A WARNING
That first and unforgettable year on the homestead was the happiest
year of Pete's life. Intensely active, tireless, and resourceful--as
are most youngsters raised in the West--he learned to milk the tame
cow, manipulate the hay-rake, distinguish potato-vines from weeds and
hoe accordingly, and through observation and Annersley's thrifty
example, take care of his clothing and few effects. The old man taught
Pete to read and to write his own name--a painful process, for Young
Pete cared nothing for that sort of education and suffered only that he
might please his venerable partner. When it came to the plaiting of
rawhide into bridle-reins and reatas, the handling of a rope, packing
for a hunting trip, reading a dim trail when tracking a stray horse, or
any of the many things essential to life in the hills, Young Pete took
hold with boyish enthusiasm, copying Annersley's methods to the letter.
Pete was repaid a thousand-fold for his efforts by the old man's
occasional:
"Couldn't 'a' done it any better myself, pardner."
For Annersley seldom called the boy "Pete" now, realizing that
"pardner" meant so much more to him.
Pete had his rifle--an old carbine, much scratched and battered by the
brush and rock--a thirty-thirty the old man had purchased from a cowboy
in Concho.
Pete spent most of his spare time cleaning and polishing the gun. He
had a fondness for firearms that almost amounted to a passion.
Evenings, when the work was done and Annersley sat smoking in the
doorway, Young Pete invariably found excuse to clean and oil his gun.
He invested heavily in cartridges and immediately used up his
ammunition on every available target until there was not an unpunctured
tin can on the premises. He was quick and accurate, finally scorning
to shoot at a stationary mark and often riding miles to get to the
valley level where there were rabbits and "Jacks," that he occasionally
bowled over on the run. Once he shot a coyote, and his cup of
happiness brimmed--for the time being.
All told, it was a most healthful and happy life for a boy, and Young
Pete learned, unconsciously, to "ride, shoot, and Tell the Truth," as
against "Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic," for which he cared nothing.
Pete might have gone far--become a well-to-do cattleman or rancher--had
not Fate, which can so easily wipe out all plans and precautions in a
flash, stepped in and laid a hand on his bridle-rein.
That summer occasional riders stopped at the cabin, were fed and housed
and went on their way. They came chiefly from the T-Bar-T ranch--some
few from Concho, a cattle outfit of the lower country. Pete
intuitively disliked these men, despite the fact that they rode
excellent horses, sported gay trappings, and "joshed" with him as
though he were one of themselves. His instinct told him that they were
not altogether friendly to Annersley. They frequently drifted into
warm argument as to water-rights and nesters in general--matters that
did not interest Young Pete at the time, who failed, naturally, to
grasp the ultimate meaning of the talk. But the old man never seemed
perturbed by these arguments, declining, in his good-natured way, to
take them seriously, and feeling secure in his own rights, as a
hard-working citizen, to hold and cultivate the allotment he had earned
from the Government.
The T-Bar-T outfit especially grudged him the water that they had
previously used to such good advantage. This water was now under
fence. To make this water available to cattle would disrupt the
homestead. It was at this time that Young Pete first realized the
significance of these hard-riding visitors. He was cleaning his
much-polished carbine, sitting cross-legged round the corner of the
cabin, when two of the chance visitors, having washed and discarded
their chaps, strolled out and squatted by the doorway. Old man
Annersley was at the back of the cabin preparing supper.
One of the riders, a man named Gary, said something to his companion
about "running the old man out of the country."
Young Pete paused in his task.
"You can't bluff him so easy," offered the companion.
"But a thirty-thirty kin talk business," said the man Gary, and he
laughed.
Pete never forgot the remark nor the laugh. Next day, after the riders
had departed, he told his pop what he had heard. The old man made him
repeat the conversation. He shook his head. "Mostly talk," he said.
"They dassent to start runnin' _us_ off--dast they?" queried Young Pete.
"Mostly talk," reiterated Annersley; but Pete saw that his pop was
troubled.
"They can't bluff us, eh, pop?"
"I reckon not, son. How many cartridges you got?"
Young Pete thrilled to the question. "Got ten out of the last box.
You got any?"
"Some. Reckon we'll go to town to-morrow."
