SOME BOOKKEEPING
While it is possible to approach the foreman of a cattle outfit on foot
and apply for work, it is--as a certain Ulysses of the outlands once
said--not considered good form in the best families in Arizona. Pete
was only too keenly conscious of this. There is a prestige recognized
by both employer and tentative employee in riding in, swinging to the
ground in that deliberate and easy fashion of the Western rider, and
sauntering up as though on a friendly visit wherein the weather and
grazing furnish themes for introduction, discussion, and the eventual
wedge that may open up the way to employment. The foreman knows by the
way you sit your horse, dismount, and generally handle yourself, just
where you stand in the scale of ability. He does not need to be told.
Nor does he care what you have been. Your saddle-tree is much more
significant than your family tree. Still, if you have graduated in
some Far Eastern riding academy, and are, perchance, ambitious to learn
the gentle art of roping, riding them as they come, and incidentally
preserving your anatomy as an undislocated whole, it is not a bad idea
to approach the foreman on foot and clothed in unpretentious garb.
For, as this same Ulysses of the outlands said:
"Rub grease on your chaps and look wise if you will,
But the odor of tan-bark will cling round you still."
This information alone is worth considerably more than twenty cents.
Young Pete, who had not slept much, arose and prepared breakfast,
making the coffee extra strong. Montoya liked strong coffee. After
breakfast Pete made a diagonal approach to the subject of leaving.
Could he go to Concho? Montoya nodded. Would it be all right if he
made a visit to the Concho outfit over on the mesa? It would be all
right. This was too easy. Pete squirmed internally. If Montoya would
only ask why he wanted to go. Did Montoya think he could get another
boy to help with the sheep? The old herder, who had a quiet sense of
humor, said he didn't need another boy: that Pete did very well. Young
Pete felt, as he expressed it to himself, "jest plumb mean."
Metaphorically he had thrown his rope three times and missed each time.
This time he made a wider loop.
"What I'm gittin' at is, Roth over to Concho said last night if I was
to go over to Bailey--he's the fo'man of the Concho outfit--and ask him
for a job, I could mebby land one. Roth, he said he'd outfit me and
leave me to pay for it from my wages. Andy White, he's pluggin' for me
over to the ranch. I ain't said nothin' to you, for I wa'n't sure--but
Roth he says mebby I could git a job. I reckon I'm gettin' kind of
_old_ to herd sheep."
Montoya smiled. "Si; I am sixty years old."
"I know--but--doggone it! I want to ride a hoss and go somewhere!"
"I will pay you three dollars a week," said Montoya, and his eyes
twinkled. He was enjoying Pete's embarrassment.
"It ain't the money. You sure been square. It ain't that. I reckon I
jest got to go."
"Then it is that you go. I will find another to help. You have been a
good boy. You do not like the sheep--but the horses. I know that you
have been saving the money. You have not bought cartridges. I would
give you--"
"Hold on--you give me my money day before yesterday."
"Then you have a little till you get your wages from the Concho. It is
good."
"Oh, I'm broke all right," said Pete. "But that don't bother me none.
I paid Roth for that gun I swiped--"
"You steal the gun?"
"Well, it wa'n't jest _stealin'_ it. Roth he never paid me no wages,
so when I lit out I took her along and writ him it was for wages."
"Then why did you pay him?"
Pete frowned. "I dunno."
Montoya nodded. He stooped and fumbled in a pack. Pete wondered what
the old man was hunting for.
Presently, Montoya drew out the hand-carved belt and holster, held it
up, and inspected it critically. He felt of it with his calloused
hands, and finally gestured to Pete. "It is for you, muchacho. I made
it. Stand so. There, it should hang this way." Montoya buckled the
belt around Pete and stepped back. "A little to the front. Bueno!
Tie the thong round your leg--so. That is well! It is the present
from José Montoya. Sometimes you will remember--"
Montoya glanced at Pete's face. Pete was frowning prodigiously.
"Hah!" laughed Montoya. "You do not like it, eh?"
Pete scowled and blinked. "It's the best doggone holster in the world!
