PLANS
Several nights later a horseman rode into Montoya's camp. Pete,
getting supper, pretended great indifference until he heard the
horseman's voice. It was young Andy White who had come to visit, as he
had promised. Pete's heart went warm, and he immediately found an
extra tin plate and put more coffee in the pot. He was glad to see
White, but he was not going to let White know how glad. He greeted the
young cowboy in an offhand way, taking the attitude of being so
engrossed with cooking that he could not pay great attention to a stray
horseman just then. But later in the evening, after they had eaten,
the two youths chatted and smoked while Montoya listened and gazed out
across the evening mesa. He understood. Pete was tired of the sheep
and would sooner or later take up with the cattle. That was natural
enough. He liked Pete; really felt as a father toward him. And the
old Mexican, who was skilled in working leather, thought of the
hand-carved holster and belt that he had been working on during his
spare time--a present that he had intended giving Pete when it was
completed. There was still a little work to do on the holster; the
flower pattern in the center was not quite finished. To-morrow he
would finish it--for he wanted to have it ready. If Pete stayed with
him, he would have it--and if Pete left he should have something by
which to remember José de la Crux Montoya--something to remember him
by, and something useful--for even then Montoya realized that if Young
Pete survived the present hazards that challenged youth and an
adventurous heart, some day, as a man grown, Pete would thoroughly
appreciate the gift. A good holster, built on the right lines and one
from which a gun came easily, would be very useful to a man of Pete's
inclinations. And when it came to the fit and hang of a holster,
Montoya knew his business.
Three weeks later, almost to a day, the sheep were grazing below the
town of Concho, near the camp where Pete had first visited Montoya and
elected to work for him. On the higher levels several miles to the
east was the great cattle outfit of the Concho; the home-buildings,
corrals, and stables. Pete had seen some of the Concho boys--chance
visitors at the homestead on the Blue--and he had been thinking of
these as the sheep drifted toward Concho. After all, he was not
equipped to ride, as he had no saddle, bridle, chaps, boots, and not
even a first-class rope. Pete had too much pride to acknowledge his
lack of riding-gear or the wherewithal to purchase it, even should he
tie up with the Concho boys. So when Andy White, again visiting the
sheep-camp, told Pete that the Concho foreman had offered no
encouragement in regard to an extra hand, Pete nodded as though the
matter were of slight consequence, which had the effect of stirring
Andy to renewed eloquence anent the subject--as Pete had hoped. The
boys discussed ways and means. There was much discussion, but no
visible ways and means. Andy's entire wealth was invested in his own
gay trappings. Pete possessed something like seventeen dollars. But
there is nothing impossible to youth--for when youth realizes the
impossible, youth has grown a beard and fears the fire.
Both boys knew that there were many poor Mexicans in the town of Concho
who, when under the expansive influence of wine, would part with almost
anything they or their neighbors possessed, for a consideration. There
were Mexicans who would sell horse, saddle, and bridle for that amount,
especially when thirsty--for seventeen dollars meant unlimited vino and
a swaggering good time--for a time. Pete knew this only too well. He
suggested the idea to Andy, who concurred with enthusiasm.
"Cholas is no good anyhow," blurted Andy. "You ain't robbin' nobody
when you buy a Chola outfit. Let's go!"
Montoya, who sat by the fire, coughed.
"'Course, I was meanin' some Cholas," said Andy.
The old herder smiled to himself. The boys amused him. He had been
young once--and very poor. And he had ridden range in his youthful
days. A mild fatalist, he knew that Pete would not stay long, and
Montoya was big enough not to begrudge the muchacho any happiness.
"I'm goin' over to town for a spell," explained Pete.
Montoya nodded.
"I'm comin' back," Pete added, a bit embarrassed.
"Bueno. I shall be here."
Pete, a bit flustered, did not quite catch the mild sarcasm, but he
breathed more freely when they were out of sight of camp. "He's sure a
white Mexican," he told Andy. "I kind o' hate to leave him, at that."
"You ain't left him yet," suggested Andy with the blunt candor of youth.
