The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 24

"Nope. I was ridin' to the Concho to report the shootin' of Steve Gary to my boss."

Houck, who had imagined that White would disclaim any knowledge of the shooting until forced to admit it, took a new tack. "Where's Pete Annersley?"

"That's jest what I was wonderin'. Last time I see him he was fannin'

it east. I took out after him--but I must 'a' missed him."

"That'll do to tell the sheriff. We want to know what you know about the shootin'-up of Steve."

"Nothin'. I was over by the shack waiting for Pete when I thought I heard a couple of shots. Didn't pay no attention to that--'cause Pete was always poppin' his gun at somethin'. Then pretty soon Pete walks in, and I go out with him and help him ketch his hoss. He don't say much--and I don't. Then first thing I know he lights on that little buckskin hoss of his--"

"And forgets his hat," interrupted Houck.

"Nope. He was wearin' a hat the last I seen of him."

"And ridin' a buckskin cayuse, eh? Now Cotton says it was a blue roan."

Andy laughed. "That hombre Cotton's got mighty poor eyesight. Why, he couldn't see good enough to ketch up his own hoss. Pete told me Cotton set out for home afoot. I didn't see him, but I'd take Pete's word against Cotton's any time."

"Mebby you think we're takin' your word about Young Pete--and the shootin'??

"Why not?"

"We can make you talk!" threatened Simpson.

"I reckon you could," said Andy easily. "Four to one--and my gun hangin' over there on the saddle-horn. But suppose you did? How are you goin' to' know I'll talk straight or lie to you? You ain't throwed any big scare into me yet"--and Andy stooped and caught up his hat and thrust his finger through the hole in the crown--"because I ain't done nothin' to be scared about. I ain't shot n.o.body and I ain't seen n.o.body get shot. Cotton could 'a' told you that."

"That's right," a.s.serted Houck reluctantly. "White here had nothin' to do with the shootin'. Cotton said that. We lost some time trailin'

you"--Houck turned to Andy--"but we don't aim to lose any more. Which way did young Pete ride?"

Andy laughed. "You would say I lied if I told you. But I'm goin' to tell you straight. Young Pete took the old Ranger Trail south, through the timber. And I want to tell you gentlemen he was goin' like h.e.l.l a-smokin' when I seen him last. Mebby you don't believe that? And there's somethin' else--that old Ranger Trail forks three times this side of Cienegas--and she forks twice afore she crosses the line.

She's a dim trail when she's doin' her best acrost the rocks, and they's places in her where she's as blind as a dead ox. Water is as scarce as cow-punchers at a camp-meetin' and they ain't no feed this side of Showdown. And Showdown never tore its s.h.i.+rt tryin' to be polite to strangers. I been there. 'Course, when it comes to rustlers and cardsharps and killers--but you fellas know how that is. I--"

"Come on, boys," said Houck, reining round. "White here is puttin' up a talk to hold us--and Young Pete's usin' the time."

Andy watched them ride away, a queer expression lighting his face.

"They hate like the Ole Scratch to believe me--and they are hatin'

themselves for havin' to."

He pulled off Pete's hat and turned it over, gazing at the two little round holes curiously. "Pete, old scout," he said, smiling whimsically, "here's hopin' they never come closer to gettin' you than they did to gettin' me. Keep a-ridin'--for you sure got to be that 'Ridin' Kid from Powder River' this journey--and then some."

Andy turned the black sombrero round in his hands. "All this here hocus comes of the killin' of a old man that never lifted a finger against n.o.body--and as game a kid as ever raked a hoss with a spur.

But one killin' always means more. I ain't no gunman--or no killer.

But, by cracky! some of my ideas has changed since I got that hole in my hat. I wisht I'd 'a' rode with Pete. I wouldn't ask nothin' better right now than to stand back to back with him, out in the open somewhere and let 'em come! Because why? Because the only law that a man's got in this country is hisself--and if he's right, why, crossin'

over with his gun explainin' his idees ain't the worst way to go.

Anyhow, it ain't any worse than gettin' throwed from a bronc and gettin' his neck broke or gettin' stomped out in a stampede. Them's just regular, common ways of goin' out. I just wonder how Pete is makin' it?"

Andy put on his hat, glanced at the sun, and strode to his pony. Far across the eastern desert he saw the posse--a mere moving dot against the blue. "Wolf-hungry to make a killin' because they're foolin'

themselves that they're actin' out the law! Well, come on, Chico, old hoss, we got to make home before sundown."

