Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: The Ridin' Kid]
THE RIDIN' KID FROM POWDER RIVER
_By_
HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
1919
COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
I. YOUNG PETE II. FIREARMS AND NEW FORTUNES III. A WARNING IV. JUSTICE V. A CHANGE OF BASE VI. NEW VISTAS VII. PLANS VIII. SOME BOOKKEEPING IX. ROWDY--AND BLUE SMOKE X. "TURN HIM LOOSE!" XI. POP ANNERSLEY'S BOY XII. IN THE PIT XIII. GAME XIV. THE KITTY-CAT XV. FOUR MEN XVI. THE OPEN HOLSTER XVII. A FALSE TRAIL XVIII. THE BLACK SOMBRERO XIX. THE SPIDER XX. BULL MALVEY XXI. BOCA DULZURA XXII. "A DRESS--OR A RING--PERHAPS" XXIII. THE DEVIL-WIND XXIV. "A RIDER STOOD AT THE LAMPLIT BAR" XXV. "PLANTED--OUT THERE" XXVI. THE OLLA XXVII. OVER THE LINE XXVIII. A GAMBLE XXIX. QUERY XXX. BRENT'S MISTAKE XXXI. FUGITIVE XXXII. EL PASO XXXIII. THE SPIDER'S ACCOUNT XXXIV. DORIS XXXV. "CAUGHT IT JUST IN TIME" XXXVI. WHITE-EYE XXXVII. "CLOSE THE CASES" XXXVIII. GETTING ACQUAINTED XXXIX. A PUZZLE GAME XL. THE MAN DOWNSTAIRS XLI. "A LAND FAMILIAR" XLII. "OH, SAY TWO THOUSAND" XLIII. A NEW HAT--A NEW TRAIL XLIV. THE OLD TRAIL XLV. HOME FOLKS XLVI. THE RIDIN' KID FROM POWDER RIVER
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE RIDIN' KID . . . . _Colored Frontispiece_
_Drawn by Stanley L. Wood_
"SAY, AIN'T WE PARDNERS?"
PETE
COTTON HEARD PETE'S HAND STRIKE THE BUTT OF HIS GUN AS THE HOLSTER TILTED UP
"OF A TRUTH, NO!" SAID BOCA, AND SHE SWUNG THE BOTTLE
_Drawn by R. M. Brinkerhoff_
The Ridin' Kid from Powder River
CHAPTER I
YOUNG PETE
With the inevitable pinto or calico horse in his string thehorse-trader drifted toward the distant town of Concho, accompanied bya lazy cloud of dust, a slat-ribbed dog, and a knock-kneed foal thatinsisted on getting in the way of the wagon team. Strung out behindthis indolently moving aggregation of desert adventurers plodded anindifferent lot of cayuses, their heads lowered and their eyes filledwith dust.
Young Pete, perched on a saddle much too large for him, hazed the tiredhorses with a professional "Hi! Yah! Git in there, you doggone,onnery, three-legged pole-cat you!" A gratuitous command, for thethree-legged pole-cat referred to had no other ambition than to shufflewearily along behind the wagon in the hope that somewhere ahead wasgood grazing, water, and chance shade.
The trader was lean, rat-eyed, and of a vicious temper. Comparatively,the worst horse in his string was a gentleman. Horse-trading andwhiskey go arm-in-arm, accompanied by their copartners, profanity andtobacco-chewing. In the right hand of the horse-trader is guile and inhis left hand is trickery. And this squalid, slovenly-booted, andsombrero'd gentleman of the outlands lived down to and even beneath allthe vicarious traditions of his kind, a pariah of the waste places,tolerated in the environs of this or that desert town chiefly becauseof Young Pete, who was popular, despite the fact that he barteredprofanely for chuck at the stores, picketed the horses in pasturagealready preempted by the natives, watered the horses where water wasscarce and for local consumption only, and lied eloquently as to thequalities of his master's caviayard when a trade was in progress. Forthese manful services Young Pete received scant rations and much abuse.
Pete had been picked up in the town of Enright, where no one seemed tohave a definite record of his immediate ancestry. He was quite willingto go with the trader, his only stipulation being that he be allowed tobring along his dog, another denizen of Enright whose ancestry was asvague as were his chances of getting a square meal a day. Yet the dog,despite lean rations, suffered less than Young Pete, for the dogtrusted no man. Consequently he was just out of reach when the traderwanted to kick something. Young Pete was not always so fortunate. Buthe was not altogether unhappy. He had responsibilities, especiallywhen the trader was drunk and the horses needed attention. Petelearned much profanity without realizing its significance. He alsolearned to chew tobacco and realized its immediate significance. Hemastered the art, however, and became in his own estimation a mangrown--a twelve-year-old man who could swear, chew, and show horses toadvantage when the trader could not, because the horses were not afraidof Young Pete.