"To git some cartridges?"
"Mebby."
This was Young Pete's first real intimation that there might be trouble
that would occasion the use of cartridges. The idea did not displease
him. They drove to town, bought some provisions and ammunition, and
incidentally the old man visited the sheriff and retailed the
conversation that Pete had overheard.
"Bluff!" said the sheriff, whose office depended upon the vote of the
cattlemen. "Just bluff, Annersley. You hang on to what you got and
they won't be no trouble. I know just how far those boys will go."
"Well, I don't," said Annersley. "So I was jest puttin' what you call
bluff on record, case anything happened."
The sheriff, secretly in league with the cattlemen to crowd Annersley
off the range, took occasion to suggest to the T-Bar-T foreman that the
old man was getting cold feet--which was a mistake, for Annersley had
simply wished to keep within the law and avoid trouble if possible.
Thus it happened that Annersley brought upon himself the very trouble
that he had honorably tried to avoid. Let the most courageous man even
seem to turn and run and how soon his enemies will take up the chase!
But nothing happened that summer, and it was not until the following
spring that the T-Bar-T outfit gave any hint of their real intent. The
anonymous letter was a vile screed--because it was anonymous and also
because it threatened, in innuendo, to burn out a homestead held by one
man and a boy.
Annersley showed the letter to Pete and helped him spell it out. Then
he explained gravely his own status as a homesteader, the law which
allowed him to fence the water, and the labor which had made the land
his. It was typical of Young Pete that when a real hazard threatened
he never said much. In this instance the boy did not know just what to
do. That evening Annersley missed him and called, "What you doin',
pardner?"
From the cabin--Annersley, as usual, was seated outside, smoking--came
the reply: "Countin' my cartridges."
Annersley knew that the anonymous letter would be followed by some
hostile act if he did not vacate the homestead. He wasted no time
worrying as to what might happen--but he did worry about Young Pete.
If the cattlemen raided his place, it would be impossible to keep that
young and ambitious fire-eater out of harm's way. So the old man
planned to take Pete to Concho the next morning and leave him with the
storekeeper until the difficulty should be solved, one way or the other.
This time they did not drive to Concho, but saddled up and rode down
the hill trail. And during the journey Young Pete was unusually
silent, wondering just what his pop planned to do.
At the store Annersley privately explained the situation to the
storekeeper. Then he told Young Pete that he would leave him there for
a few days as he was "goin' over north a spell."
Young Pete studied the old man with bright, blinking eyes that
questioned the truth of this statement. His pop had never lied to him,
and although Pete suspected what was in the wind, he had no ground for
argument. Annersley was a trifle surprised that the boy consented to
stay without demur. Annersley might have known that Young Pete's very
silence was significant; but the old man was troubled and only too glad
to find his young partner so amenable to his suggestion. When
Annersley left the store Young Pete's "So-long, pop," was as casual as
sunshine, but his tough little heart was thumping with restrained
excitement. He knew that his pop feared trouble and wished to face it
alone.
Pete allowed a reasonable length of time to elapse and then approached
the storekeeper. "Gimme a box of thirty-thirties," he said, fishing up
some silver from his overall pocket.
"Where'd you get all that money, Pete?"
"Why, I done stuck up the fo'man of the T-Bar-T on pay-day and made him
shell out," said Pete.
The storekeeper grinned. "Here you be. Goin' huntin'?"
"Uh-huh. Huntin' snakes."
"Honest, now! Where'd you git the change?"
"My wages!" said Young Pete proudly. "Pop is givin' me a dollar a week
for helpin' him. We're pardners."
"Your pop is right good to you, ain't he?"
"You bet! And he can lick any ole bunch of cow-chasers in this
country. Somebody's goin' to git hurt if they monkey with him!"
"Where 'd you get the idea anybody was going to monkey with your dad?"
