THE OPEN HOLSTER
If there ever was a morning calculated to inspire good-will and
heartiness in a human being it was that morning. The dawn came
swiftly, battering through a fleece of clouds and painting the Blue
Mesa in all the gorgeous and utterly indescribable colors of an Arizona
sunrise. The air was crisp and so clear that it seemed to sparkle,
like water. Andy White whistled as he gathered up the blankets and
plodded toward the cabin. Pete felt like whistling, but for some
reason he was silent. He followed Andy to the cabin and saw that the
cowboy Cotton was making coffee.
"All we got is cold grub," stated Pete, "but we got plenty for
everybody."
"We fetched some coffee and bacon," said Cotton. But he did not invite
them to eat.
Pete glanced at Andy. Evidently Cotton had had his instructions or was
afraid to make any friendly overtures. Gary was still lying on the
mattress by the window, apparently asleep.
Pete stepped to where his own gun hung and buckled it on. "Let's mosey
over to the spring and wash," he suggested to Andy. "I ain't no dude,
but I kind o' like to wash before I eat."
"Here, too," said Andy. "Mebby we can locate the horses on the way."
When they returned to the cabin, Gary and Cotton were eating breakfast.
Pete flung a pair of broken hobbles on the floor. "Somebody's cayuse
got rid of these," he stated casually. He knew that they had been on
Gary's horse, as he had seen Gary hobble him. Pete turned and strode
out. Andy was unwrapping their lunch. Presently Gary and Cotton
appeared and picked up their ropes. Andy White, who had seen his own
easily caught pony, graciously offered the use of it in hunting the
strayed horse, but Gary declined the offer gruffly.
"He's so doggone mean his face hurts him," stated Pete, as Gary and
Cotton set off together.
"We'll lose some time if his hoss has lit out for home," said Andy.
"Gary's doin' all he kin to make a job of it," declared Pete. "But I
don't wait for him. Soon's we finish eatin' I'm goin' to locate Blue
Smoke and git to work. We kin run that line without any help from
them. Let 'em walk till they're tired."
"And what do you think of a couple of punchers--_punchers_, mind
you--that sit down and eat bacon and drink coffee and don't as much as
say 'come in'?"
"I don't waste time thinkin' about such, Andy. You finish up the grub.
I got all I want."
"Shucks! This ain't all. We ain't touched the grub in your
saddle-pockets yet. Ma Bailey sure fixed us up right."
"That'll do for noon," said Pete. "I'll run your hoss in, when I git
Blue Smoke. Your hoss'll follow, anyway."
"Jest a minute till I git my rope."
"Nope, you stay here. That Blue Smoke hoss knows me. If he spots two
of us comin' he's like to git excited and mebby bust his hobbles and
light out. I'll ketch him all right."
"Jest as you say, Pete."
The sun was warming the air and it was pleasant to sit and watch the
light clouds trail along the far horizon. Andy leaned back against the
cedar and rolled a cigarette. He grinned as he recalled how Pete had
called Gary at every turn, and yet had given the other no chance to
find excuse for a quarrel. Pete was certainly "a cool hand--for a
kid." White, several years Pete's senior, always thought of him as not
much more than a boy.
Meanwhile Pete, who knew every foot of ground on the homestead, trailed
through the scrub toward the spring. Down an occasional opening he
could see the distant forest that edged the mesa, and once he thought
he saw a horse's head behind a bush, but it turned out to be the stub
of a fallen tree. The brush hid the cabin as he worked toward the
timber. Presently he discovered Blue Smoke's tracks and followed them
down into a shallow hollow where the brush was thick. He wound in and
out, keeping the tracks in sight and casually noting where the horse
had stopped to graze. Near the bottom of the hollow he heard voices.
He had been so intent on tracking the horse that he had forgotten Gary
and Cotton. The tracks led toward the voices. Pete instinctively
paused and listened, then shrugged his shoulders and stepped forward.
A thick partition of brush separated him from the unseen speaker. Pete
stopped midway in his stride.
"If you squat down here you can see the winder, right under this bush.
The moon was shinin'. It was a plumb easy shot. And it sure stopped
homesteadin' in this end of the country."
Gary was speaking. Pete drew a step nearer.
