by H. H. Knibbs
Miles beyond the spot he began to toss them away, one at a time, as he rode along. Queer, he thought, that Pecos Jim, sensitive and friendly and altogether ambitionless, should run with men like Charley Lee and Tom Kimball. Yet Tonto Charley had been a good-natured chucklehead, save when he was drunk, or in a fight. Folks did queer things. It was hard to figure what to look out for.
Twice that day Pete crossed railroad tracks. He spent the night with a hospitable Mexican family north of Santa Rosa. Late in the afternoon of the next day, while riding toward Las Vegas, he met a rancher driving a team of pintos hitched to a buckboard. The buckboard was laden with supplies and provisions. Pete asked the way to the Butterfield ranch.
The driver of the team, ruddy, gray-haired and stout, eyed Pete shrewdly.”
“Now what would you be wanting with Old Man Butterfield?” he asked.
“I’ll tell him when I see him,” said Pete. “All I’m askin’ you is the way to his ranch.”
The rancher’s gray eyes twinkled. “When I was your age I wasn’t so sassy. But never mind that. You recollect that road to the right, about a mile back?”
Pete nodded.
“And an old, broken-down pole corral just north of the road?”
“The corral is south of the road,” said Pete.
“That’s right. Well, that’s one way of getting to Old Man Butterfield’s.”
“Thanks.”
“But John ain’t to home,” said the rancher. “He was in Las Vegas this mornin’. No tellin’ when he’ll get home.”
“Thanks.” Pete reined his horse round and again faced the north.
John Butterfield chuckled as he drove on. Boys were too smart, these days. Probably the young stranger was hunting a job. But he hadn’t seemed very anxious about it. Gave up when he heard the boss wasn’t at the ranch. Smart boy, but too young to be much account as a hand. Mighty risky, hiring strange hands, these days.
Long before Butterfield reached the fork and swung toward his ranch, Pete had left the road and had struck east across the low hills. Topping a juniper-dotted slope he spied the distant shimmer of a windmill and the green of cottonwoods. Following a pasture fence he arrived at a ranch. The three horses in the corral were branded J B. Pete unsaddled and tied his horse back of the barn and fed him. There was no one at the ranch-house, so Pete went in and explored the kitchen. He came out, surveyed the yard and buildings, and decided that he liked the place. After washing at the bench he went in and started a fire. In a few minutes he had biscuit dough in the pan and dishes on the table.
It was dusk when Butterfield drove up. He sniffed and smiled. One of the boys must have come in from Valley Springs for supplies.
“You can eat as soon as you wash up,” said Pete as John Butterfield came in with a box of provisions on his shoulder.
Butterfield put the box down, glanced hastily round the kitchen, and shook his head. “I reckon you think you’re pretty smart.”
“So did you when you tried to let on you weren’t John Butterfield.”
“You made a good guess.”
“No, I didn’t. Your name is on that newspaper in your coat pocket as big as a brand on a box car.”
Butterfield pulled the paper out of his pocket. “Well, now that you’re here what are we going to do about it?”
“I don’t know what you’re goin’ to do,” said Pete. “I’m goin’ to stay.”
CHAPTER 5
At last Pete had found a home he liked. His work was not hard, and he was handy. He could cook, wrangle horses, and was faster with a rope than some of the older hands. For obvious reasons he never displayed his skill with a six-shooter, contenting himself with watching the boys show off. One or two of the hands were good shots, but to Pete, trained by Tonto Charley, they were slow and clumsy. The big iron-gray, a good all-round saddle animal, he used in his work, but never rode him to town. Occasionally Pete heard Charley Lee’s name mentioned. It was obvious that most of the cattlemen in the vicinity had it in for Lee and his fellows. Truly it was, as old Pecos Jim had said, a case of dog eat dog. Once, when one of Butterfield’s hands spoke of Charley Lee as a horse thief, Young Pete’s face flamed, but he kept silent. To take sides in the feud would mean to lose his job. And he didn’t want to lose it. Old Man Butterfield, shrewd and kindly, was a good boss. Never before had Young Pete known what it was to go to sleep at night with the assurance that he would awake in a comfortable bunk, a day of clean, hard work ahead, plenty to eat, and no reason to fear any one of the companions he worked with.
