A CHANGE OF BASE
To say that Young Pete had any definite plan when he left Concho and
took up with an old Mexican sheep-herder would be stretching the
possibilities. And Pete Annersley's history will have to speak for
itself as illustrative of a plan from which he could not have departed
any more than he could have originated and followed to its final
ultimatum.
Life with the storekeeper had been tame. Pete had no horse; and the
sheriff, taking him at his word, had refused to give up either one of
the rifles unless Pete would declare which one he had used that fateful
night of the raid. And Pete would not do that. He felt that somehow
he had been cheated. Even the storekeeper Roth discouraged him from
using fire-arms, fearing that the boy might some day "cut loose" at
somebody without word or warning. Pete was well fed and did not have
to work hard, yet his ideas of what constituted a living were far
removed from the conventions of Concho. He wanted to ride, to hunt, to
drive team, to work in the open with lots of elbow-room and under a
wide sky. His one solace while in the store was the array of rifles
and six-guns which he almost reverenced for their suggestive potency.
They represented power, and the only law that he believed in.
Some time after Pete had disappeared, the store-keeper, going over his
stock, missed a heavy-caliber six-shooter. He wondered if the boy had
taken it. Roth did not care so much for the loss of the gun as for the
fact that Pete might have stolen it. Later Roth discovered a crudely
printed slip of paper among the trinkets in the showcase. "I took a
gun and cartriges for my wagges. You never giv me Wages." Which was
true enough, the storekeeper figuring that Pete's board and lodging
were just about offset by his services. In paying Pete a dollar a
week, Annersley had established a precedent which involved Young Pete's
pride as a wage-earner. In making Pete feel that he was really worth
more than his board and lodging, Annersley had helped the boy to a
certain self-respect which Pete subconsciously felt that he had lost
when Roth, the storekeeper, gave him a home and work but no pay. Young
Pete did not dislike Roth, but the contrast of Roth's close methods
with the large, free-handed dealings of Annersley was ever before him.
Pete was strong for utility. He had no boyish sense of the dramatic,
consciously. He had never had time to play. Everything he did, he did
seriously. So when he left Concho at dusk one summer evening, he did
not "run away" in any sense. He simply decided that it was time to go
elsewhere--and he went.
The old Mexican, Montoya, had a band of sheep in the high country.
Recently the sheep had drifted past Concho, and Pete, alive to anything
and everything that was going somewhere, had waited on the Mexican at
the store. Sugar, coffee, flour, and beans were packed on the shaggy
burros. Pete helped carry the supplies to the doorway and watched him
pack. The two sharp-nosed sheep-dogs interested Pete. They seemed so
alert, and yet so quietly satisfied with their lot. The last thing the
old Mexican did was to ask for a few cartridges. Pete did not
understand just what kind he wanted. With a secretiveness which
thrilled Pete clear to the toes, the old herder, in the shadowy rear of
the store, drew a heavy six-shooter from under his arm and passed it
stealthily to Pete, who recognized the caliber and found cartridges for
it. Pete's manner was equally stealthy. This smacked of adventure!
Cattlemen and sheepmen were not friendly, as Pete knew. Pete had no
love for the "woolies," yet he hated cattlemen. The old Mexican
thanked him and invited him to visit his camp below Concho. Possibly
Pete never would have left the storekeeper--or at least not
immediately--had not that good man, always willing to cater to Pete's
curiosity as to guns and gunmen, told him that old Montoya, while a
Mexican, was a dangerous man with a six-gun; that he was seldom
molested by the cattlemen, who knew him to be absolutely without fear
and a dead shot.
"Huh! That old herder ain't no gun-fighter!" Pete had said, although
he believed the storekeeper. Pete wanted to hear more.
"Most Mexicans ain't," replied Roth, for Pete's statement was half a
challenge, half a question. "But José Montoya never backed down from a
fight--and he's had plenty."
Pete was interested. He determined to visit Montoya's camp that
evening. He said nothing to Roth, as he intended to return.
Long before Pete arrived at the camp he saw the tiny fire--a dot of red
against the dark--and he heard the muffled trampling of the sheep as
they bedded down for the night. Within a few yards of the camp the
dogs challenged him, charging down the gentle slope to where he stood.
