A FALSE TRAIL
"Sure he's dead!" reiterated Cotton. "Didn't I see them two holes
plumb through him and the blood soakin' his shirt when I turned him
over? If I'd 'a' had my gun on me that Young Pete would be right side
of Steve, right now! But I couldn't do nothin' without a gun. Pete
Annersley was plumb scared. That's why he killed Steve. Jest you
gimme a gun and watch me ride him down! I aim to settle with that Jay."
Cotton was talking to Houck of the T-Bar-T, blending fact and fiction
in a blustering attempt to make himself believe he had played the man.
During his long, foot-weary journey to the ranch he had roughly
invented this speech and tried to memorize it. Through repetition he
came to believe that he was telling the truth. Incidentally he had not
paused to catch up his horse, which was a slight oversight, considering
the trail from the Blue to his home ranch.
"What's the matter with the gun you're packin'?" asked Houck.
Cotton had forgotten his own gun.
"I--it was like this, Bill. After Young Pete killed Gary, I went back
to the shack and got my gun. At first, Andy White wasn't goin' to
leave me have it--but I tells him to fan it. I reckon he's pretty nigh
home by now."
"Thought you said you didn't see White after the shooting--that he
forked his horse and rode for the Concho? Cotton, you're lyin' so fast
you're like to choke."
"Honest, Bill! If I'd 'a' had my gun . . ."
"Oh, hell! Don't try to swing that bluff. Where's your horse?"
"I couldn't ketch him, honest."
"Thought you said you caught him in the brush and tied him to a tree
and Young Annersley threatened to kill you if you went for your saddle."
"That's right--honest, Bill, that's what he said."
"Then how is it that Bobby Lent caught your horse strayin' in more 'n a
hour ago? Dam' if I believe a word you say. You're plumb crazy."
"Honest, Bill. I hope to die if Steve Gary ain't layin' over there
with two holes in him. He's sure dead. Do you think I footed it all
the way jest because I like walkin'?"
Houck frowned and shook his head. "You say him and Young Pete had come
to words?"
"Yep; about ole man Annersley. Steve was tellin' me about the raid
when Pete steps up and tells him to say it over ag'in. Steve started
to talk when Pete cuts down on him--twict. My God, he was quick! I
never even seen him draw."
"Did Gary say _he_ was the one that plugged Annersley?"
"Yep. Said he did it--and asked Pete what he was goin' to do about it."
"Then Steve was drunk or crazy. You go git a horse and burn the trail
to Concho. Tell Sutton that Young Pete Annersley killed Gary, up to
the Blue Mesa. Tell him we're out after Young Pete. Can you git that
straight?"
"What if the sheriff was to pinch me for bein' in that scrap?"
"You! In a gun-fight? No. He wouldn't believe that if you told him
so. You jest tell Sutton what I said, and git goin'! Don't lie to
him--or he'll spot it and pinch you dam' quick."
With Cotton gone, Houck saddled up and rode out to where one of his men
was mending fence. "Take your horse and git all the boys you can reach
before night. Young Pete Annersley shot Steve over to the Blue this
mornin'."
The cowboy, unlike Cotton, whistled his surprise, dropped his tools,
mounted, and was off before Houck had reined back toward the
ranch-house.
It was near twelve that night when a quiet band of riders dismounted at
the Annersley cabin, separated, and trailed off in the darkness to look
for Gary. One of them found him where he had fallen and signaled with
his gun. They carried Gary to the cabin. In the flickering light of
the open stove they saw that he was still alive. There was one chance
in a thousand that he could recover. They washed his wounds and one of
the men set out toward Concho, to telephone to Enright for a doctor.
The rest grouped around the stove and talked in low tones, waiting for
daylight. "Chances are the kid went south," said Houck, half to
himself.
"How about young White?" queried a cowboy.
"I dunno. Either he rode with Pete Annersley or he's back at the
Concho. Daylight'll tell."
"If Steve could talk--" said the cowboy.
"I guess Steve is done for," said Houck. "I knew Young Pete was a
tough kid--but I didn't figure he'd try to down Steve."
"Supposin' they both had a hand in it--White and Young Pete?"
Houck shook his head. "Anybody got any whiskey?" he asked.
Some one produced a flask. Houck knelt and raised Gary's head, tilting
the flask carefully. Presently Gary's lips moved and his chest heaved.
"Who was it? White?" questioned Houck.
Gary moved his head in the negative.
"Young Pete?" Gary's white lips shaped to a faint whisper--"Yes."
One of the men folded a slicker and put it under Gary's head.
Houck stood up. "I guess it's up to us to get Pete Annersley."
