POP ANNERSLEY'S BOY
Several days after Pete's arrival at the Concho ranch, Andy White rode
in with a companion, dusty, tired, and hungry from a sojourn over near
the Apache line. White made his report to the foreman, unsaddled, and
was washing with a great deal of splutter and elbow-motion, when some
one slapped him on the back. He turned a dripping face to behold Pete
grinning at him.
Andy's eyes lighted with pleasure. He stuck out a wet hand. "Did you
land a job?"
"With both feet."
"Good! I was so darned tired I clean forgot you was livin'. Say, I
saw ole José this afternoon. We was crossin' the bottom and rode into
his camp. He said you had quit him. I asked him if you come up here,
but he only shook his head and handed me the usual 'Quien sabe?' He'll
never git a sore throat from talkin' too much. Say, wait till I git
some of this here alkali out of my ears and we'll go and eat and then
have a smoke and talk it out. Gee! But I'm glad you landed! How'd
you work it?"
"Easy. I rid that there Blue Smoke hoss--give 'em an exhibition of
real ridin' and the fo'man sure fell for my style."
"Uh-huh. What kind of a fall did _you_ make?"
"Well, I wasn't in shape to know--till I come to. The fellas said I
done all right till ole Smoke done that little double twist and left me
standin' in the air--only with my feet up. I ain't jest lovin' that
hoss a whole lot."
Andy nodded sagely. "I tried him onct. So Bailey give you a job, eh?"
"Kind of a job. Mostly peelin' potatoes and helpin' round the house.
Ma Bailey says I'm worth any two of the men helpin' round the house.
And I found out one thing--what Ma Bailey says round here goes."
"You bet! She's the boss. If Ma don't like a guy, he don't work long
for the Concho. I recollect when Steve Gary quit over the T-Bar-T and
come over here lookin' for a job. Ma she sized him up, but didn't say
nothin' right away. But Gary he didn't stay long enough to git a
saddle warm. Ma didn't like him, nohow. He sure was a top-hand--but
that didn't help him none. He's over to the T-Bar-T now. Seen him the
other day. He's got some kind of a drag there, for they took him back.
Folks says--say, what's bitin' you?"
"Nothin'. You said Gary?"
"Yes. Why?"
"I was jest thinkin'."
Young Andy dried his face on the community towel, emptied the basin
with a flourish which drenched the pup and sent him yelping toward the
house, attempted to shy the basin so that it would land right-side up
on the bench--but the basin was wet and soapy and slipped. It sailed
through the door of the bunk-house and caromed off Bill Haskins's head.
Andy saw what had happened and, seizing Pete's arm, rushed him across
the clearing and into the house, where he grabbed Ma Bailey and kissed
her heartily, scrambled backward as she pretended to threaten him with
the mammoth coffee-pot, and sat down at the table with the remark that
he was "powerful tired."
"You act like it," scoffed Mrs. Bailey.
Bill Haskins, with a face like black thunder, clumped in and asked Mrs.
Bailey if she had any "stickin'-plaster."
"Cut you, Bill?"
"Bad!" said Bill, exhibiting a cut above the ear--the result of Andy's
basin-throwing.
"Oh, you go 'long!" said Mrs. Bailey, pushing him away. "Askin' for
stickin'-plaster for a scratch like that!"
Bill Haskins growled and grumbled as he took his place at the table.
He kept shaking his head like a dog with a sore ear, vowing that if he
found out "who thrun that basin" there would be an empty chair at the
Concho board before many days had passed.
Andy White glanced at Pete and snickered. Bill Haskins glowered and
felt of his head. "Liked to skelp me," he asserted. "Ma, I jest ask
you what you would do now, if you was settin' peaceful in the
bunk-house pawin' over your war-bag, lookin' for a clean shirt, and all
of a sudden _whing_! along comes a warsh-basin and takes you right over
the ear. Wouldn't you feel like killin' somebody?"
"Lookin' for a clean shirt!" whispered Andy to Pete. "Did you git
that?"
Bill "got" it--and flushed amazingly. "I was meanin' a clean--clean
dress, Mrs. Bailey. A clean dress or stockin's, mebby."
"Bill was lookin' for a clean dress," snickered Andy. Pete grinned.
"Bill, I reckon it ain't your ear that needs that sticking-plaster. A
clean shirt, indeed! I'm surprised at you, William."
"Gee, Ma called him Willum!" whispered Andy. "Bill better fade."
The men tramped in, nodded to Mrs. Bailey, and sat down. Eating was a
serious matter with them. They said little. It was toward the end of
the meal, during a lull in the clatter of knives and forks, that Andy
White suggested, _sotto voce_, but intended for the assemblage, "That
Bill always was scared of a wash-basin." This gentle innuendo was lost
on the men, but Bill Haskins vowed mighty vengeance.
It was evident from the start that Pete and Andy would run in double
harness. They were the youngsters of the outfit, liked each other, and
as the months went by became known--Ma Bailey had read the book--as
"The Heavenly Twins." Bailey asked his good wife why "heavenly." He
averred that "twins was all right--but as for 'heavenly'--"
Mrs. Bailey chuckled. "I'm callin' 'em 'heavenly,' Jim, to kind of
even up for what the boys call 'em. I don't use that kind of language."