CHAPTER XIX

THE SPIDER

Where the old Ranger Trail, crossing the Blue Mesa, leaves the high mesa and meanders off into the desert, there is a fork which leads southwest, to the Apache country--a grim and waterless land--and finally swings south toward the border. Pete dismounted at this fork, pulled up his slackened cinches, and making certain that he was leaving a plain track, rode down the main trail for half a mile. Then he reined his pony to a bare spot on the gra.s.s-dotted tufa, and again dismounted. He looped Blue Smoke's fore feet, then threw him, and pulled his shoes with a pair of wire nippers, and stowed the shoes in his saddle-pockets.

He again rode directly down the trail, surmising that the occasional track of a barefoot horse would appear natural enough should the posse, whom he knew would follow him, split up and ride both trails. Farther on he again swung from the trail to the tufa, never slackening pace, and rode across the broken ground for several miles. He had often seen the unshod and unbranded ponies of the high country run along a trail for a mile or so and then dash off across the open. Of course, if the posse took the direct trail to the border, paying no attention to tracks, they would eventually overtake him. Pete was done with the companions.h.i.+p of men who allowed the wanton killing of a man like Annersley to go unpunished. He knew that if he were caught, he would most probably be hanged or imprisoned for the shooting of Gary--if he were not killed in being taken. The T-Bar-T interests ruled the courts. Moreover, his reputation was against him. Ever since the raid on Annersley's place Pete had been pointed out as the "kid who stood off the raiders and got two of them." And Pete knew that the very folk who seemed proud of the fact would be the first to condemn him for the killing of Gary. He was outlawed--not for avenging the death of his foster-father, but actually because he had defended his own life, a fact difficult to establish in court and which would weigh little against the evidence of the six or eight men who had heard him challenge Gary at the round-up. Jim Bailey had been right. Men talked too much as a usual thing. Gary had talked too much.

Pete realized that his loyalty to the memory of Annersley had earned him disrepute. He resented the injustice of this, and all his old hatred of the law revived. Yet despite all logic of justice as against law--he could see Gary's hand clutching against his chest, his staring eyes, and the red ooze starting through those tense fingers--Pete reasoned that had he not been so skilled and quick with a gun, he would be in Gary's place now. As it was, he was alive and had a good horse between his knees.

To ride an unshod horse in the southern desert is to invite disaster.

Toward evening, Pete pulled up at a water-hole, straightened the nails in the horseshoes and tacked them on again with a piece of rock. They would hold until he reached the desert town of Showdown--a place of ill-repute and a rendezvous for outlawry and crime.

He rode on until he came within sight of the town--a dim huddle of low buildings in the starlight. He swung off the trail, hobbled his horse, fastened his rope to the hobbles, and tied that in turn to a long, heavy slab of rock, and turned in. He would not risk losing his horse in this desert land. At best a posse could not reach Showdown before noon the next day, and rather than blunder into Showdown at night and take unnecessary risks, he decided to rest, and ride in at sunup, when he would be able to see what he was doing and better estimate the possibilities of getting food for himself and his horse and of finding refuge in some out-of-the-way ranch or homestead. In spite of his vivid imaginings he slept well. At dawn he caught up his pony and rode into town.

Showdown boasted some fifteen or eighteen low-roofed adobes, the most pretentious being the saloon. These all faced a straggling road which ran east and west, disappearing at either end of the town as though anxious to obliterate itself in the clean sand of the desert. The environs of Showdown were garnished with tin cans and trash, dirt and desolation. Unlike the ordinary cow-town this place was not sprightly, but morose, with an aspect of hating itself for existing. Even the railroad swung many miles to the south as though anxious to leave the town to its own pernicious isolation.

The fixed population consisted of a few Mexicans and one white man, known as "The Spider," who ran the saloon and consequently owned Showdown body and--but Showdown had no soul.

Men arrived and departed along the several desert trails that led in and out of the town. These men seldom tarried long. And they usually came alone, perchance from the Blue, the Gila, the T-Bar-T, or from below the border, for their business was with the border rustlers and parasites. Sheriffs of four counties seldom disturbed the place, because a man who had got as far south as Showdown was pretty hard to apprehend. From there to the border lay a trackless desert. Showdown was a rendezvous for that inglorious legion, "The Men Who Can't Come Back," renegades who when below the line worked machine guns for whichever side of the argument promised the more loot. Horse- and cattle-thieves, killers, escaped convicts, came and went--ominous birds of pa.s.sage, the scavengers of war and banditry.

The Spider was lean, with legs warped by long years in the saddle. He was called The Spider because of his physical attributes as well as because of his att.i.tude toward life. He never went anywhere, yet he acc.u.mulated sustenance. He usually had a victim tangled in his web.

It was said that The Spider never let a wounded outlaw die for lack of proper attention if he considered the outlaw worth saving--as an investment. And possibly this was the secret of his power, for he was ever ready to grub-stake or doctor any gentleman in need or wounded in a desert affair--and he had had a large experience in caring for gun-shot wounds.