I--I'm goin' to keep that there holster as long as I live! I--"
Montoya patted Pete's shoulder. "With the sheep it is quiet, so!"--and
Montoya gestured to the band that grazed near by. "Where you will go
there will be the hard riding and the fighting, perhaps. It is not
good to kill a man. But it is not good to be killed. The hot
word--the quarrel--and some day a man will try to kill you. See! I
have left the holster open at the end. I have taught you that
trick--but do not tie the holster down if you would shoot that way.
There is no more to say."
Pete thought so, so far as he was concerned. He was angry with himself
for having felt emotion and yet happy in that his break with Montoya
had terminated so pleasantly withal. "I'm goin' to town," he said,
"and git a boy to come out here. If I can't git a boy, I'll come back
and stay till you git one."
Montoya nodded and strode out to where the sheep had drifted. The dogs
jumped up and welcomed him. It was not customary for their master to
leave them for so long alone with the flock. Their wagging tails and
general attitude expressed relief.
Pete, topping the rise that hides the town of Concho from the northern
vistas, turned and looked back. Far below, on a slightly rounded knoll
stood the old herder, a solitary figure in the wide expanse of mesa and
morning sunlight. Pete swung his hat. Montoya raised his arm in a
gesture of good-will and farewell. Pete might have to come back, but
Montoya doubted it. He knew Pete. If there was anything that looked
like a boy available in Concho, Pete would induce that boy to take his
place with Montoya, if he had to resort to force to do so.
Youth on the hilltop! Youth pausing to gaze back for a moment on a
pleasant vista of sunshine and long, lazy days--Pete brushed his arm
across his eyes. One of the dogs had left the sheep, and came frisking
toward the hill where Pete stood. Pete had never paid much attention
to the dogs, and was surprised that either of them should note his
going, at this time. "Mebby the doggone cuss knows that I'm quittin'
for good," he thought. The dog circled Pete and barked ingratiatingly.
Pete, touched by unexpected interest, squatted down and called the dog
to him. The sharp-muzzled, keen-eyed animal trotted up and nosed
Pete's hand. "You 're sure wise!" said Pete affectionately. Pete was
even more astonished to realize that it was the dog he had roped
recently. "Knowed I was only foolin'," said Pete, patting the dog's
head. The sheep-dog gazed up into Pete's face with bright, unblinking
eyes that questioned, "Why was Pete leaving camp early in the
morning--and without the burros?"
"I'm quittin' for good," said Pete.
The dog's waving tail grew still.
"That's right--honest!"--and Pete rose.
The sheep-dog's quivering joy ceased at the word. His alertness
vanished. A veritable statue of dejection he stood as though pondering
the situation. Then he lifted his head and howled--the long,
lugubrious howl of the wolf that hungers.
"You said it all," muttered Pete, turning swiftly and trudging down the
road. He would have liked to howl himself. Montoya's kindliness at
parting--and his gift--had touched Pete deeply, but he had fought his
emotion then, too proud to show it. Now he felt a hot something
spatter on his hand. His mouth quivered. "Doggone the dog!" he
exclaimed. "Doggone the whole doggone outfit!" And to cheat his
emotion he began to sing, in a ludicrous, choked way, that sprightly
and inimitable range ballad;
"'Way high up in the Mokiones, among the mountain-tops,
A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones and licked his thankful chops,
When who upon the scene should ride, a-trippin' down the slope,"
"Doggone the slope!" blurted Pete as he stubbed his toe on a rock.
But when he reached Concho his eyes had cleared. Like all good
Americans he "turned a keen, untroubled face home to the instant need
of things," and after visiting Roth at the store, and though sorely
tempted to loiter and inspect saddlery, he set out to hunt up a
boy--for Montoya.
None of the Mexican boys he approached cared to leave home. Things
looked pretty blue for Pete. The finding of the right boy meant his
own freedom. His contempt for the youth of Concho grew apace. The
Mexicans were a lazy lot, who either did not want to work or were loath
to leave home and follow the sheep. "Jest kids!" he remarked
contemptuously as his fifth attempt failed. "I could lick the whole
bunch!"
Finally he located a half-grown youth who said he was willing to go.
