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 the
horse-trader drifted toward the distant town of Concho, accompanied by
a lazy cloud of dust, a slat-ribbed dog, and a knock-kneed foal that
insisted on getting in the way of the wagon team. Strung out behind
this indolently moving aggregation of desert adventurers plodded an
indifferent lot of cayuses, their heads lowered and their eyes filled
with dust.
Young Pete, perched on a saddle much too large for him, hazed the tired
horses with a professional "Hi! Yah! Git in there, you doggone,
onnery, three-legged pole-cat you!" A gratuitous command, for the
three-legged pole-cat referred to had no other ambition than to shuffle
wearily along behind the wagon in the hope that somewhere ahead was
good 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 and
whiskey go arm-in-arm, accompanied by their copartners, profanity and
tobacco-chewing. In the right hand of the horse-trader is guile and in
his left hand is trickery. And this squalid, slovenly-booted, and
sombrero'd gentleman of the outlands lived down to and even beneath all
the vicarious traditions of his kind, a pariah of the waste places,
tolerated in the environs of this or that desert town chiefly because
of Young Pete, who was popular, despite the fact that he bartered
profanely for chuck at the stores, picketed the horses in pasturage
already preempted by the natives, watered the horses where water was
scarce and for local consumption only, and lied eloquently as to the
qualities of his master's caviayard when a trade was in progress. For
these manful services Young Pete received scant rations and much abuse.
Pete had been picked up in the town of Enright, where no one seemed to
have a definite record of his immediate ancestry. He was quite willing
to go with the trader, his only stipulation being that he be allowed to
bring along his dog, another denizen of Enright whose ancestry was as
vague as were his chances of getting a square meal a day. Yet the dog,
despite lean rations, suffered less than Young Pete, for the dog
trusted no man. Consequently he was just out of reach when the trader
wanted to kick something. Young Pete was not always so fortunate. But
he was not altogether unhappy. He had responsibilities, especially
when the trader was drunk and the horses needed attention. Pete
learned much profanity without realizing its significance. He also
learned to chew tobacco and realized its immediate significance. He
mastered the art, however, and became in his own estimation a man
grown--a twelve-year-old man who could swear, chew, and show horses to
advantage when the trader could not, because the horses were not afraid
of 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 the
rifle from beneath the seat, and threatened to kill the trader. After
that the rifle was never left loaded. In his tough little heart Pete
hated his master, but he liked the life, which offered much variety and
promised no little romance of a kind.
Pete had barely existed for twelve years. When the trader came along
with his wagon and ponies and cajoled Pete into going with him, Pete
gladly turned his face toward wider horizons and the great adventure.
Yet for him the great adventure was not to end in the trading of horses
and drifting from town to town all his life.
Old man Annersley held down a quarter-section on the Blue Mesa chiefly
because he liked the country. Incidently he gleaned a living by hard
work and thrift. His homestead embraced the only water for miles in
any direction, water that the upland cattlemen had used from time
immemorial. When Annersley fenced this water he did a most natural and
necessary thing. He had gathered together a few head of cattle, some
chickens, two fairly respectable horses, and enough timber to build a
comfortable cabin. He lived alone, a gentle old hermit whose hand was
clean to every man, and whose heart was tender to all living things
despite many hard years in desert and range among men who dispensed
such law as there was with a quick forefinger and an uncompromising
eye. His gray hairs were honorable in that he had known no wastrel
years. Nature had shaped him to a great, rugged being fitted for the
simplicity of mountain life and toil. He had no argument with God and
no petty dispute with man. What he found to do he did heartily. The
horse-trader, camped near Concho, came to realize this.
Old man Annersley was in need of a horse. One of his team had died
that winter. So he unhooked the pole from the buckboard, rigged a pair
of shafts, and drove to Concho, where he heard of the trader and
finally located that worthy drinking at Tony's Place. Young Pete, as
usual, was in camp looking after the stock. The trader accompanied
Annersley to the camp. Young Pete, sniffing a customer, was
immediately up and doing. Annersley inspected the horses and finally
chose a horse which Young Pete roped with much swagger and unnecessary
language, for the horse was gentle, and quite familiar with Young
Pete's professional vocabulary.
"This here animal is sound, safe, and a child could ride him," asserted
Young Pete as he led the languid and underfed pony to the wagon. "He's
got good action." Pete climbed to the wagon-wheel and mounted
bareback. "He don't pitch, bite, kick, or balk." The horse, used to
being shown, loped a few yards, turned and trotted back. "He
neck-reins like a cow-hoss," said Pete, "and he can turn in a ten-cent
piece. You can rope from him and he'll hold anything you git your rope
on."
"Reckon he would," said Annersley, and his eyes twinkled. "'Specially
a hitchin'-rail. Git your rope on a hitchin'-rail and I reckon that
hitchin'-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, 't
wa'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 a
spell. But I ain't lookin' for a cow-hoss. What I want is a hoss that
I can work. How does he go in harness?"
"Harness! Say, mister, this here hoss can pull the kingpin out of a
wagon without sweatin' a hair. Hook him onto a plough and he sure can
make the ole plough smoke."
Annersley shook his head. "That's a mite too fast for me, son. I'd
hate to have to stop at the end of every furrow and pour water on that
there 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 in
the 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, for
cash--forty dollars."
