FIREARMS AND NEW FORTUNES
For a few days the old man had his hands full. Young Pete, used to
thinking and acting for himself, possessed that most valuable but often
dangerous asset, initiative. The very evening that he arrived at the
homestead, while Annersley was milking the one tame cow out in the
corral, Young Pete decided that he would help matters along by catching
the hen which Annersley had pointed out to him when he drove into the
yard. Milking did not interest Young Pete; but chasing chickens did.
The hen, a slate-colored and maternal-appearing biddy, seemed to
realize that something unusual was afoot. She refused to be driven
into the coop, perversely diving about the yard and circling the
out-buildings until even Young Pete's ambition flagged. Out of breath
he marched to the house. Annersley's rifle stood in the corner. Young
Pete eyed it longingly, finally picked it up and stole gingerly to the
doorway. The slate-colored hen had cooled down and was at the moment
contemplating the cabin with head sideways, exceedingly suspicious and
ruffled, but standing still. Just as Young Pete drew a bead on her,
the big red rooster came running to assure her that all was well--that
he would protect her; that her trepidation was unfounded. He blustered
and strutted, declaring himself Lord High Protector of the hen-yard and
just about the handsomest thing in feathers--_Bloom_! Young Pete
blinked, and rubbed his shoulder. The slate-colored hen sprinted for
parts unknown. The big red rooster flopped once or twice and then gave
up the ghost. He had strutted across the firing line just as Young
Pete pulled the trigger. The cow jumped and kicked over the milk-pail.
Old Annersley came running. But Young Pete, the lust of the chase
spurring him on, had disappeared around the corner of the cabin after
the hen. He routed her out from behind the haystack, herded her
swiftly across the clearing to the lean-to stable, and corralled her,
so to speak, in a manger. Just as Annersley caught up with him, Pete
leveled and fired--at close range. What was left of the hen--which was
chiefly feathers, he gathered up and held by the remaining leg. "I got
her!" he panted.
Annersley paused to catch his breath. "Yes--you got her.
Gosh-A'mighty, son--I thought you had started in to clean out the
ranch! You downed my rooster and you like to plugged me an' that
heifer there. The bullit come singin' along and plunked into the
rain-bar'l and most scared me to death. What in the ole scratch
started you on the war-path, anyhow?"
Pete realized that he had overdone the matter slightly. "Why,
nothin'--only you said we was to eat that hen for supper, an' I
couldn't catch the dog-gone ole squawker, so I jest set to and plugged
her. This here gun of yourn kicks somethin' fierce!"
"Well, I reckon you was meanin' all right. But Gosh-A'mighty! You
might 'a' killed the cow or me or somethin'!"
"Well, I got her, anyhow. I got her plumb center."
"Yes--you sure did." And the old man took the remains of the hen from
Pete and "hefted" those remains with a critical finger and thumb. "One
laig left, and a piece of the breast." He sighed heavily. Young Pete
stared up at him, expecting praise for his marksmanship and energy.
The old man put his hand on Pete's shoulder. "It's all right this
time, son. I reckon you wasn't meanin' to murder that rooster. I only
got one, and--"
"He jest run right in front of the hen when I cut loose. He might 'a'
knowed better."
"We'll go see." And Annersley plodded to the yard, picked up the
defunct rooster and entered the cabin.
Young Pete cooled down to a realization that his new pop was not
altogether pleased. He followed Annersley, who told him to put the gun
back in the corner.
"Got to clean her first," asserted Young Pete.
"You look out you don't shoot yourself," said Annersley from the
kitchen.
"Huh," came from the ambitious, young hunter of feathered game, "I know
all about guns--and this here ole musket sure needs cleanin' bad. She
liked to kicked my doggone head off."
They ate what was left of the hen, and a portion of the rooster. After
supper Annersley sat outside with the boy and talked to him kindly.
Slowly it dawned upon Young Pete that it was not considered good form
in the best families of Arizona to slay law-abiding roosters without
explicit directions and permission from their owners. The old man
concluded with a promise that if Young Pete liked to shoot, he should
some day have a gun of his own if he, in turn, would agree to do no
shooting without permission. The promise of a real gun of his own
touched Young Pete's tough little heart. He stuck out his hand. The
compact was sealed.
"Git a thirty-thirty," he suggested.
"What do you know about thirty-thirties?"
"Huh, I know lots. My other pop was tellin' me you could git a man
with a thirty a whole heap farther than you could with any ole
forty-four or them guns. I shot heaps of rabbits with his."