Young Pete felt that he had been incautious. He refused to talk
further, despite the storekeeper's friendly questioning. Instead, the
boy roamed about the store, inspecting and commenting upon saddlery,
guns, canned goods, ready-made clothing, and showcase trinkets, his
ears alert for every word exchanged by the storekeeper and a chance
customer. Presently two cowboys clumped in, joshed with the
store-keeper, bought tobacco and ammunition--a most usual procedure,
and clumped out again. Young Pete strolled to the door and watched
them enter the adobe saloon across the way--Tony's Place--the
rendezvous of the riders of the high mesas. Again a group of cowboys
arrived, jesting and roughing their mounts. They entered the store,
bought ammunition, and drifted to the saloon. It was far from pay-day,
as Pete knew. It was also the busy season. There was some ulterior
reason for so many riders assembling in town. Pete decided to find out
just what they were up to.
After supper he meandered across to the saloon, passed around it, and
hid in an empty barrel near the rear door. He was uncomfortable, but
not unhappy. He listened for a chance word that might explain the
presence of so many cowboys in town that day. Frequently he heard
Gary's name mentioned. He had not seen Gary with the others. But the
talk was casual, and he learned nothing until some one remarked that it
was about time to drift along. They left in a body, taking the mesa
trail that led to the Blue. This was significant. They usually left
in groups of two or three, as their individual pleasure dictated. And
there was a business-like alertness about their movements that did not
escape Young Pete.
The Arizona stars were clear and keen when he crept round to the front
of the saloon and pattered across the road to the store. The
storekeeper was closing for the night. Young Pete, restlessly anxious
to follow the T-Bar-T men, invented an excuse to leave the storekeeper,
who suggested that they go to bed.
"Got to see if my hoss is all right," said Pete. "The ole fool's like
to git tangled up in that there drag-rope I done left on him. Reckon
I'll take it off."
"Why, your dad was tellin' me you was a reg'lar buckaroo. Thought you
knew better than to leave a rope on a hoss when he's in a corral."
"I forgot," invented Pete. "Won't take a minute."
"Then I'll wait for you. Run along while I get my lantern."
The storekeeper's house was but a few doors down the street, which,
however, meant quite a distance, as Concho straggled over considerable
territory. He lighted the lantern and sat down on the steps waiting
for the boy. From the corral back of the store came the sound of
trampling hoofs and an occasional word from Young Pete, who seemed to
be a long time at the simple task of untying a drag-rope. The
store-keeper grew suspicious and finally strode back to the corral.
His first intimation of Pete's real intent was a glimpse of the boy
astride the big bay and blinking in the rays of the lantern.
"What you up to?" queried the storekeeper.
Young Pete's reply was to dig his heels into the horse's ribs. The
storekeeper caught hold of the bridle. "You git down and come home
with me. Where you goin' anyhow?"
"Take your hand off that bridle," blustered Young Pete.
The trader had to laugh. "Got spunk, ain't you? Now you git down and
come along with me, Pete. No use you riding back to the mesa to-night.
Your dad ain't there. You can't find him to-night."
Pete's lip quivered. What right had the store-keeper, or any man, to
take hold of his bridle?
"See here, Pete, where do you think you're goin'?"
"Home!" shrilled Pete as he swung his hat and fanned the horse's ears.
It had been many years since that pony had had his ears fanned, but he
remembered early days and rose to the occasion, leaving the storekeeper
in the dust and Young Pete riding for dear life to stay in the saddle.
Pete's hat was lost in the excitement, and next to his rifle, the old
sombrero inherited from his pop was Pete's dearest possession. But
even when the pony had ceased to pitch, Pete dared not go back for it.
He would not risk being caught a second time.
He jogged along up the mesa trail, peering ahead in the dusk,
half-frightened and half-elated. If the T-Bar-T outfit were going to
run his pop out of the country, Young Pete intended to be in at the
running. The feel of the carbine beneath his leg gave him courage. Up
to the time Annersley had adopted him, Pete had had to fight and scheme
and dodge his way through life. He had asked no favors and expected
none. His pop had stood by him in his own deepest trouble, and he
would now stand by his pop. That he was doing anything especially
worthy did not occur to him. Partners always "stuck."
The horse, anxious to be home, took the long grade quickly, restrained
by Pete, who felt that it would be poor policy to tread too closely
upon the heels of the T-Bar-T men. That they intended mischief was now
only too evident. And Pete would have been disappointed had they not.