"Fifty," said the trader, "and if he ain't worth fifty, he ain't worth
puttin' 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 can
put a halter on him for forty--cash."
"Nope. Your pardner here said forty,"--and Annersley smiled at Young
Pete. "I'll look him over ag'in for thirty."
Young Pete knew that they needed money badly, a fact that the trader
was apt to ignore when he was drinking. "You said I could sell him for
forty, or mebby less, for cash," complained Young Pete, slipping from
the pony and tying him to the wagon-wheel.
"You go lay down!" growled the trader, and he launched a kick that
jolted Pete into the smouldering camp-fire. Pete was used to being
kicked, but not before an audience. Moreover, the hot ashes had burned
his hands. Pete's dog, hitherto asleep beneath the wagon, rose
bristling, anxious to defend his young master, but afraid of the
trader. The cowering dog and the cringing boy told Annersley much.
Young Pete, brushing the ashes from his over-alls, rose and shaking
with rage, pointed a trembling finger at the trader. "You're a doggone
liar! You're a doggone coward! You're a doggone thief!"
"Just a minute, friend," said Annersley as the trader started toward
the boy. "I reckon the boy is right--but we was talkin' hosses. I'll
give 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 scant
rations, but to be classed as "no good," when he had worked so hard and
lied so eloquently, hurt more than mere kick or blow. His face
quivered and he bit his lip. Old man Annersley slowly drew a wallet
from his overalls and counted out forty dollars. "That hoss ain't
sound," he remarked and he recounted the money. He's got a couple of
wind-puffs, and he's old. He needs feedin' and restin' up. That boy
your boy?"
"That kid! Huh! I picked him up when he was starvin' to death over to
Enright. I been feedin' him and his no-account dog for a year, and
neither of 'em is worth what he eats."
"So? Then I reckon you won't be missin' him none if I take him along
up to my place."
The horse-trader did not want to lose Young Pete, but he did want
Annersley's money. "I'll leave it to him," he said, flattering himself
that Pete dare not leave him.
"What do you say, son?"--and old man Annersley turned to Pete. "Would
you like to go along up with me and help me to run my place? I'm kind
o' 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 are
tellin' the truth from sunup to sunup. Like to come along and give me
a hand with my stock?"
"You bet I would!"
"Here's your money," said Annersley, and he gave the trader forty
dollars. "Git right in that buckboard, son."
"Hold on!" exclaimed the trader. "The kid stays here. I said fifty
for the outfit."
"I'm goin'," asserted Young Pete. "I'm sick o' gettin' kicked and
cussed every time I come near him. He licked me with a rawhide last
week."
"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 some
one 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 Young
Pete started toward the wagon, the trader jumped and grabbed him. The
boy flung up his arms to protect his face. Old man Annersley said
nothing, but with ponderous ease he strode forward, seized the trader
from behind, and shook that loose-mouthed individual till his teeth
rattled 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 your
blanket 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 Mexican
camp near Enright. He scurried to the buckboard and hopped in.
Annersley rose and brought the trader up with him as though the latter
were 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 physical
ambition was lacking.
Annersley bulked big. The horse-trader cursed the old man in two
languages. Annersley climbed into the buckboard, gave Pete the
lead-rope of the recent purchase, and clucked to his horse, paying no
attention 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 in
Concho how he's goin' to kill me--some day. I've handled folks like
him 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 horse
with outland eloquence. As they crossed the arroyo, the led horse
pulled back, all but unseating Young Pete.
"Here, you!" cried the boy. "You quit that--afore my new pop takes you
by 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 I
said 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 your
life?"
Annersley glanced down at the boy.
"Well, if you promise you won't tell nobody, I did cuss onct, when I
struck the plough into a yellow-jacket's nest which I wa'n't aimin' to
hit, nohow. Had the reins round my neck, not expectin' visitors, when
them 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 enough
dirt out of my mouth so as I could holler, I set to and said what I
thought."
"Cussed the hosses and the doggone ole plough and them hornets--and
everything!" exclaimed Pete.
"Nope, son, I cussed myself for hangin' them reins round my neck. What
you 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 Annersley
now. Watch out that hoss don't jerk you out o' your jacket. This here
hill 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 my
place on the Blue and tend to the critters and git washed up and have
supper, and mebby after supper we'll mosey around so you kin git
acquainted 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. "You
hungry, 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-account
ole 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. She
ain'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 and
then 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 would
last--if it were real, or just a dream that would vanish, leaving him
shivering in his tattered blanket, and the horse-trader telling him to
get 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 shimmering
in the sunset like an emerald lake, beneath a cloudless sky tinged with
crimson, gold, and amethyst. Across the mesa stood a cabin, the only
dwelling in that silent expanse. And this was to be his home, and the
big man beside him, gently urging the horse, was his partner. He had
said so. Surely the great adventure had begun.
Annersley glanced down. Young Pete's hand was clutched in the old
man's coat-sleeve, but the boy was gazing ahead, his bright black eyes
filled with the wonder of new fortunes and a real home. Annersley
blinked and spoke sharply to the horse, although that good animal
needed no urging as he plodded sturdily toward the cabin.