When Pete got kicked or cuffed he cursed the trader heartily. Once,after a brutal beating, Young Pete backed to the wagon, pulled therifle from beneath the seat, and threatened to kill the trader. Afterthat the rifle was never left loaded. In his tough little heart Petehated his master, but he liked the life, which offered much variety andpromised no little romance of a kind.
Pete had barely existed for twelve years. When the trader came alongwith his wagon and ponies and cajoled Pete into going with him, Petegladly turned his face toward wider horizons and the great adventure.Yet for him the great adventure was not to end in the trading of horsesand drifting from town to town all his life.
Old man Annersley held down a quarter-section on the Blue Mesa chieflybecause he liked the country. Incidently he gleaned a living by hardwork and thrift. His homestead embraced the only water for miles inany direction, water that the upland cattlemen had used from timeimmemorial. When Annersley fenced this water he did a most natural andnecessary thing. He had gathered together a few head of cattle, somechickens, two fairly respectable horses, and enough timber to build acomfortable cabin. He lived alone, a gentle old hermit whose hand wasclean to every man, and whose heart was tender to all living thingsdespite many hard years in desert and range among men who dispensedsuch law as there was with a quick forefinger and an uncompromisingeye. His gray hairs were honorable in that he had known no wastrelyears. Nature had shaped him to a great, rugged being fitted for thesimplicity of mountain life and toil. He had no argument with God andno petty dispute with man. What he found to do he did heartily. Thehorse-trader, camped near Concho, came to realize this.
Old man Annersley was in need of a horse. One of his team had diedthat winter. So he unhooked the pole from the buckboard, rigged a pairof shafts, and drove to Concho, where he heard of the trader andfinally located that worthy drinking at Tony's Place. Young Pete, asusual, was in camp looking after the stock. The trader accompaniedAnnersley to the camp. Young Pete, sniffing a customer, wasimmediately up and doing. Annersley inspected the horses and finallychose a horse which Young Pete roped with much swagger and unnecessarylanguage, for the horse was gentle, and quite familiar with YoungPete's professional vocabulary.
"This here animal is sound, safe, and a child could ride him," assertedYoung Pete as he led the languid and underfed pony to the wagon. "He'sgot good action." Pete climbed to the wagon-wheel and mountedbareback. "He don't pitch, bite, kick, or balk." The horse, used tobeing shown, loped a few yards, turned and trotted back. "Heneck-reins like a cow-hoss," said Pete, "and he can turn in a ten-centpiece. You can rope from him and he'll hold anything you git your ropeon."
"Reckon he would," said Annersley, and his eyes twinkled. "'Speciallya hitchin'-rail. Git your rope on a hitchin'-rail and I reckon thathitchin'-rail would never git away from him."
"He's broke right," reasserted Young Pete. "He's none of your ornery,half-broke cayuses. You ought to seen him when he was a colt! Say, 'twa'n't no time afore he could outwork and outrun any hoss in our bunch."
"How old be you?" queried Annersley.
"Twelve, goin' on thirteen."
"Uh-huh. And the hoss?"
/> "Oh, he's got a little age on him, but that don't hurt him none."
Annersley's beard twitched. "He must 'a' been a colt for quite aspell. But I ain't lookin' for a cow-hoss. What I want is a hoss thatI can work. How does he go in harness?"
"Harness! Say, mister, this here hoss can pull the kingpin out of awagon without sweatin' a hair. Hook him onto a plough and he sure canmake the ole plough smoke."
Annersley shook his head. "That's a mite too fast for me, son. I'dhate to have to stop at the end of every furrow and pour water on thatthere plough-point to keep her cool."
"'Course if you're lookin' for a _cheap_ hoss," said Young Pete,nothing abashed, "why, we got 'em. But I was showin' you the best inthe string."
"Don't know that I want him. What you say he was worth?"
"He's worth a hundred, to any man. But we're sellin' him cheap, forcash--forty dollars."
"Fifty," said the trader, "and if he ain't worth fifty, he ain't worthputtin' a halter on. Fifty is givin' him to you."
"So? Then I reckon I don't want him. I wa'n't lookin' for a present.I was lookin' to buy a hoss."
The trader saw a real customer slipping through his fingers. "You canput a halter on him for forty--cash."
