The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 66

"Great snakes, Ma! I dunno. I never seen her except in the hospital, dressed jest like all the nurses."

"Is--is she handsome?"

"Say, Ma, you let me hold them blankets. They're gittin' you all sagged down. Why, she ain't what I'd say was _handsome_, but she sure got pretty eyes and hair--and complexion--and the smoothest little hands--and she's built right neat. She steps easy--like a thoroughbred filly--and she's plumb sensible, jest like you folks."

This latter a.s.surance did not seem to comfort Ma Bailey as much as the implied compliment might intimate.

"And there's only one other woman I ever saw that made me feel right to home and kind o' glad to have her round, like her. And she's got gray eyes and the same kind of hair, and--"

"Sakes alive, Pete Annersley! Another?"

"Uh-huh. And I'm kissin' her good-night--right now." And Pete grabbed the blankets and as much of Ma Bailey as could be included in that large armful, and kissed her heartily.

"He's changed," Ma Bailey confided to herself, after Pete had disappeared. "Actin' like a boy--to cheer me up. But it weren't no boy that set there readin' that letter. It was a growed man, and no wonder.

Yes, Pete's changed, bless his heart!"

Ma Bailey did not bless Pete's heart because he had changed, however, nor because he had suffered, nor yet because he was unconsciously in love with a little nurse in El Paso, nor yet because he kissed her, but because she liked him: and because no amount of money or misfortune, blame or praise, could really change him toward his friends. What Ma Bailey meant was that he had grown a little more serious, a little more gentle in his manner of addressing her--aside from saying good-night--and a little more intense in a quiet way. To sum it all up, Pete had just begun to think--something that few people do on the verdant side of forty, and rather dread having to do on the other side of that mile-post.

A week later, as they sat at table asking one another whether Ma Bailey had took to makin' pies ag'in jest for practice or for Pete, and plaguing that good woman considerably with their good-natured banter, it occurred to Bill Haskins to ask Pete if he were going to become a permanent member of the family or if he were simply visiting; only Bill said, "Are you aimin' to throw in with us--or are you goin' to curl your tail and drift, when the snow flies?"

"I reckon I'll drift," said Pete.

This was news. Andy White demurred forcibly. Bailey himself seemed surprised, and even old Hank Barley, the silent, expressed himself as mildly astonished.

"We figured you'd stay till after the round-up, anyhow," said Bailey.

"Reckon it's too tame for Pete here," growled Andy.

"That's no fault of yours, Andrew," observed Ma Bailey.

"You're always peckin' at me," grumbled Andy, who detested being called "Andrew" quite as much as that robust individual known to his friends as Bill detests being called "Willie"--and Ma Bailey knew it.

"So you aim to leave us," said Haskins, quite unaware of Ma Bailey's eye which glared disapproval of the subject.

"Pete's going--next Tuesday--and just to set your mind at rest and give you a chance to eat your supper"--Bill had been doing scarcely anything else since he sat down--"Pete has a right good reason to go."

"Kin I have another cup of coffee?" queried Bill.

"Sakes alive, yes! I reckon that's what's ailing you."

"I only had three, Ma."

"Pete is going away _on business_," a.s.serted Ma Bailey.

"Huh," snorted Andy.

Bailey glanced at his wife, who telegraphed to him to change the subject.

And that good man, who had been married twenty-five years, changed the subject immediately.

But Andy did not let it drop. After supper he cornered Pete in the bunk-house, and following some wordy fencing, ascertained that Pete was going to Tucson for the winter to get an education. Pete blus.h.i.+ngly admitted that that was his sole intent, swore Andy to secrecy, and told him that he had discussed the subject with Ma Bailey, who had advised him to go.

"So you're quittin' the game," mourned Andy.

"Nope, jest beginnin'."

"Well, you might 'a' said somethin', anyhow."

Pete put his hand on Andy's shoulder. "I wa'n't sure--till yesterday. I _was_ goin' to tell _you_, Andy. Shucks! Didn't I tell you about the money and everything--and you didn't say a word to the boys. I ain't forgittin'."

"Oh, I knowed havin' money wouldn't swell you up. It ain't that. Only, I was wonderin'--"

"So was I, Andy. And I been wonderin' for quite a spell. Come on out and let's go set on the corral bars and smoke and--jest smoke."

But they did more than just smoke. The Arizona stars shot wondrous shafts of white fire through the nipping air as the chums sensed the comfortable companions.h.i.+p of horses moving slowly about the corral; and they heard the far, faint call of the coyote as a drift of wind brought the keen tang of the distant timberlands. They talked together as only youth may talk with youth, when Romance lights the trail, when the heart speaks from itself to heart in sympathy. Yet their chat was not without humor or they would not have been Pete and Andy.

"You always was a wise one," a.s.serted Andy; "pickin' out a professional nurse for _your_ girl ain't a bad idee."

"I had a whole lot to do with pickin' her out, didn't I?"

"Well, you can't make me believe that she did the pickin', for you was tellin' me she had good eyes."

"I reckon it was the Doc that did the pickin',"' suggested Pete.

"Well, I suppose the next thing you'll be givin' the preacher a chanct."

"Nope. Next thing I'll be givin' Miss Gray a chanct to tell me I'm a doggone idiot--only she don't talk like that."

"Then it'll be because she don't know you like I do. But you're lucky-- No tellin'--" Andy climbed down from the bars.

"No tellin' what?" queried Pete.

"No tellin' you how much I sure want you to win, pardner--because you know it."

Pete leapt from the top rail square on to Andy, who, taken off his guard, toppled and fell. They rolled over and over, not even trying to miss the puddle of water beside the drinking-trough. Andy managed to get his free hand in the mud and thought of feeding some of it to Pete, but Pete was too quick for him, squirming loose and making for the bunkhouse at top speed.

Pete entrenched himself in the far corner of the room where Bill Haskins was reading a novel,--exceedingly popular, if the debilitated condition of the pages and covers were any criterion,--when Andy entered, holding one hand behind him in a suspicious manner. Pete wondered what was coming when it came. Andy swung his arm and plugged a fair-sized mud-ball at Pete, which missed him and hit the innocent and unsuspecting Bill on the ear, and stayed there. Bill Haskins, who was at the moment helping the hero hold a spirited pair of horses while the heroine climbed to a seat in the romantic buckboard, promptly pulled on the reins and shouted "Whoa!" and the debilitated novel came apart in his hands with a soft, ripping sound. It took Bill several seconds to think of something to say, and several more to realize just what had happened. He opened his mouth--but Andy interrupted with "Honest, Bill, I wasn't meanin' to hit you. I was pluggin' at Pete, there. It was his fault; he went and hid out behind you. Honest, Bill--wait and I'll help you dig that there mud out of your ear."

Bill shook his head and growled as he sc.r.a.ped the mud from his face and neck. Andy, gravely solicitous, helped to remove the mud and affectionately wiped his fingers in Bill's hair.

"Here--what in h.e.l.l you doin'!" snorted Bill.

"That's right! I was forgittin'! Honest, Bill!"

"I'll honest you! I'll give you somethin' to forgit." But Andy did not wait.

A little later Bill appeared at the kitchen door and plaintively asked Ma Bailey if she had any sticking-plaster.

"Sakes alive! Now what you done to yourself, William?"