Pete paid no attention to them, but marched up to the fire. Old
Montoya rose and greeted him pleasantly. Another Mexican, a slim
youth, bashfully acknowledged Pete's presence and called in the dogs.
Pete, who had known many outland camp-fires, made himself at home,
sitting cross-legged and affecting a mature indifference. The old
Mexican smoked and studied the youngster, amused by his evident attempt
to appear grown-up and disinterested.
"That gun, he poke you in the rib, hey?"--and Montoya chuckled.
Pete flushed and glanced down at the half-concealed weapon beneath his
arm. "Tied her on with string--ain't got no shoulder holster," Pete
explained in an offhand way.
"What you do with him?" The old Mexican's deep-set eyes twinkled.
Pete studied Montoya's face. This was a direct but apparently friendly
query. Pete wondered if he should answer evasively or directly. The
fact was that he did not know just why he had taken the gun--or what he
intended to do with it. After all, it was none of Montoya's business,
yet Pete did not wish to offend the old man. He wanted to hear more
about gun-fights with the cattlemen.
"Well, seein' it's you, señor,"--Pete adopted the grand air as most
befitting the occasion,--"I'm packin' this here gun to fight
cow-punchers with. Reckon you don't know some cow-punchers killed my
dad. I was just a kid then. [Pete was now nearly fourteen.] Some day
I'm goin' to git the man what killed him."
Montoya did not smile. This muchacho evidently had spirit. Pete's
invention, made on the spur of the moment, had hit "plumb center," as
he told himself. For Montoya immediately became gracious, proffered
Pete tobacco and papers, and suggested coffee, which the young Mexican
made while Pete and the old man chatted. Pete was deeply impressed by
his reception. He felt that he had made a hit with Montoya--and that
the other had taken him seriously. Most men did not, despite the fact
that he was accredited with having slain two T-Bar-T cowboys. A
strange sympathy grew between this old Mexican and the lean,
bright-eyed young boy. Perhaps Pete's swarthy coloring and black eyes
had something to do with it. Possibly Pete's assurance, as contrasted
with the bashfulness and timidity of the old Mexican's nephew, had
something to do with Montoya's immediate friendliness. In any event,
the visit ended with an invitation to Pete to become a permanent member
of the sheep-camp, Montoya explaining that his nephew wanted to go
home; that he did not like the loneliness of a herder's life.
Pete had witnessed too many horse-trades to accept this proposal at
once. His face expressed deep cogitation, as he flicked the ashes from
his cigarette and shook his head. "I dunno. Roth is a pretty good
boss. 'Course, he ain't no gun-fighter--and that's kind of in your
favor--"
"What hombre say I make fight with gun?" queried Montoya.
"Why, everybody! I reckon they's mighty few of 'em want to stack up
against you."
Montoya frowned. "I don' talk like that," he said, shrugging his
shoulders.
Pete felt that he was getting in deep--but he had a happy inspiration.
"You don't have to talk. Your ole forty-four does the talking I
reckon."
"You come and cook?" queried Montoya, coming straight to the point.
"I dunno, amigo. I'll think about it."
"Bueno. It is dark, I will walk with you to Concho."
"You think I'm a kid?" flared Pete. "If was dark when I come over here
and it ain't any darker now. I ain't no doggone cow-puncher what's got
to git on a hoss afore he dast go anywhere."
Montoya laughed. "You come to-morrow night, eh?"
"Reckon I will."
"Then the camp will be over there--in the cañon. You will see the
fire."
"I'll come over and have a talk anyway," said Pete, still unwilling to
let Montoya think him anxious. "Buenos noches!"
Montoya nodded. "He will come," he said to his nephew. "Then it is
that you may go to the home. He is small--but of the very great
courage."
The following evening Pete appeared at the herder's camp. The dogs ran
out, sniffed at him, and returned to the fire. Montoya made a place
for him on the thick sheepskins and asked him if he had eaten. Yes, he
had had supper, but he had no blankets. Could Montoya let him have a
blanket until he had earned enough money to buy one?