Pete graduated from peeling potatoes and helping about the house to
riding line with young Andy, until the fall round-up called for all
hands, the loading of the chuck-wagon and a farewell to the lazy days
at the home ranch. The air was keen with the tang of autumn. The
hillside blue of spruce and pine was splashed here and there with the
rich gold of the quaking asp. Far vistas grew clearer as the haze of
summer heat waned and fled before the stealthy harbingers of winter.
In the lower levels of the distant desert, heat waves still pulsed
above the grayish brown reaches of sand and brush--but the desert was
fifty, sixty, eighty miles away, spoken of as "down there" by the
riders of the high country. And Young Pete, detailed to help "gather"
in some of the most rugged timberland of the Blue, would not have
changed places with any man. He had been allotted a string of ponies,
placed under the supervision of an old hand, entered on the pay-roll at
the nominal salary of thirty dollars a month, and turned out to do his
share in the big round-up, wherein riders from the T-Bar-T, the Blue,
the Eight-O-Eight, and the Concho rode with a loose rein and a quick
spur, gathering and bunching the large herds over the high country.
There was a fly in Pete's coffee, however. Young Andy White had been
detailed to ride another section of the country. Bailey had wisely
separated these young hopefuls, fearing that competition--for they were
always striving to outdo each other--might lead to a hard fall for one
or both. Moreover, they were always up to some mischief or other--Andy
working the schemes that Pete usually invented for the occasion. Up to
the time that he arrived at the Concho ranch, Young Pete had never
known the joy of good-natured, rough-and-tumble horseplay, that
wholesome diversion that tries a man out, and either rubs off the
ragged edges of his temper or marks him as an undesirable and
to-be-let-alone. Pete, while possessing a workable sense of humor, was
intense--somewhat quick on the trigger, so to speak. The frequent
roughings he experienced served to steady him, and also taught him to
distinguish the tentative line between good-natured banter and the
veiled insult.
Unconsciously he studied his fellows, until he thought he pretty well
knew their peculiarities and preferences. Unrealized by Pete, and by
themselves, this set him apart from them. They never studied him, but
took him for just what he seemed--a bright, quick, and withal
industrious youngster, rather quiet at times, but never sullen.
Bailey, whose business it was to know and handle men, confided to his
wife that he did not quite understand Pete. And Mrs. Bailey, who was
really fond of Pete, was consistently feminine when she averred that it
wasn't necessary to understand him so long as he attended to his work
and behaved himself, which was Mrs. Bailey's way of dodging the issue.
She did not understand Pete herself. "He does a heap of thinking--for
a boy," she told Bailey. "He's got something' besides cattle on his
mind," Bailey asserted. Mrs. Bailey had closed the question for the
time being with the rather vague assertion, "I should hope so."
The first real inkling that Andy White had of Pete's deeper nature was
occasioned by an incident during the round-up.
The cutting-out and branding were about over. The Concho men, camped
round their wagon, were fraternizing with visitors from the Blue and
T-Bar-T. Every kind of gossip was afloat. The Government was going to
make a game preserve of the Blue Range. Old man Dobson, of the
Eight-O-Eight, had fired one of his men for packing whiskey into the
camp: "Dobson was drunk hisself!" was asserted. One sprightly and
inventive son-of-saddle-leather had brought a pair of horse-clippers to
the round-up. Every suffering puncher in the outfit had been thrown
and clipped, including the foreman, and even the cattle inspector.
Rumor had it that the boys from the Blue intended to widen their scope
of operation and clip everybody. The "gentleman [described in the
vernacular] who started to clip my [also described] head'll think he's
tackled a tree-kitty," stated a husky cowboy from the T-Bar-T.
Old Montoya's name was mentioned by another rider from the T-Bar-T.
Andy who was lying beside Pete, just within the circle of firelight,
nudged him.
"We run every nester out of this country; and it's about time we
started in on the sheep," said this individual, and he spoke not
jestingly, but with a vicious meaning in his voice, that silenced the
talk.
Bailey was there and Houck, the T-Bar-T foreman, Bud Long, foreman of
the Blue, and possibly some fifteen or eighteen visiting cowboys. The
strident ill-nature of the speaker challenged argument, but the boys
were in good-humor.
"What you pickin' on Montoya for?" queried a cowboy, laughing. "He
ain't here."
Pete sat up, naturally interested in the answer.
"He's lucky he ain't," retorted the cow-puncher.
"_You're_ lucky he ain't," came from Pete's vicinity.
"Who says so?"
Andy White tugged at Pete's sleeve. "Shut up, Pete! That's Steve Gary
talkin'. Don't you go mixin' with Gary. He's right quick with his
gun. What's a-bitin' you, anyhow?"
"Who'd you say?" queried Pete.
"Gary--Steve Gary. Reckon you heard of him."
"Who says I'm lucky he ain't here?" again challenged Gary.
"Shut up, Steve," said a friendly cowboy. "Can't you take a josh?"
"Who's lookin' for a row, anyhow?" queried another cowboy. "I ain't."