Pete pondered. Tucked under his arm were the two bobcat skins and the
coyote-hide. He would try to sell them to the storekeeper, Roth. All
told, he would then have about twenty dollars. That was quite a lot of
money--in Concho.
Roth was closing shop when they entered town. He greeted Pete
heartily, remarked at his growth and invited him in. Pete introduced
Andy, quite unnecessarily, for Andy knew the storekeeper. Pete gazed
at the familiar shelves, boxes and barrels, the new saddles and rigs,
and in fact at everything in the store save the showcase which
contained the cheap watches, trinkets, and six-shooters.
"I got a couple o' skins here," he said presently. "Mebby you could
buy 'em."
"Let's see 'em, Pete."
Pete unfolded the stiff skins on the counter.
"Why, I'll give you two dollars for the lot. The cat-skins are all
right. The coyote ain't worth much."
"All right. I--I'm needin' the money right now," stammered Pete--"or
I'd give 'em to you."
"How you making it?" queried Roth.
"Fine! But I was thinkin' o' makin' a change. Sheep is all right--but
I'm sick o' the smell of 'em. Montoya is all right, too. It ain't
that."
Roth gazed at the boy, wondering if he would say anything about the
six-gun. He liked Pete and yet he felt a little disappointed that Pete
should have taken him altogether for granted.
"Montoya was in--yesterday," said Roth.
"Uh-huh? Said he was comin' over here. He's back in camp. Me and
Andy was lookin' for a Chola that wants to sell a hoss."
"Mighty poor lot of cayuses round here, Pete. What you want with a
horse?"
"'T ain't the hoss. It's the saddle an' bridle I'm after. If I were
to offer to buy a saddle an' bridle I'd git stuck jest as much for 'em
as I would if I was to buy the whole works. Might jest as well have
the hoss. I could trade him for a pair of chaps, mebby."
"Goin' to quit the sheep business?"
"Mebby--if I can git a job ridin'."
"Well, good luck. I got to close up. Come over and see me before you
break camp."
"I sure will! Thank you for the--for buyin' them hides."
Pete felt relieved--and yet not satisfied. He had wanted to speak
about the six-shooter he had taken--but Andy was there, and, besides,
it was a hard subject to approach gracefully even under the most
favorable auspices. Perhaps, in the morning . . .
"Come on over to Tony's Place and mebby we can run into a Mex that
wants to sell out," suggested Andy.
Pete said good-night to Roth.
"Don't you boys get into trouble," laughed Roth, as they left. He had
not even hinted about the six-shooter. Pete thought that the
storekeeper was "sure white."
The inevitable gaunt, ribby, dejected pony stood at the hitching-rail
of the saloon. Pete knew it at once for a Mexican's pony. No white
man would ride such a horse. The boys inspected the saddle, which was
not worth much, but they thought it would do. "We could steal 'im,"
suggested Andy, laughing. "Then we could swipe the rig and turn the
cayuse loose."
For a moment this idea appealed to Pete. He had a supreme contempt for
Mexicans. But suddenly he seemed to see himself surreptitiously taking
the six-shooter from Roth's showcase--and he recalled vividly how he
had felt at the time--"jest plumb mean," as he put it. Roth had been
mighty decent to him. . . . The Mexican, a wizened little man,
cross-eyed and wrinkled, stumbled from the saloon.
"Want to sell your hoss?" Pete asked in Mexican.
"Si! How much you give?" said the other, coming right to the point.
"Ten dollars."
"He is a good horse--very fast. He is worth much more. I sell him for
twenty dollars."
"Si."
Andy White put his hand on Pete's shoulder. "Say, Pete," he whispered,
"I know this hombre. The poor cuss ain't hardly got enough sense to
die. He comes into town reg'lar and gits drunk and he's got a whole
corral full of kids and a wife, over to the Flats. I'm game, but it's
kinda tough, takin' his hoss. It's about all he's got, exceptin' a
measly ole dog and a shack and the clothes on his back. That saddle
ain't worth much, anyhow."
Pete thought it over. "It's his funeral," he said presently.