The old herder told him that he could have the nephew's blankets; Pedro
was to leave camp next day and go home. As for money, Montoya did not
pay wages. Of course, for tobacco, or a coat or pants, he could have
the money when he needed them.
Pete felt a bit taken aback. He had burnt his bridges--he could not
return to Concho--yet he wanted a definite wage. "I kin pack--make and
break camp--and sure cook the frijoles. Pop learned me all that; but
he was payin' me a dollar a week. He said I was jest as good as a man.
A dollar a week ain't much."
The old herder shook his head. "Not until I sell the wool can I pay."
"When do you sell that wool?"
"When the pay for it is good. Sometimes I wait."
"Well, I kin see where I don't get rich herdin' sheep."
"We shall see. Perhaps, if you are a good boy--"
"You got me wrong, señor. Roth he said I was the limit--and even my
old pop said I was a tough kid. I ain't doin' this for my health. I
hooked up with you 'cause I kinda thought--"
"Si?"
"Well, Roth was tellin' as how you could make a six-gun smoke faster
than most any hombre a-livin'. Now, I was figurin' if you would show
me how to work this ole smoke-wagon here"--and Pete touched the huge
lump beneath his shirt--"why, that would kinda be like wages--but I
ain't got no money to buy cartridges."
"I, José de la Crux Montoya, will show you how to work him. It is a
big gun for such a chico."
"Oh, I reckon I kin hold her down. When do we start the shootin'
match?"
Montoya smiled.
"Mañana, perhaps."
"Then that's settled!" Pete heaved a sigh. "But how am I goin' to git
them cartridges?"
"From the store."
"That's all right. But how many do I git for workin' for you?"
Montoya laughed outright. "You will become a good man with the sheep.
You will not waste the flour and the beans and the coffee and the
sugar, like Pedro here. You will count and not say--'Oh, I think it's
so much'--and because of that I will buy you two boxes of cartridges."
"Two boxes--a hundred a month?"
"Even so. You will waste many until you learn."
"Shake!" said Pete. "That suits me! And if any doggone ole brush-cats
or lion or bear come pokin' around this here camp, we'll sure smoke 'em
up. And if any of them cow-chasers from the mountain or the Concho
starts monkeyin' with our sheep, there's sure goin' to be a cowboy
funeral in these parts! You done hired a good man when you hired me!"
"We shall see," said Montoya, greatly amused. "But there is much work
to be done as well as the shooting."
"I'll be there!" exclaimed Pete. "What makes them sheep keep a-moanin'
and a-bawlin' and a-shufflin' round? Don't they never git to sleep?"
"Si, but it is a new camp. To-morrow night they will be quiet. It is
always so."
"Well, they sure make enough noise. When do we git goin'?"
"Pedro, he will leave mañana. In two days we will move the camp."
"All right. I don't reckon Roth would be lookin' for me in any
sheep-camp anyhow." Young Pete was not afraid of the storekeeper, but
the fact that he had taken the gun troubled him, even though he had
left a note explaining that he took the gun in lieu of wages. He
shared Pedro's blankets, but slept little. The sheep milled and bawled
most of the night. Even before daybreak Pete was up and building a
fire. The sheep poured from the bedding-ground and pattered down to
the cañon stream. Later they spread out across the wide cañon-bottom
and grazed, watched by the dogs.
Full-fed and happy, Young Pete helped Pedro clean the camp-utensils.
The morning sun, pushing up past the cañon-rim, picked out the details
of the camp one by one--the smouldering fire of cedar wood, the packs,
saddles and ropes, the water-cask, the lazy burros waiting for the sun
to warm them to action, the blankets and sheepskin bedding, and farther
down the cañon a still figure standing on a slight rise of ground and
gazing into space--the figure of José de la Crux Montoya, the
sheep-herder whom Roth had said feared no man and was a dead shot.
Pete knew Spanish--he had heard little else spoken in Concho--and he
thought that "Joseph of the Cross" was a strange name for a recognized
gunman. "But Mexicans always stick crosses over graves," soliloquized
Pete. "Mebby that's why he's got that fancy name. Gee! But this sure
beats tendin' store!"