Young as he was, he was ambitious. Some day he would own a brand, and a cavvy of fine horses. Perhaps if he stuck to it, and Hard Luck kept her paws out of the platter, he would be foreman for the Old Man. From foreman to owner wasn’t such a big jump, if a fellow kept his ears clean and his eyes open. Butterfield was no yearling by a long shot. Someday he’d need someone he could depend on to handle his spread. And that someone, Pete reasoned, might as well be himself. Not the last of the Hemenway gang, though. Just Pete. Already a garbled report of the fight in Socorro, of Tonto’s death, and his own part in the ruckus had begun to spread throughout the territory. And the folks responsible for the story had named him the Tonto Kid. But no one up this way would ever know that Butterfield’s young hand was that same Tonto Kid. With youthful optimism Young Pete put all the old days behind him, reasoning that if he went straight, somehow or other Fate would never again chase him up a tree. He was too young to know how blind Fate becomes at times.
Occasionally Pete thought of Charley Lee and the camp in Horse Thief Hollow. Lee was a Southerner, who had come into the country some twenty years ago with his father, his sister, and a younger brother. With them they had fetched some Kentucky saddle stock. In a raid on their ranch, Charley Lee’s father had been killed by horse thieves. With his young brother Lee had taken to the hills. For several years the Lee brothers waged war with the local ranchmen and cowhands, some of whom had been in the raid on the Lee homestead. When Charley Lee’s younger brother was killed in a gunfight with a city marshal Charley Lee declared himself outlaw, his hand against every man. In Horse Thief Cañon, commonly known as “The Hollow,” he made his headquarters, his companions Kimball, Pecos Jim, and several others wanted by the law. Even Lee’s bitterest enemies admitted that he was fearless, loyal to his friends, and a man of his word. Aware that few of the local cattlemen were above suspicion when it came to branding stray stock, Young Pete’s sympathies were with Lee. But he never took sides in a discussion of the feud, simply listened and drew his own conclusions.
Sometimes when Old Man Butterfield drove to town he took Young Pete with him. He enjoyed Pete’s sharp tongue, his independence, and his cheerful acceptance of conditions, good or bad. Some of the hands grumbled. If they were in charge they’d run things different, they declared—among themselves. But in spite of Butterfield’s friendliness, Pete never became confidential. Butterfield knew little about him and the hands even less. Pete intended to take no chances with his job.
To Young Pete, Charley Lee had become something of a hero. Pete now realized why the outlaw had tried to buy his horse. The big iron-gray with the CC brand had belonged to Tonto Charley. Lee had tried to save Young Pete from being recognized as Tonto’s partner. Pete decided that if he ever met Charley Lee he would thank him.
Early on a hot June morning. Old Man Butterfield had the pinto team and buckboard fetched round. He was going to Las Vegas for supplies. He told Pete to throw some empty sacks on the buckboard. “You ain’t been to town for a considerable spell,” said Butterfield. “Climb in.” The pinto team clattered down the road.
Pete was in especially good spirits. “Them horses,” he commented, “act like they was goin’ to a weddin’.”
“They are right spry for a couple of geldings,” chuckled the old man. “Let’s see. How long you been workin’ for me?”
“Pretty n
igh six months,” replied Young Pete proudly.
“You’ll be grown up before you know it.”
“You mean before you know it. I aim to be foreman of your spread, one of these days.”
The old man smiled to himself. Young Pete wasn’t the in least bashful about declaring his intentions.
The pinto team was soon switching flies in front of Brownell’s store in Las Vegas. Old Man Butterfield was buying groceries. Pete leaned over a showcase looking at a display of pocket knives.
“Heard anything of those two peace officers?” Butterfield was saying. Although several months had gone by, the disappearance of the two deputies was still a live topic.
“No,” replied the storekeeper. “But I notice that Charley Lee and his friends are in town.”
Pete concentrated his gaze on a big buck-handled jack knife with a clip point big blade and two smaller blades, one of which you could use for an awl. He had always wanted a knife like that. So Charley Lee was in town? And the storekeeper was connecting Lee’s name with the disappearance of the deputies. Pete knew that Old Man Butterfield had no use for Lee and his crowd, and he hoped the Old Man would get his purchases made, and his mail, and leave town right away.