"Nope. Your pardner here said forty,"--and Annersley smiled at YoungPete. "I'll look him over ag'in for thirty."
Young Pete knew that they needed money badly, a fact that the traderwas apt to ignore when he was drinking. "You said I could sell him forforty, or mebby less, for cash," complained Young Pete, slipping fromthe pony and tying him to the wagon-wheel.
"You go lay down!" growled the trader, and he launched a kick thatjolted Pete into the smouldering camp-fire. Pete was used to beingkicked, but not before an audience. Moreover, the hot ashes had burnedhis hands. Pete's dog, hitherto asleep beneath the wagon, rosebristling, anxious to defend his young master, but afraid of thetrader. The cowering dog and the cringing boy told Annersley much.
Young Pete, brushing the ashes from his over-alls, rose and shakingwith rage, pointed a trembling finger at the trader. "You're a doggoneliar! You're a doggone coward! You're a doggone thief!"
"Just a minute, friend," said Annersley as the trader started towardthe boy. "I reckon the boy is right--but we was talkin' hosses. I'llgive you just forty dollars for the hoss--and the boy."
"Make it fifty and you can take 'em. The kid is no good, anyhow."
This was too much for Young Pete. He could stand abuse and scantrations, but to be classed as "no good," when he had worked so hard andlied so eloquently, hurt more than mere kick or blow. His facequivered and he bit his lip. Old man Annersley slowly drew a walletfrom his overalls and counted out forty dollars. "That hoss ain'tsound," he remarked and he recounted the money. He's got a couple ofwind-puffs, and he's old. He needs feedin' and restin' up. That boyyour boy?"
"That kid! Huh! I picked him up when he was starvin' to death over toEnright. I been feedin' him and his no-account dog for a year, andneither of 'em is worth what he eats."
"So? Then I reckon you won't be missin' him none if I take him alongup to my place."
The horse-trader did not want to lose Young Pete, but he did wantAnnersley's money. "I'll leave it to him," he said, flattering himselfthat Pete dare not leave him.
"What do you say, son?"--and old man Annersley turned to Pete. "Wouldyou like to go along up with me and help me to run my place? I'm kindo' lonesome up there, and I was thinkin' o' gettin' a pardner."
"Where do you live?" queried Pete, quickly drying his eyes.
"Why, up in those hills, which don't no way smell of liquor and aretellin' the truth from sunup to sunup. Like to come along and give mea hand with my stock?"
"You bet I would!"
"Here's your money," said Annersley, and he gave the trader fortydollars. "Git right in that buckboard, son."
"Hold on!" exclaimed the trader. "The kid stays here. I said fiftyfor the outfit."
"I'm goin'," asserted Young Pete. "I'm sick o' gettin' kicked andcussed every time I come near him. He licked me with a rawhide lastweek."
"He did, eh? For why?"
"'Cause he was drunk--that's why!"
"Then I reckon you come with me. Such as him ain't fit to raise young'uns."
Young Pete was enjoying himself. This was indeed revenge--to hear someone tell the trader what he was, and without the fear of a beating."I'll go with you," said Pete. "Wait till I git my blanket."
"Don't you touch nothin' in that wagon!" stormed the trader.
"Git your blanket, son," said Annersley.
The horse-trader was deceived by Annersley's mild manner. As YoungPete started toward the wagon, the trader jumped and grabbed him. Theboy flung up his arms to protect his face. Old man Annersley saidnothing, but with ponderous ease he strode forward, seized the traderfrom behind, and shook that loose-mouthed individual till his teethrattled and the horizon line grew dim.
"Git your blanket, son," said Annersley, as he swung the trader round,deposited him face down in the sand, and sat on him. "I'm waitin'."
"Goin' to kill him?" queried Young Pete, his black eyes snapping.
"Shucks, no!"
"Kin I kick him--jest onct, while you hold him down?"
"Nope, son. That's too much like his way. You run along and git yourblanket if you're goin' with me."
Young Pete scrambled to the wagon and returned with a tattered blanket,his sole possession, and his because he had stolen it from a Mexicancamp near Enright. He scurried to the buckboard and hopped in.
Annersley rose and brought the trader up with him as though the latterwere a bit of limp tie-rope.
"And now we'll be driftin'," he told the other.
Murder burned in the horse-trader's narrow eyes, but immediate physicalambition was lacking.
Annersley bulked big. The horse-trader cursed the old man in twolanguages. Annersley climbed into the buckboard, gave Pete thelead-rope of the recent purchase, and clucked to his horse, paying noattention whatever to the volley of invectives behind him.