Although sophisticated beyond his years and used to the hazards of a
rough life, _this_ adventure thrilled him. Perhaps the men would set
fire to the outbuildings and the haystack, or even try to burn the
cabin. But they would have a sorry time getting to the cabin if his
pop were really there.
Up the dim, starlit trail he plodded, shivering and yet elate. As he
topped the rise he thought he could see the vague outlines of horses
and men, but he was not certain. That soft glow against the distant
timber was real enough, however! There was no mistaking that! The log
stable was on fire!
The horse fought the bit as Young Pete reined him into the timber.
Pete could see no men against the glow of the burning building, but he
knew that they were there somewhere, bushed in the brush and waiting.
Within a few hundred yards of the cabin he was startled by the flat
crack of a rifle. He felt frightened and the blood sang in his ears.
But he could not turn back now! His pop might be besieged in the
cabin, alone and fighting a cowardly bunch of cow-punchers who dare not
face him in the open day. But what if his pop were not there? The
thought struck him cold. What would he do if he made a run for the
cabin and found it locked and no one there? All at once Pete realized
that it was _his_ home and _his_ stock and hay that were in danger.
Was he not a partner in pop's homestead? Then a thin red flash from
the cabin window told him that Annersley was there. Following the
flash came the rip and roar of the old rifle. Concealed in the timber,
Pete could see the flames licking up the stable. Presently a long
tongue of yellow shot up the haystack. "The doggone snakes done fired
our hay!" he cried, and his voice caught in a sob. This was too much.
Hay was a precious commodity in the high country. Pete yanked out his
carbine, loosed a shot at nothing in particular, and rode for the cabin
on the run. "We're coming pop," he yelled, followed by his shrill
"Yip! Yip! We're all here!"
Several of the outlying cow-punchers saw the big bay rear and stop at
the cabin as Young Pete flung out of the saddle and pounded on the
door. "It's me, pop! It's Pete! Lemme in!"
Annersley's heart sank. Why had the boy come? How did he know? How
had he managed to get away?
He flung open the door and dragged Pete in.
"What you doin' here?" he challenged.
"I done lost my hat," gasped Pete. "I--I was lookin' for it."
"Your hat? You gone loco? Git in there and lay down!" And though it
was dark in the cabin Young Pete knew that his pop had gestured toward
the bed. Annersley had never spoken in that tone before, and Young
Pete resented it.
Pete was easily led, but mighty hard to drive.
"Nothin' doin'!" said Pete. "You can't boss me 'round like that! You
said we was pardners, and that we was both boss. I knowed they was
comin' and I fanned it up here to tell you. I reckon we kin lick the
hull of 'em. I got plenty cartridges."
Despite the danger, old man Annersley smiled as he choked back a word
of appreciation for Pete's stubborn loyalty and grit. When he spoke
again Pete at once caught the change in tone.
"You keep away from the window," said Annersley. "Them coyotes out
there 'most like aim to rush me when the blaze dies down. Reckon
they'll risk settin' fire to the cabin. I don't want to kill
nobody--but--you keep back--and if they git me, you stay right still in
here. They won't hurt you."
"Not if I git a bead on any of 'em!" said Young Pete, taking courage
from his pop's presence. "Did you shoot any of 'em yet, pop?"
"I reckon not. I cut loose onct or twict, to scare 'em off. You keep
away from the window."
Young Pete had crept to the window and was gazing out at the sinking
flames. "Say, ain't we pardners?" he queried irritably. "You said we
was when you brung me up here. And pardners stick, don't they? I
reckon if it was my shack that was gittin' rushed, you 'd stick, and
not go bellyin' under the bunk and hidin' like a dog-gone prairie-dog."
[Illustration: "Say, ain't we pardners?"]
"That's all right," said Annersley. "But there's no use takin'
chances. You keep back till we find out what they're goin' to do next."
Standing in the middle of the room, well back from the southern window,
the old man gazed out upon the destruction of his buildings and
carefully hoarded hay. He breathed hard. The riders knew that he was
in the cabin--that they had not bluffed him from the homestead.
