The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 22

"I--it was like this, Bill. After Young Pete killed Gary, I went back to the shack and got my gun. At first, Andy White wasn't goin' to leave me have it--but I tells him to fan it. I reckon he's pretty nigh home by now."

"Thought you said you didn't see White after the shooting--that he forked his horse and rode for the Concho? Cotton, you're lyin' so fast you're like to choke."

"Honest, Bill! If I'd 'a' had my gun . . ."

"Oh, h.e.l.l! Don't try to swing that bluff. Where's your horse?"

"I couldn't ketch him, honest."

"Thought you said you caught him in the brush and tied him to a tree and Young Annersley threatened to kill you if you went for your saddle."

"That's right--honest, Bill, that's what he said."

"Then how is it that Bobby Lent caught your horse strayin' in more 'n a hour ago? Dam' if I believe a word you say. You're plumb crazy."

"Honest, Bill. I hope to die if Steve Gary ain't layin' over there with two holes in him. He's sure dead. Do you think I footed it all the way jest because I like walkin'?"

Houck frowned and shook his head. "You say him and Young Pete had come to words?"

"Yep; about ole man Annersley. Steve was tellin' me about the raid when Pete steps up and tells him to say it over ag'in. Steve started to talk when Pete cuts down on him--twict. My G.o.d, he was quick! I never even seen him draw."

"Did Gary say _he_ was the one that plugged Annersley?"

"Yep. Said he did it--and asked Pete what he was goin' to do about it."

"Then Steve was drunk or crazy. You go git a horse and burn the trail to Concho. Tell Sutton that Young Pete Annersley killed Gary, up to the Blue Mesa. Tell him we're out after Young Pete. Can you git that straight?"

"What if the sheriff was to pinch me for bein' in that sc.r.a.p?"

"You! In a gun-fight? No. He wouldn't believe that if you told him so. You jest tell Sutton what I said, and git goin'! Don't lie to him--or he'll spot it and pinch you dam' quick."

With Cotton gone, Houck saddled up and rode out to where one of his men was mending fence. "Take your horse and git all the boys you can reach before night. Young Pete Annersley shot Steve over to the Blue this mornin'."

The cowboy, unlike Cotton, whistled his surprise, dropped his tools, mounted, and was off before Houck had reined back toward the ranch-house.

It was near twelve that night when a quiet band of riders dismounted at the Annersley cabin, separated, and trailed off in the darkness to look for Gary. One of them found him where he had fallen and signaled with his gun. They carried Gary to the cabin. In the flickering light of the open stove they saw that he was still alive. There was one chance in a thousand that he could recover. They washed his wounds and one of the men set out toward Concho, to telephone to Enright for a doctor.

The rest grouped around the stove and talked in low tones, waiting for daylight. "Chances are the kid went south," said Houck, half to himself.

"How about young White?" queried a cowboy.

"I dunno. Either he rode with Pete Annersley or he's back at the Concho. Daylight'll tell."

"If Steve could talk--" said the cowboy.

"I guess Steve is done for," said Houck. "I knew Young Pete was a tough kid--but I didn't figure he'd try to down Steve."

"Supposin' they both had a hand in it--White and Young Pete?"

Houck shook his head. "Anybody got any whiskey?" he asked.

Some one produced a flask. Houck knelt and raised Gary's head, tilting the flask carefully. Presently Gary's lips moved and his chest heaved.

"Who was it? White?" questioned Houck.

Gary moved his head in the negative.

"Young Pete?" Gary's white lips shaped to a faint whisper--"Yes."

One of the men folded a slicker and put it under Gary's head.

Houck stood up. "I guess it's up to us to get Pete Annersley."

"You can count me out," said a cowboy immediately. "Steve was allus huntin' trouble and it looks like he found it this trip. They's plenty without me to ride down the kid. Young Pete may be bad--but I figure he had a dam' good excuse when he plugged Steve, here. You can count me out."

"And me," said another. "If young Pete was a growed man--"

"Same here," interrupted the third. "Any kid that's got nerve enough to down Steve has got a right to git away with it. If you corner him he's goin' to fight--and git b.u.mped off by a bunch of growed men--mebby four to one. That ain't my style."

Houck turned to several cowboys who had not spoken. They were Gary's friends, of his kind--in a measure. "How is it, boys?" asked Houck.

"We stick," said one, and the others nodded.

"Then you boys"--and Houck indicated the first group--"can ride back to the ranch. Or, here, Larkin, you can stay with Steve till the doc shows up. The rest of you can drift."

Without waiting for dawn the men who had refused to go out after Pete rode back along the hill-trail to the ranch. But before they left, Houck took what hastily packed food they had and distributed it among the posse, who packed it in their saddle-pockets. The remaining cowboys lay down for a brief sleep. They were up at dawn, and after a hasty breakfast set out looking for tracks. Houck himself discovered Andy White's tracks leading from the spot where Gary had been found, and calling the others together, set off across the eastern mesa.

Meanwhile Andy White was sleeping soundly in a coulee many miles from the homestead, and just within sight of a desert ranch, to which he had planned to ride at daybreak, ask for food and depart, leaving the impression that he was Pete Annersley in haste to get beyond the reach of the law. He had stopped at the coulee because he had found gra.s.s and water for his horse and because he did not want to risk being found at the ranch-house. A posse would naturally head for the ranch to search and ask questions. Fed and housed he might oversleep and be caught. Then his service to Pete would amount to little. But if he rode in at daybreak, ahead of the posse, ate and departed, leaving a hint as to his a.s.sumed ident.i.ty, he could mislead them a day longer at least. He built all his reasoning on the hope that the posse would find and follow his tracks.

Under the silent stars he slept, his head on his saddle, and near him lay Pete's black sombrero.

In the disillusioning light of morning, that which Andy had taken to be a ranch-house dwindled to a goat-herder's shack fronted by a brush-roofed lean-to. Near it was a diminutive corral and a sun-faded tent. The old Indian herder seemed in no way surprised to see a young rider dismount and approach cautiously--for Andy had entered into the spirit of the thing. He paused to glance apprehensively back and survey the western horizon. Andy greeted the Indian, who grunted his acknowledgment in the patois of the plains.

"Any vaqueros ride by here this morning?" queried Andy.

The herder shook his head.

"Well, I guess I got time to eat," said Andy.

A faint twinkle touched the old Indian's eyes, but his face was as expressionless as a dried apple.

"Si," he said.

"But not a whole lot of time," a.s.serted Andy.

The Indian rose and fetched a pail of goat's milk and some tortillas from the shack. He shuffled back to his hermitage and reappeared with a tin cup. Andy, who meanwhile had consumed one leathery tortilla, shook his head. "Never mind the cup, amigo." He tilted the pail and drank--paused for breath, and drank again. He set the pail down empty.

"I was some dry," he said, smiling. "Got any more of these rawhide flapjacks?"

The herder nodded, stooped to enter the shack, and came out with a half-dozen of the tortillas, which Andy rolled and stuffed in his saddle-pocket. "Mighty good trail bread!" he said enthusiastically.