"You ain't sayin' who fired that shot,"--and Cotton laughed
obsequiously.
Pete stepped from behind the bush. Gary was facing toward the cabin.
Cotton was squatting near by smoking a cigarette.
"Tell him," said Pete. "I want to know myself."
"What's it to you?" snarled Gary, and he stepped back. Gary's very
attitude was a challenge. Pete knew that he could not drop his rope
and pull his own gun quick enough to save himself. He saw Gary's hand
move almost imperceptibly toward his holster.
"I reckon I made a mistake," said Pete slowly--and he let the rope slip
from his hand as though utterly unnerved. "I--I talked kind o' quick,"
he stammered.
"Well, you won't make no more mistakes," sneered Gary, and he dropped
his hand to his gun. "You want to know who plugged that old
hoss-thief, Annersley, eh? Well, what you goin' to say when I tell you
it was me?"
Pete saw that Gary was working himself up to the pitch when he would
kill. And Pete knew that he had but one chance in a thousand of
breaking even with the killer. He would not have time to draw--but
Montoya had taught him the trick of shooting through the open
holster . . . Cotton heard Pete's hand strike the butt of his gun as
the holster tilted up. Pete fired twice. Staring as though
hypnotized, Gary clutched at his shirt over his chest with his free
hand. He gave at the knees and his body wilted and settled down--even
as he threw a desperate shot at Pete in a last venomous effort to kill.
[Illustration: Cotton heard Pete's hand strike the butt of his gun as
the holster tilted up.]
"You seen it was an even break," said Pete, turning to Cotton, who
immediately sank to his knees and implored Pete not to kill him.
"But I reckon you'd lie, anyhow," continued Pete, paying no attention
to the other's mouthings. "Hunt your cayuse--and git a-movin'."
Cotton understood that. Glancing over his shoulder at Gary he turned
and ran toward the timber. Pete stepped to the crumpled figure and
gazed at the bubbling hole in the chest. Then he stepped hack and
mechanically holstered his gun which he had pulled as he spoke to
Cotton. "They'll git me for this," he whispered to himself. "It was
an even break--but they'll git me." Pete fought back his fear with a
peculiar pride--the pride that scorned to appear frightened before his
chum, Andy White. The quarrel had occurred so unexpectedly and
terminated so suddenly, that Pete could not yet realize the full extent
of the tragedy. While quite conscious of what he was doing and
intended to do, he felt as though he were walking in a horrible dream
from which he would never awaken. His instincts were as keen as
ever--for he was already planning his next move--but his sensibilities
had suffered a blunt shock--were numb to all external influence. He
knew that the sun was shining, yet he did not feel its warmth. He was
walking toward the cabin, and toward Andy. He stumbled as he walked,
taking no account of the irregularities of the ground. He could hardly
believe that he had killed Gary. To convince himself against his own
will he mechanically drew his gun and glanced at the two empty shells.
"Three and two is five," he muttered. "I shot twict." He did not
realize that Gary had shot at him--that a shred of his flannel shirt
was dangling from his sleeve where Gary's bullet had cut it. "Wonder
if Andy heard?" he kept asking himself. "I got to tell Andy."
Almost before he realized it he was standing under the cedar and Andy
was speaking. "Thought I heard some one shoot, over toward the woods."
As Pete did not answer, Andy thought that the horse had got away from
him. "Did you get him?" he queried.
Pete nodded dully. "I got him. He's over there--in the brush."
"Why didn't you fetch him in? Did he get the best of you? You look
like he give you a tussle."
"I got him--twict," said Pete.
"Twict? Say, Pete, are you loco? What's ailin' you, anyhow?"
"Nothin'. Me and Gary just had it out. He's over there--in the brush."
"Gary!"
"Yes. I reckon I got him."
"Hell!" The ruddy color sank from Andy's face. He had supposed that
Gary and Cotton were by this time tracking the strayed horses toward
the T-Bar-T. "Where's Cotton?" he asked.
"I told him to fan it."
"But, Pete--!"
"I know. They's no use talkin', Andy. I come back to tell you--and to
git your rope. Mine's over by Gary."
"What you goin' to do, Pete?"
"Me? Why, I'm goin' to drift as soon as I can git a saddle on Blue.