"That's all right--but dam' if I want to bury him." And Andy, the
sprightly, rolled a cigarette and eyed Pete, who stood pondering.
Presently Pete turned to the Mexican. "I was only joshin' you, amigo.
You fork your cayuse and fan it for home."
Pete felt that his chance of buying cheap equipment had gone
glimmering, but he was not unhappy. He gestured to Andy. Together
they strode across to the store and sat on the rough wood platform.
Pete kicked his heels and whistled a range tune. Andy smoked and
wondered what Pete had in mind. Suddenly Pete rose and pulled up his
belt. "Come on over to Roth's house," he said. "I want to see him."
"He's turned in," suggested Andy.
"That's all right. I got to see him."
"I'm on! You're goin' to pay somethin' down on a rig, and git him to
let you take it on time. Great idee! Go to it!"
"You got me wrong," said Pete.
Roth had gone to bed, but he rose and answered the door when he heard
Pete's voice. "Kin I see you alone?" queried Pete.
"I reckon so. Come right in."
Pete blinked in the glare of the lamp, shuffled his feet as he slowly
counted out eighteen dollars and a half. "It's for the gun I took," he
explained.
Roth hesitated, then took the money.
"All right, Pete. I'll give you a receipt. Just wait a minute."
Pete gazed curiously at the crumpled bit of paper that Roth fetched
from the bedroom. "I took a gun an' cartriges for Wagges. You never
giv me Wages."
Pete heaved a sigh. "I reckon we're square."
Roth grinned. "Knowed you'd come back some day. Reckon you didn't
find a Mexican with a horse to sell, eh?"
"Yep. But I changed my mind."
"What made you change your mind?"
"I dunno."
"Well, I reckon I do. Now, see here, Pete. You been up against it
'most all your life. You ain't so bad off with old Montoya, but I sabe
how you feel about herding sheep. You want to get to riding. But
first you want to get a job. Now you go over to the Concho and tell
Bailey--'he's the foreman--that I sent you, and that if he'll give you
a job, I'll outfit you. You can take your time paying for it."
Pete blinked and choked a little. "I ain't askin' nobody to _give_ me
nothin'," he said brusquely.
"Yes, you be. You're asking Bailey for a job. It's all right to ask
for something you mean to pay for, and you'll pay for your job by
workin'. That there rig you can pay for out of your wages. I was
always intending to do something for you--only you didn't stay. I
reckon I'm kind o' slow. 'Most everybody is in Concho. And seeing as
you come back and paid up like a man--I'm going to charge that gun up
against wages you earned when you was working for me, and credit you
with the eighteen-fifty on the new rig. Now you fan it back to Montoya
and tell him what you aim to do and then if you got time, come over
to-morrow and pick out your rig. You don't have to take it till you
get your job."
Pete twisted his hat in his hands. He did not know what to say.
Slowly he backed from the room, turned, and strode out to Andy White.
Andy wondered what Pete had been up to, but waited for him to speak.
Presently Pete cleared his throat. "I'm coming over to your wickiup
to-morrow and strike for a job. I got the promise of a rig, all right.
Don't want no second-hand rig, anyhow! I'm the Ridin' Kid from Powder
River and I'm comin' with head up and tail a-rollin'."
"Whoopee!" sang Andy, and swung to his pony.
"I'm a-comin'!" called Pete as Andy clattered away into the night.
Pete felt happy and yet strangely subdued. The dim road flickered
before him as he trudged back to the sheep-camp. "Pop would 'a' done
it that way," he said aloud. And for a space, down the darkening road
he walked in that realm where the invisible walk, and beside him
trudged the great, rugged shape of Annersley, the spirit of the old man
who always "played square," feared no man, and fulfilled a purpose in
the immeasurable scheme of things. Pete knew that Annersley would have
been pleased. So it was that Young Pete paid the most honorable debt
of all, the debt to memory that the debtor's own free hand may pay or
not--and none be the wiser, save the debtor. Pete had "played square."
It was all the more to his credit that he hated like the dickens to
give up his eighteen dollars and a half, and yet had done so.