Pete, dismounting at the worn hitching-rail, entered the saloon, nodded casually to The Spider, and called for a drink. The Spider, who always officiated at the bar for politic reasons, aside from the selling of liquor, noticed that the young stranger's eyes were clear and steady--that he showed no trace of hard night-riding; yet he had arrived in Showdown at sunup. As Pete drank, The Spider sized up his horse--which looked fresh. He had already noticed that Pete's gun hung well down and handy, and a.s.sumed correctly that it was not worn for ornament. The Spider knew that the drink was a mere formality--that the stranger was not a drinking man in the larger sense.

Neither spoke until a Mexican, quite evidently in haste, rode up and entered the saloon. The Mexican bore the strange news that four riders were expected to reach Showdown that day--perhaps by noon. Then The Spider spoke, and Pete was startled by the voice, which was pitched in a high key yet was little more than a whisper.

The Mexican began to expostulate shrilly. The Spider had cursed him for a loud-mouthed fool. Again came that sinister whisper, like the rush of a high wind in the reeds. The Mexican turned and silently left the room. When Pete, who had pretended absorption in thought, glanced up, the Spider's eyes were fixed on Pete's horse, which had swung around as the Mexican departed. The Spider's deep-set eyes s.h.i.+fted to Pete, who smiled. The Spider nodded. Interpreted this would have read: "I see you ride a horse with the Concho brand." And Pete's eyes had retorted: "I sure do. I was waiting for you to say that."

Still The Spider had not addressed his new guest nor had Pete uttered a word. It was a sort of cool, deliberate duel of will power. Pete turned his head and surveyed the long room leisurely. The Spider pushed the bottle toward him, silently inviting him to drink again.

Pete shook his head. The Spider hobbled from behind the bar and moving quickly across the room flung open the back door, discovering a patio set with tables and chairs. Pete nodded.

They were establis.h.i.+ng a tentative understanding without speech. The test was hard for Pete. The Spider was uncanny--though quick of movement and s.h.i.+fty of eye--intensely alive withal.

As for The Spider himself, he was not displeased. This was but a youth, yet a youth who was not unfamiliar with the fine points of a rendezvous. The back door opened on a patio and the door in the wall of the patio opened on a corral. The corral bars opened to the desert--Pete had almost sensed that, without seeing farther than the patio, and had nodded his approval, without speaking. The Spider considered this highly commendable.

Pete knew at a glance that The Spider was absolutely without honor--that his soul was as crooked as his badly bowed legs; and that he called no man friend and meant it.

And The Spider knew, without other evidence than his own eyes found, that this young stranger would not hesitate to kill him if sufficient provocation offered. Nor did this displease the autocrat of Showdown in the least. He was accustomed to dealing with such men. Yet one thing bothered him. Had the stranger made a get-away that would bring a posse to Showdown--as the Mexican had intimated? If so the sooner the visitor left, the better. If he were merely some cowboy looking for easy money and excitement, that was a different matter. Or perhaps he had but stolen a horse, or butchered and sold beef that bore a neighbor's brand. Yet there was something about Pete that impressed The Spider more deeply than mere horse- or cattle-stealing could. The youth's eye was not the eye of a thief. He had not come to Showdown to consort with rustlers. He was somewhat of a puzzle--but The Spider, true to his name, was silently patient.

Meanwhile the desert sun rolled upward and onward, blazing down on the huddled adobes, and slowly filtering into the room. With his back to the bar, Pete idly flicked bits of a broken match at a knot-hole in the floor. Tired of that, he rolled a cigarette with one hand, and swiftly. Pete's hands were compact, of medium size, with the finger joints lightly defined--the hands of a conjuror--or, as The Spider thought, of a born gunman. And Pete was always doing something with his hands, even when apparently oblivious to everything around him. A novice at reading men would have considered him nervous. He was far from nervous. This was proven to The Spider's satisfaction when Malvey entered--"Bull" Malvey, red-headed, bluff and huge, of a gaunt frame, with large-knuckled hands and big feet. Malvey tossed a coin on the bar noisily, and in that one act Pete read him for what he was--a man who "bullied" his way through life with much bl.u.s.ter and profanity, but a man who, if he boasted, would make good his boast. What appeared to be hearty good-nature in Malvey was in reality a certain blatantly boisterous vigor--a vigor utterly soulless, and masking a nature at bottom as treacherous as The Spider's--but in contrast squalid and mean. Malvey would steal five dollars. The Spider would not touch a job for less than five hundred. While cruel, treacherous, and a killer, The Spider had nothing small or mean about him. And subtle to a degree, he hated the blunt-spoken, bl.u.s.tering Malvey, but for reasons unadvertised, called him friend.

"Have a drink?"

"Thanks." And Pete poured himself a noticeably small quant.i.ty.