Pete told him where to find Montoya and exacted a promise from the
youth to go at once and apply for the place. Pete hastened to the
store and immediately forgot time, place, and even the fact that he had
yet to get a job riding for the Concho outfit, in the eager joy of
choosing a saddle, bridle, blanket, spurs, boots and chaps, to say
nothing of a new Stetson and rope. The sum total of these unpaid-for
purchases rather staggered him. His eighteen-odd dollars was as a
fly-speck on the credit side of the ledger. He had chosen the best of
everything that Roth had in stock. A little figuring convinced him
that he would have to work several months before his outfit was paid
for. "If I git a job I'll give you an order for my wages," he told
Roth.
"That's all right, Pete; I ain't worryin'."
"Well--I be, some," said Pete. "Lemme see--fifty for the saddle, seven
for the bridle---and she's some bridle!--and eighteen for the
chaps--fifteen for the boots--that's ninety dollars. Gee whizz! Then
there's four for that blanket and ten for them spurs. That's a hundred
and four. 'Course I _could_ git along without a new lid. Rope is
three-fifty, and lid is ten. One hundred and seventeen dollars for
four bits. Guess I'll make it a hundred and twenty. No use botherin'
about small change. Gimme that pair of gloves."
Roth had no hesitation in outfitting Pete. The Concho cattlemen traded
at his store. He had extended credit to many a rider whom he trusted
less than he did Pete. Moreover, he was fond of the boy and wanted to
see him placed where he could better himself. "I've got you on the
books for a hundred and twenty," he told Pete, and Pete felt very proud
and important. "Now, if I could borrow a hoss for a spell, I'd jest
fork him and ride over to see Bailey," he asserted. "I sure can't pack
this outfit over there."
Roth grinned. "Well, we might as well let the tail go with the hide.
There's old Rowdy. He ain't much of a horse, but he's got three good
legs yet. He starched a little forward, but he'll make the trip over
and back. You can take him."
"Honest?"
"Go ahead."
Pete tingled with joyful anticipation as he strode from the store, his
new rope in his hand. He would rope that cayuse and just about burn
the ground for the Concho! Maybe he wouldn't make young Andy White sit
up! The Ridin' Kid from Powder River was walking on air when--
"Thought you was goin' over to see Montoya!" he challenged as he saw
the Mexican youth, whom he had tentatively hired, sitting placidly on
the store veranda, employed solely in gazing at the road as though it
were a most interesting spectacle. "Oh, mañana," drawled the Mexican.
"Mañana, nothin'!" volleyed Pete. "You're goin' now! Git a-movin'--if
you have to take your hands and lift your doggone feet off the ground.
Git a-goin'!"
"Oh, maybe I go mañana."
"You're dreamin', hombre." Pete was desperate. Again he saw his
chance of an immediate job go glimmering down the vague vistas of many
to-morrows.
"See here! What kind of a guy are you, anyhow? I come in here
yesterday and offered you a job and you promised you'd git to work
right away. You--"
"It was _to-day_ you speak of Montoya," corrected the Mexican.
"You're dreamin'," reiterated Pete. "It was _yesterday_ you said you
would go mañana. Well, it's to-morrow, ain't it? You been asleep an'
don't know it."
An expression of childish wonder crossed the Mexican youth's stolid
face. Of a certainty it was but this very morning that Montoya's boy
had spoken to him! Or was it yesterday morning? Montoya's boy had
said it was yesterday morning. It must be so. The youth rose and
gazed about him. Pete stood aggressively potent, frowning down on the
other's hesitation.
"I go," said the Mexican.
Pete heaved a sigh of relief. "A fella's got to know how to handle
'em," he told the immediate vicinity. And because Pete knew something
about "handlin' 'em," he did not at once go for the horse, but stood
staring after the Mexican, who had paused to glance back. Pete waved
his hand in a gesture which meant, "Keep goin'." The Mexican youth
kept going.
"I ain't wishin' old José any hard luck," muttered Pete, "but I said
I'd send a boy--and that there walkin' dream _looks_ like one, anyhow.
'Oh, mañana!'" he snorted. "Mexicans is mostly figurin' out to-day
what they 're goin' to do to-morrow, and they never git through
figurin'. I dunno who my father and mother was, but I know one
thing--they wa'n't Mexicans."