"He'll git his gun and shoot you in the back," whispered Young Pete.
"Nope, son. He'll jest go and git another drink and tell everybody inConcho how he's goin' to kill me--some day. I've handled folks likehim frequent."
"You sure kin fight!" exclaimed Young Pete enthusiastically.
"Never hit a man in my life. I never dast to," said Annersley.
"You jest set on 'em, eh?"
"Jest set on 'em," said Annersley. "You keep tight holt to that rope.That fool hoss acts like he wanted to go back to your camp."
Young Pete braced his feet and clung to the rope, admonishing the horsewith outland eloquence. As they crossed the arroyo, the led horsepulled back, all but unseating Young Pete.
"Here, you!" cried the boy. "You quit that--afore my new pop takes youby the neck and the--pants and sits on you!"
"That's the idea, son. Only next time, jest tell him without cussin'."
"He always cusses the hosses," said Young Pete. "Everybody cusses 'em."
"'Most everybody. But a man what cusses a hoss is only cussin'hisself. You're some young to git that--but mebby you'll recollect Isaid so, some day."
"Didn't you cuss him when you set on him?" queried Pete.
"For why, son?"
"Wa'n't you mad?"
"Shucks, no."
"Don't you ever cuss?"
"Not frequent, son. Cussin' never pitched any hay for me."
Young Pete was a bit disappointed. "Didn't you never cuss in yourlife?"
Annersley glanced down at the boy.
"Well, if you promise you won't tell nobody, I did cuss onct, when Istruck the plough into a yellow-jacket's nest which I wa'n't aimin' tohit, nohow. Had the reins round my neck, not expectin' visitors, whenthem hornets come at me and the hoss without even ringin' the bell.That team drug me quite a spell afore I got loose. When I got enoughdirt out of my mouth so as I could holler
, I set to and said what Ithought."
"Cussed the hosses and the doggone ole plough and them hornets--andeverything!" exclaimed Pete.
"Nope, son, I cussed myself for hangin' them reins round my neck. Whatyou say your name was?"
"Pete."
"What was the trader callin' you--any other name besides Pete?"
"Yes, I reckon he was. When he is good 'n' drunk he would be callin'me a doggone little--"
"Never mind, I know about that. I was meanin' your other name."
"My other name? I ain't got none. I'm Pete."
Annersley shook his head. "Well, pardner, you'll be Pete Annersleynow. Watch out that hoss don't jerk you out o' your jacket. This herehill is a enterprisin' hill and leads right up to my place. Hang on!As I was sayin', we're pardners, you and me. We're goin' up to myplace on the Blue and tend to the critters and git washed up and havesupper, and mebby after supper we'll mosey around so you kin gitacquainted with the ranch. Where'd you say your pop come from?"
"I dunno. He ain't my real pop."
Annersley turned and looked down at the lean, bright little face. "Youhungry, son?"
"You bet!"
"What you say if we kill a chicken for supper--and celebrate."
"G'wan, you're joshin' me!"
"Nope. I like chicken. And I got one that needs killin'; a no-accountole hen what won't set and won't lay."
"Then we'll ring her doggone head off, eh?"
"Somethin' like that--only I ain't jest hatin' that there hen. Sheain't no good, that's all."
Young Pete pondered, watching Annersley's grave, bearded face.Suddenly he brightened. "I know! Nobody kin tell when you're joshin''em, 'cause your whiskers hides it. Guess I'll grow some whiskers andthen I kin fool everybody."
Old man Annersley chuckled, and spoke to the horses. Young Pete,happier than he had ever been, wondered if this good luck wouldlast--if it were real, or just a dream that would vanish, leaving himshivering in his tattered blanket, and the horse-trader telling him toget up and rustle wood for the morning fire.
The buckboard topped the rise and leveled to the tree-girdled mesa.Young Pete stared. This was the most beautiful spot he had ever seen.Ringed round by a great forest of spruce, the Blue Mesa lay shimmeringin the sunset like an emerald lake, beneath a cloudless sky tinged withcrimson, gold, and amethyst. Across the mesa stood a cabin, the onlydwelling in that silent expanse. And this was to be his home, and thebig man beside him, gently urging the horse, was his partner. He hadsaid so. Surely the great adventure had begun.
Annersley glanced down. Young Pete's hand was clutched in the oldman's coat-sleeve, but the boy was gazing ahead, his bright black eyesfilled with the wonder of new fortunes and a real home. Annersleyblinked and spoke sharply to the horse, although that good animalneeded no urging as he plodded sturdily toward the cabin.