Cotton he seen the shootin'--but that don't do me no good. He'll swear
that I pulled first. He'd say 'most anything--he was too scared to
know what come off. Gary's hand was on his gun when I let him have
it--twict."
Andy noticed then Pete's torn sleeve. "I reckon that's right. Look at
that!"
Pete turned his head and glanced at his sleeve. "Never knowed he
shot--it was all done so quick." He seemed to awaken suddenly to the
significance of his position. "I'll take your rope and go git Smoke.
Then I'm goin' to drift."
"But where?"
"You're my pardner, Andy, but I ain't sayin'. Then you won't have to
lie. You'll have to tell Jim--and tell him it was like I said--_if
Gary come at me, that would be different_. I'm leavin' it to you to
square me with Jim Bailey." Pete picked up the rope and started toward
the spring.
"I'm goin' with you," said White, "and ketch my hoss. I aim to see you
through with this."
In an hour they were back at the cabin with the horses. Andy White
glanced at his watch. "Cotton is afoot--for I seen his hoss over
there. But he can make it to the T-Bar-T in three hours. That'll give
us a start of two hours, anyhow. I don't know which way you aim to
ride, but--"
"I'm playin' this hand alone," stated Pete as he saddled Blue Smoke.
"No use your gittin' in bad."
White made no comment, but cinched up his pony. Pete stepped to him
and held out his hand. "So-long, Andy. You been a mighty square
pardner."
"Nothin' doin'!" exclaimed Andy. "I'm with you to the finish."
"Nope, Andy. If we was both to light out, you'd be in it as bad as me."
"Then what do you say if we both ride down to Concho and report to the
sheriff?"
"I tried that onct--when they killed Pop Annersley. I know how that
would work."
"But what you goin' to do?"
"I'm ridin'," and Pete swung to his horse. Blue Smoke pitched across
the clearing under the spur and rein that finally turned him toward the
south. Pete's sombrero flew off as he headed for the timber. Andy,
reining 'round his horse, that fretted to follow, swung down and caught
up Pete's hat on the run. Pete had pulled up near the edge of the
timber. Andy, as he was about to give Pete his hat, suddenly changed
it for his own. "For luck!" he cried, as Pete slackened rein and Blue
Smoke shot down the dim forest trail.
Pete, perhaps influenced by Montoya's example, always wore a
high-crowned black sombrero. Andy's hat was the usual gray. In the
excitement of leaving, Pete had not thought of that; but as he rode, he
suspected Andy's motive, and glanced back. But Andy was not following,
or if he were, he was riding slowly.
Meanwhile Andy cheerfully put himself in the way of assisting Pete to
escape. He knew the country and thought he knew where Pete was headed
for. Before nightfall a posse would be riding the high country hunting
the slayer of Gary. They would look for a cowboy wearing a black
sombrero. Realizing the risk that he ran, and yet as careless of that
risk as though he rode to a fiesta, Young Andy deliberately turned back
to where Gary lay--he had not yet been to that spot--and, dismounting,
picked up Pete's rope. He glanced at Gary, shivered, and swung to his
horse. Riding so that his trail would be easy to read he set off
toward the open country, east. The fact that he had no food with him,
and that the country was arid and that water was scarce, did not
trouble him. All he hoped for was to delay or mislead the posse long
enough to enable Pete to reach the southern desert. There Pete might
have one chance in twenty of making his final escape. Perhaps it was a
foolish thing to do, but Andy White, inspired by a motive of which
there is no finer, did not stop to reason about it. "He that giveth
his life for a friend . . ." Andy knew nothing of such a quotation.
He was riding into the desert, quite conscious of the natural hazards
of the trail, and keen to the possibilities that might follow in the
form of an excited posse not too discriminating, in their eagerness to
capture an outlaw, yet he rode with a light heart. After all, Pete was
not guilty of murder. He had but defended his own life. Andy's heart
was light because of the tang of adventure, and a certain appreciation
of what a disappointed posse might feel and express--and because
Romance ran lightly beside him, heartening him on his way; Romance,
whose ears are deaf to all moral considerations and whose eyes see only
the true adventurer, be he priest or pirate; Romance whose eyes are
blind to those who fear to dare.