They were already loading their things onto the buck-board when Charley Lee and Pecos Jim rode up and tied their horses to the rail. “Hello, John!” said Lee, nodding to Butterfield. “How are you, Charley?” said Butterfield.
Charley Lee barely glanced at Pete as he stepped past him. But Pecos Jim stopped and thrust out his hand. “Hello, Kid! Didn’t recognize you in that new rig. How are things going?”
“Fine!” said Pete, shaking hands with Pecos. “Got ridin’ the chuck line beat a mile. Workin’ for Old Man Butterfield, a fella kinda knows where he’s at. That’s more than I did before I hit this country.”
“Hey, Charley!” called Pecos. “Here’s the kid.” Old Man Butterfield glanced from one to the other, surprised and puzzled. Charley Lee hesitated, but Pete stepped forward and shook hands with him.
“I figured it out why you wanted to buy my horse,” he said in a low voice. “I’m right obliged to you.”
“That’s all right.”
“I heard some talk in the store just now,” said Pete.
“Thanks. I heard some myself,” Followed by Pecos Jim, Lee entered the store.
Old Man Butterfield said nothing until the load was snugged down. Then he turned to Pete. “You acquainted with Charley Lee?”
“Yes.”
“Friend of yours?”
Irritated by Butterfield’s persistence, Pete let discretion go by the board. “Yes, he’s a friend of mine. What’s the difference?”
“You recollect I never asked you where you came from, or what you been doin’ before you went to work for me. I’m not askin’ you now. But if you know Lee and Pecos Jim well enough to shake hands with ’em, I’ll have to pay you your wages.”
“You’re the boss.” Too proud to show how hard this blow had hit him, Young Pete turned and strolled down the street with an air as independent as he could make it. Yet at every step he regretted his hasty reply to Butterfield’s question. What difference did it make to the Old Man, Pete was asking himself, so long as he did his work and attended to his own business? It was a poor kind of a man that wouldn’t acknowledge his friends, no matter who they were. Pete turned and began to walk back toward the team.
Butterfield had crossed the street and was about to enter the bank when the town marshal accosted him. Pete surmised they were talking about him. Old Man Butterfield seemed to be expostulating with the marshal. Finally the officer turned and walked away. Old Man Butterfield entered the bank.
Pete saw the old man stuff some bills into his pocket as he came hurriedly out of the bank. “Can’t pay you today,” he told Pete. “Anyhow, your horse is over to the ranch. You’ll be wantin’ him. Climb in.”
So the Old Man had changed his mind. Pete noticed that Butterfield’s hands shook as he took up the reins. “What’s the matter, boss?”
“They got Charley Lee this time,” said Butterfield, “got him and Pecos Jim cornered in Brownell’s. That other fella, Tom Kimball, is drunk up to Dan’s place. The marshal has planted two deputies over in the bank, waitin’ for Lee to come out of Brownell’s. Besides, he’s sworn in three Block-H cowboys—”
“Why didn’t he send for the army?” Pete stepped down out of the buckboard.
“Here! Where you goin’?”
Pete hesitated. He was going into the store to warn Charley Lee and Pecos. He would do that much for them, job or no job. Telling Old Man Butterfield he had forgotten something in the store, Pete entered. Charley Lee was standing a few feet back from the doorway. Pecos was leaning against the counter apparently reading his almanac. Swiftly Young Pete repeated Butterfield’s news about the waiting deputies and the Block-H cowhands.
“Anything else?” Charley Lee smiled at Young Pete’s eagerness to warn him.
“Yes. I got Old Man Butterfield to wait for me, so you could get to your horses.”
“How about slippin’ out the back way?” suggested Pecos.
“Your Winchester is on the saddle, and you ain’t worth a darn’ with a pistol,” said Lee. He turned to the storekeeper. “Did you have a hand in this frameup, Brownell? Is that why you took so long digging up those cartridges?”
The storekeeper’s face went white. “Now, listen, Charley—”
“Step around. Now, walk out ahead and talk to Old Man Butterfield. Here, take this bundle out to him and tell him he forgot it.”