The men laughed. Pete's face was somber in the firelight. Gary! The
man who had led the raid on Pop Annersley's homestead. Pete knew that
he would meet Gary some day, and he was curious to see the man who was
responsible for the killing of Annersley. He had no definite plan--did
not know just what he would do when he met him. Time had dulled the
edge of Pete's earlier hatred and experience had taught him to leave
well enough alone. But that strident voice, edged with malice, had
stirred bitter memories. Pete felt that should he keep silent it would
reflect on his loyalty to both Montoya and Annersley. There were men
there who knew he had worked for Montoya. They knew, but hardly
expected that Pete would take up Gary's general challenge. He was but
a youth--hardly more than a boy. The camp was somewhat surprised when
Pete got to his feet and stepped toward the fire.
"I'm the one that said you was lucky Montoya wasn't here," he asserted.
"And I'm leavin' it to my boss, or Bud Long, or your own boss"--and he
indicated Houck with a gesture--"if I ain't right."
"Who in hell are you, anyhow?" queried Gary,
"Me? I'm Pop Annersley's boy, Pete. Mebby you recollec' you said
you'd kill me if I talked about that shootin'. I was a kid then--and I
was sure scared of the bunch that busted into the shack--three growed
men ag'in' a kid--a-threatenin' what they'd do to the man that bumped
off two of their braves. You was askin' who talked up awhile back. It
was me."
Gary was on his feet and took a step toward Pete when young Andy rose.
Pete was his bunkie. Andy didn't want to fight, but if Gary pulled his
gun . . .
Bailey got up quietly, and turning his back on Gary told Pete and Andy
to saddle up and ride out to relieve two of the boys on night-herd.
It was Bud Long who broke the tension. "It's right late for young
roosters to be crowin' that way," he chuckled.
Everybody laughed except Gary. "But it ain't too late for full-growed
roosters to crow!" he asserted.
Long chuckled again. "Nope. I jest crowed."
Not a man present missed the double-meaning, including Gary. And Gary
did not want any of Long's game. The genial Bud had delicately
intimated that his sympathies were with the Concho boys. Then there
were Bailey and Bill Haskins and several others among the Concho outfit
who would never see one of their own get the worst of it. Gary turned
and slunk away toward his own wagon. One after another the T-Bar-T
boys rose and followed. The Annersley raid was not a popular subject
with them.
Bailey turned to Long. "Thanks, Bud."
"'Mornin', Jim," said Long facetiously. "When 'd you git here?"
Two exceedingly disgruntled young cowboys saddled up and rode out to
the night-herd. They had worked all day, and now they would have to
ride herd the rest of the night, for it was nearing twelve. As relief
men they would have to hold their end of the herd until daybreak.
"I told you to shut up," complained Andy.
"I wasn't listenin' to you," said Pete,
"Yes! And this is what we git for your gittin' red-headed about a ole
Mexican sheep-herder. But, honest, Pete, you sure come clost to
gittin' yours. Gary mebby wouldn't 'a' pulled on you--but he'd 'a'
sure trimmed you if Bailey hadn't stepped in."
"He'd never put a hand on me," stated Pete.
"You mean you'd 'a' plugged 'im?"
"I'm meanin' I would."
"But, hell, Pete, you ain't no killer! And they's no use gettin'
started that way. They's plenty as would like to see Gary bumped
off--but I don't want to be the man to do it. Suppose Gary did lead
that raid on ole man Annersley? That's over and done. Annersley is
dead. You're livin'--and sure two dead men don't make a live one.
What's the good o' takin' chances like that?"
"I dunno, Andy. All I know is that when Gary started talkin' about
Montoya I commenced to git hot inside. I knowed I was a fool--but I
jest had to stand up and tell him what he was. It wa'n't me doin' it.
It was jest like somethin' big a-pullin' me onto my feet and makin' me
talk like I did. It was jest like you was ridin' the edge of some
steep and bad goin' and a maverick takes over and you know you got no
business to put your hoss down after him. But your saddle is
a-creakin' and a-sayin', 'Go git 'im!'--and you jest nacherally go.
Kin you tell me what makes a fella do the like of that?"
"I dunno, Pete. But chasin' mavericks is different."
"Mebby. But the idee is jest the same."
"Well, I'm hopin' you don't git many more of them idees right soon.
I'm sure with you to the finish, but I ain't wishful to git mine that
way."
"I ain't askin' you to," said Pete, for he was angry with himself
despite the logic of his own argument.
They were near the herd. Andy, who had flushed hotly at Pete's rather
ungenerous intimation, spurred his pony round and rode toward a dim
figure that nodded in the starlight. Pete whirled his own pony and
rode in the opposite direction.
Toward dawn, as they circled, they met again.
"Got the makin's?" queried Pete.
"Right here," said Andy.
As Pete took the little sack of tobacco, their hands touched and
gripped. "I seen you standin' side of me," said Pete, "when I was
talkin' to Gary."
"You was dreaming" laughed Andy. "That was your shadow."
"Mebby," asserted Pete succinctly. "But I seen out of the corner of my
eye that that there shadow had its hand on its gun. And _I_ sure
didn't."