcanic rock. Legend had it that the Pit was an old Hopi tank, or water-hole—a huge cistern where that prehistoric tribe conserved the rain. Bits of broken pottery and scattered beads bore out this theory, and round the tank lay the low, crumbling mounds of what had once been a village.
The trail on the Blue ran close to the Pit, and no rider passing it failed to glance down. Cattle occasionally strayed into it and if weak were unable to climb out again without help from horse and rope. As Bailey approached, he heard the unmistakable bark of a six-shooter. He slipped from his horse, strode cautiously to the rim, and peered over.
Young Pete had ridden his horse down the ragged trail and was at the moment engaged in six-gun practice. Bailey drew back and sat down. Pete had gathered together some bits of rock and had built a target loosely representing a man. The largest rock, on which was laid a small round, bowlder for a head, was spattered with lead. Pete, quite unconscious of an audience, was cutting loose with speed and accuracy. He threw several shots at the place which represented the vitals of his theoretical enemy, punched the shells from his gun, and reloaded. Then he stepped to his horse and led him opposite the target and some twenty feet from it. Crouching, he fired under the horse's belly. The horse bucked and circled the enclosure. Pete strode after him, caught him up, and repeated the performance. Each time Pete fired, the horse naturally jumped and ran. Patiently Pete caught him up again. Finally the animal, although trembling and wild-eyed, stood to the gun. Pete patted its neck. Reloading he mounted. Bailey was curious to see what the boy would do next. Pete turned the horse and, spurring him, flung past the target, emptying his gun as he went. Then he dismounted and striding up to within ten yards of the man-target, holstered his gun and stood for a moment as still as a stone itself. Suddenly his hand flashed to his side. Bailey rubbed his eyes. The gun had not come from the holster, yet the rock target was spattered with five more shots. Bailey could see the lead fly as the blunt slugs flattened on the stone.
"The young son-of-a-gun!" muttered Bailey. "Dinged if he ain't shootin' through the open holster! Where in blazes did he learn that bad-man trick?"
Thus far Pete had not said a word, even to the horse. But now that he had finished his practice he strode to the rock-target and thrust his hand against it. "You're dead!" he exclaimed. "You're plumb salivated!" He pushed, and the man-target toppled and fell.
"Ain't you goin' to bury him?" queried Bailey.
Pete whirled. The color ran up his neck and face. "H'lo, Jim."
"How'd you know it was me?" Bailey stood up.
"Knowed your voice."
"Well, come on up. I was wonderin' who was down there settin' off the fireworks. Didn't hear you till I got most on top of you. You sure got some private shootin'-gallery."
Pete led his pony up the steep trail and squatted beside Bailey. "How long you been watching me, Jim?"
"Oh, jest since you started shooting under your hoss. What's the idea?"
"Nothin', jest practicin'."
"You must 'a' been practicin' quite a' spell. You handle that smoke-wagon like an ole-timer."
"I ain't advertisin' it."
"Well, it's all right, Pete. Glad I got a front seat. Never figured you was a top-hand with a gun. Now I'm wise. I know enough not to stack up against you."
Pete smiled his slow smile and pushed back his hat. "I reckon you're right about that. I never did no shootin' in company. Ole José Montoya always said to do your practicin' by yourself, and then nobody knows just how you would play your hand."
Bailey frowned and nodded. "Well, seein' as I'm in on it, Pete, I'd kind of like to know myself."
"Why, I'm jest figurin' that some day mebby somebody'll want to hang my hide on the fence. I don't aim to let him."
&n
bsp; "Meanin' Gary?"
"The same. I ain't lookin' for Gary—even if he did shoot down Pop Annersley—nor I ain't tryin' to keep out of his way. I'm ridin' this country and I'm like to meet up with him 'most any time. That's all."
"Shucks, Pete! You forget Gary. He sure ain't worth gettin' hung for. Gary ain't goin' to put you down so long as you ride for the Concho. He knows somebody 'd get him. You jest practice shootin' all you like—but tend to business the rest of the time and you'll live longer. You can figure on one thing, if Gary was to get you he wouldn't live to get out of this country."
"You're handin' me your best card," said Pete. "Gary killed Annersley. The law didn't get Gary. And none of you fellas got him. He's ridin' this here country yet. And you was tellin' me to forget him."
"But that's different, Pete. No one saw Gary shoot Annersley. It was night. Annersley was killed in his cabin—by a shot through the window. Anybody might have fired that shot. Why, you were there yourself—and you can't prove who done it."
The Ridin Kid from Powder River Page 10