"Well, we'll see. But you want to git over the idee of gettin' a man
with any gun. That goes with horse-tradin' and liquor and such. But
we sure aim to live peaceful, up here."
Meanwhile, Young Pete, squatting beside Annersley, amused himself by
spitting tobacco juice at a procession of red ants that trailed from
nowhere in particular toward the doorstep.
"Makes 'em sick," he chuckled as a lucky shot dissipated the procession.
"It's sure wastin' cartridges on mighty small game," remarked Annersley.
"Don't cost nothin' to spit on 'em," said Young Pete.
"Not now. But when you git out of chewin'-tobacco, then where you
goin' to git some more?"
"To the store, I reckon."
"Uh-huh. But where you goin' to git the money?"
"He was givin' me all the chewin' I wanted," said Pete.
"Uh-huh. Well, I ain't got no money for chewin'-tobacco. But I tell
you what, Pete. Now, say I was to give you a dollar a week for--for
your wages. And say I was to git you one of them guns like you said;
you couldn't shoot chewin'-tobacco in that gun, could you?"
"Most anybody knows that!" laughed Pete.
"But you could buy cartridges with that dollar--an' shoot lots."
"Would you lick me if I bought chewin'?"
"Shucks, no! I was jest leavin' it to you."
"When do I git that dollar--the first one?"
Annersley smiled to himself. Pete was shrewd and in no way inclined to
commit himself carelessly. Horse-trading had sharpened his wits to a
razor-edge and dire necessity and hunger had kept those wits keen.
Annersley was amused and at the same time wise enough in his patient,
slow way to hide his amusement and talk with Pete as man to man. "Why,
you ain't been workin' for me a week yet! And come to think--that
rooster was worth five dollars--every cent! What you say if I was to
charge that rooster up to you? Then after five weeks you was to git a
dollar, eh?"
Pete pondered this problem. "Huh!" he exclaimed suddenly. "You et
more 'n half that rooster--and some of the hen."
"All right, son. Then say I was to charge you two dollars for what you
et?"
"Then, I guess beans is good enough for me. Anyhow, I never stole your
rooster. I jest shot him."
"Which is correct. Reckon we'll forgit about that rooster and start
fresh." The old man fumbled in his pocket and brought up a silver
dollar. "Here's your first week's wages, son. What you aim to do with
it?"
"Buy cartridges!" exclaimed Pete. "But I ain't got no gun."
"Well, we'll be goin' to town right soon. I'll git you a gun, and
mebby a scabbard so you can carry it on the saddle."
"Kin I ride that hoss I seen out there?" queried Pete.
"What about ridin' the hoss you sold me? From what you said, I reckon
they ain't no hoss can touch him, in this country."
Pete hesitated on the thin edge of committing himself, tottered and
almost fell, but managed to retain his balance. "Sure, he's a good
hoss! Got a little age on him, but that don't hurt none. I was
thinkin' mebby you'd like that other cayuse of yours broke right.
Looks to me like he needs some handlin' to make a first-class
saddle-hoss."
The old man smiled broadly. Pete, like a hungry mosquito, was hard to
catch.
"You kin ride him," said Annersley. "'Course, if he pitches you--"
And the old man chuckled.
"Pitch me? Say, pardner, I'm a ridin' son-of-a-gun from Powder River
and my middle name is 'stick.' I kin ride 'm comin' and goin'--crawl
'm on the run and bust 'm wide open every time they bit the dirt. Turn
me loose and hear me howl. Jest give me room and see me split the air!
You want to climb the fence when I 'm a-comin'!"
"Where did you git that little song?" queried Annersley.
"Why--why, that's how the fellas shoot her over to the round-up at
Magdalena and Flag. Reckon I been there!"
"Well, don't you bust ole Apache too hard, son. He's a mighty
forgivin' hoss--but he's got feelin's."
"Huh! You're a-joshin' me agin. I seen your whiskers kind o' wiggle.
You think I'm scared o' that hoss?"
"Just a leetle mite, son. Or you wouldn't 'a' sung that there
high-chin song. There's some good riders that talk lots. But the best
riders I ever seen, jest rode 'em--and said nothin'."
"Like when you set on my other pop, eh?"
"That's the idee."
Pete, used to a rough-and-tumble existence, was deeply impressed by the
old man's quiet outlook and gentle manner. While not altogether in
accord with Annersley's attitude in regard to profanity and chewing
tobacco--still, Young Pete felt that a man who could down the
horse-trader and sit on him and suffer no harm was somehow worth
listening to.