Probably they would next try to fire the cabin itself. They could
crawl up to it in the dark and set fire to the place before he was
aware of it. Well, they would pay high before they got him. He had
fed and housed these very men--and now they were trying to run him out
of the country because he had fenced a water-hole which he had every
right to fence. He had toiled to make a home for himself, and the boy,
he thought, as he heard Young Pete padding about the cabin. The
cattlemen had written a threatening letter hinting of this, yet they
had not dared to meet him in the open and have it out face to face. He
did not want to kill, yet such men were no better than wolves. And as
wolves he thought of them, as he determined to defend his home.
Young Pete, spider-like in his quick movements, scurried about the
cabin making his own plan of battle. It did not occur to him that he
might get hurt--or that his pop would get hurt. They were safe enough
behind the thick logs. All he thought of was the chance of a shot at
what he considered legitimate game. While drifting about the country
he had heard many tales of gunmen and border raids, and it was quite
evident, even to his young mind, that the man who suffered attack by a
gun was justified in returning the compliment in kind. And to this end
he carefully arranged his cartridges on the floor, knelt and raised the
window a few inches and cocked the old carbine. Annersley realized
what the boy was up to and stepped forward to pull him away from the
window. And in that brief moment Young Pete's career was
shaped--shaped beyond all question or argument by the wanton bullet
that sung across the open, cut a clean hole in the window, and dropped
Annersley in his tracks.
The distant, flat report of the shot broke the silence, fired more in
the hope of intimidating Annersley than anything else, yet the man who
had fired it must have known that there was but one place in the brush
from where the window could be seen--and to that extent the shot was
premeditated, with the possibility of its killing some one in the cabin.
Young Pete heard his pop gasp and saw him stagger in the dim light. In
a flash Pete was at his side. "You hit, pop?" he quavered. There came
no reply. Annersley had died instantly. Pete fumbled at his chest in
the dark, called to him, tried to shake him, and then, realizing what
had happened threw himself on the floor beside Annersley and sobbed
hopelessly. Again a bullet whipped across the clearing. Glass tinkled
on the cabin floor. Pete cowered and hid his face in his arms.
Suddenly a shrill yell ripped the silence. The men were rushing the
cabin! Young Pete's fighting blood swelled his pulse. He and pop had
been partners. And partners always "stuck." Pete crept cautiously to
the window. Halfway across the clearing the blurred hulk of running
horses loomed in the starlight. Young Pete rested his carbine on the
window-sill and centered on the bulk. He fired and thought he saw a
horse rear. Again he fired. This was much easier than shooting deer.
He beard a cry and the drumming of hoofs. Something crashed against
the door. Pete whirled and fired point-blank. Before he knew what had
happened men were in the cabin. Some one struck a match. Young Pete
cowered in a corner, all the fight oozing out of him as the lamp was
lighted and he saw several men masked with bandannas. "The old man's
done for," said one of them, stooping to look at Annersley. Another
picked up the two empty shells from Annersley's rifle. "Where's the
kid?" asked another. "Here, in the corner," said a cowboy. "Must 'a'
been him that got Wright and Bradley. The old man only cut loose
twict--afore the kid come. Look at this!" And dragging Young Pete to
his feet, the cowboy took the carbine from him and pointed to the three
thirty-thirty shells on the cabin floor.
The men were silent. Presently one of them laughed. Despite Pete's
terror, he recognized that laugh. He knew that the man was Gary, he
who had once spoken of running Annersley out of the country.
"It's a dam' bad business," said one of the men. "The kid knows too
much. He'll talk."
"Will you keep your mouth shut, if we don't kill you?" queried Gary.
"Cut that out!" growled another. "The kid's got sand. He downed two
of us--and we take our medicine. I'm for fannin' it."
Pete, stiff with fear, saw them turn and clump from the cabin.
As they left he heard one say something which he never forgot. "Must
'a' been Gary's shot that downed the o1e man. Gary knowed the layout
and where he could get a line on the window."
Pete dropped to the floor and crawled over to Annersley. "Pop!" he
called again and again. Presently he realized that the kindly old man
who had made a home for him, and who had been more like a real father
than his earlier experiences had ever allowed him to imagine, would
never again answer. In the yellow haze of the lamp, Young Pete rose
and dragging a blanket from the bed, covered the still form and the
upturned face, half in reverence for the dead and half in fear that
those dead lips might open and speak.