“That’s a death-warrant, Charley.”
“It sure is! Pecos, get a rifle out of that rack, and be sure and get the right shells for it.” Lee turned to Young Pete. “You can make it out the back way, Kid. Nobody will bother you. I’ll tell Butterfield you’ll meet him at Hamley’s,” Lee thrust out his hand. “So long. Stick to Butterfield. He’ll use you right.”
Young Pete’s dark eyes flashed. “You’ll give the Old Man a chance to get away without gettin’ hurt?”
Charley Lee nodded. Pete heard him humming a tune. Pete hastened to the back of the store. But instead of leaving, he bolted the heavy double doors. The windows were iron-barred. No one could enter the rear of the store and take Lee by surprise. Stepping behind the counter, Pete broke open a box of cartridges and stuffed a handful into his pocket.
Brownell was out in front, talking with Old Man Butterfield. Charley Lee and Pecos Jim stood on either side of Brownell. Occasionally they joined in the conversation. Butterfield was so nervous that he took too stiff a rein on the team, which backed and fidgeted.
“Tell that boy of mine to hurry,” he said to Brownell.
“Just a minute.” Pete stepped out and pointed to Butterfield’s team. “That trace has come unhooked.”
Old Man Butterfield leaned forward to look. Pete stepped to the hitch-rail and, slipping between the horses of Lee and Pecos, untied them.
“What you doin’?” cried Old Man Butterfield.
Pete knew that there was but one chance in a hundred that his friends could get away. He put his hand on the scat of the buckboard, waiting for Lee and Pecos to make a dash for their horses.
“The darn’ fool!” said Lee. Lurching down the street, so drunk he could hardly walk, came Tom Kimball, a Winchester in his hands. A Block-H cowboy stepped from a doorway. Without raising his rifle, Kimball fired. The cowboy doubled up and fell across the sidewalk. Deliberately Kimball fired another shot into the fallen man, and came on, calling out that he wanted to meet all the Block-H dudes in town.
Old Man Butterfield seemed stupefied. Pete kicked the nigh pinto in the stomach. “Turn ’em loose!” he cried to the old man. Grasping the seat rail, Pete swung into the buckboard. The team lunged, pitching him out. He rolled out of the way of the wheels and sat up. The team, out of Butterfield’s co
ntrol, broke into a run. Lee and Pecos were mounted and firing right and left, backing their mounts, turning and firing coolly, Pecos with his Winchester, Lee chopping with his pistol.
One of the deputies stood in the doorway of the bank emptying his rifle at Kimball, who returned his fire, shot for shot. The other deputy was down, but game enough to rise on his elbow and take an occasional shot at Lee or Pecos Jim. Pete rose to his knees, looking for cover. The wounded deputy fired at him. The shot ploughed across the sidewalk. Dog eat dog! Pete jumped to his feet. Another shot from the deputy’s rifle tore half Pete’s sleeve away. Instantly Pete replied. The deputy’s head sank down. Pete fired again. The other officer staggered over to the wall, clawing at it as he sank slowly to the sidewalk.
Pecos Jim’s horse, shot from under him, was down in the street. Pete saw Pecos crawl out and take up his rifle.
“Look out!” cried Lee, spurring his horse round and in front of Pete as two Block-H cowboys, standing in the stirrups, swept up the street, their guns going. With no chance for a shot, Charley Lee spurred straight into them. A Block-H horse and rider went down. The other cowboy spurred straight for Pete. Laughing at the cowboy’s fiercely distorted face, Young Pete let him have it. The cowboy toppled and fell as his mount galloped past.
A few yards away, Pecos Jim lay behind his horse dueling with the marshal and a deputy ambushed behind the false front of a store building. Pete saw that Pecos had been hit hard, could scarcely pump his Winchester. The Block-H horse that Lee had ridden into scrambled to its feet. Pete ran to it, swung up, and rode alongside Lee. Lee had dropped his gun and had hold of the saddle-horn. “Let’s ride, Charley,” said Pete.
Lee gestured jerkily toward the storekeeper, who sat with his back against a post of the hitch-rail, his jaw dropped and the top of his head missing. “Brownell is waiting for somebody to come out and take his picture.”