"You can count me out," said a cowboy immediately. "Steve was allus
huntin' trouble and it looks like he found it this trip. They's plenty
without me to ride down the kid. Young Pete may be bad--but I figure
he had a dam' good excuse when he plugged Steve, here. You can count
me out."
"And me," said another. "If young Pete was a growed man--"
"Same here," interrupted the third. "Any kid that's got nerve enough
to down Steve has got a right to git away with it. If you corner him
he's goin' to fight--and git bumped off by a bunch of growed men--mebby
four to one. That ain't my style."
Houck turned to several cowboys who had not spoken. They were Gary's
friends, of his kind--in a measure. "How is it, boys?" asked Houck.
"We stick," said one, and the others nodded.
"Then you boys"--and Houck indicated the first group--"can ride back to
the ranch. Or, here, Larkin, you can stay with Steve till the doc
shows up. The rest of you can drift."
Without waiting for dawn the men who had refused to go out after Pete
rode back along the hill-trail to the ranch. But before they left,
Houck took what hastily packed food they had and distributed it among
the posse, who packed it in their saddle-pockets. The remaining
cowboys lay down for a brief sleep. They were up at dawn, and after a
hasty breakfast set out looking for tracks. Houck himself discovered
Andy White's tracks leading from the spot where Gary had been found,
and calling the others together, set off across the eastern mesa.
Meanwhile Andy White was sleeping soundly in a coulee many miles from
the homestead, and just within sight of a desert ranch, to which he had
planned to ride at daybreak, ask for food and depart, leaving the
impression that he was Pete Annersley in haste to get beyond the reach
of the law. He had stopped at the coulee because he had found grass
and water for his horse and because he did not want to risk being found
at the ranch-house. A posse would naturally head for the ranch to
search and ask questions. Fed and housed he might oversleep and be
caught. Then his service to Pete would amount to little. But if he
rode in at daybreak, ahead of the posse, ate and departed, leaving a
hint as to his assumed identity, he could mislead them a day longer at
least. He built all his reasoning on the hope that the posse would
find and follow his tracks.
Under the silent stars he slept, his head on his saddle, and near him
lay Pete's black sombrero.
In the disillusioning light of morning, that which Andy had taken to be
a ranch-house dwindled to a goat-herder's shack fronted by a
brush-roofed lean-to. Near it was a diminutive corral and a sun-faded
tent. The old Indian herder seemed in no way surprised to see a young
rider dismount and approach cautiously--for Andy had entered into the
spirit of the thing. He paused to glance apprehensively back and
survey the western horizon. Andy greeted the Indian, who grunted his
acknowledgment in the patois of the plains.
"Any vaqueros ride by here this morning?" queried Andy.
The herder shook his head.
"Well, I guess I got time to eat," said Andy.
A faint twinkle touched the old Indian's eyes, but his face was as
expressionless as a dried apple.
"Si," he said.
"But not a whole lot of time," asserted Andy.
The Indian rose and fetched a pail of goat's milk and some tortillas
from the shack. He shuffled back to his hermitage and reappeared with
a tin cup. Andy, who meanwhile had consumed one leathery tortilla,
shook his head. "Never mind the cup, amigo." He tilted the pail and
drank--paused for breath, and drank again. He set the pail down empty.
"I was some dry," he said, smiling. "Got any more of these rawhide
flapjacks?"
The herder nodded, stooped to enter the shack, and came out with a
half-dozen of the tortillas, which Andy rolled and stuffed in his
saddle-pocket. "Mighty good trail bread!" he said enthusiastically.
"You can't wear 'em out."
Again the herder nodded, covertly studying this young rider who did not
look like an outlaw, whose eye was clear and untroubled. Well, what
did it matter?--a man must eat.
The old Indian had given unquestioningly from his poverty, with the
simple dignity of true hospitality. As for who this stranger was, of
what he had done--that was none of his affair. A man must eat.
"I'm payin' for this,"--and Andy proffered a silver dollar.
The other turned the piece round in his fingers as though hesitating to
accept it.
"Si. But has not the señor some little money?"
"That's all right, amigo. Keep it."
The herder shook his head, and held up two fingers. Andy smiled. "I
get you! You don't aim to bank all your wealth in one lump. Lemme
see? All I got left is a couple of two-bit pieces. Want 'em?" The
herder nodded and took the two coins and handed back the dollar. Then
he padded stolidly to the shack and reappeared, bearing a purple velvet
jacket which was ornamented with buttons made from silver quarters. He
held it up, indicating that two of the buttons were missing.
"Muchacha," he grunted, pointing toward the south.
"I get you. Your girl is out looking after the goats, and you aim to
kind of surprise her with a full set of buttons when she gets back.
She'll ask you right quick where you got 'em, eh?"
A faint grin touched the old Indian's mouth. The young vaquero was of
the country. He understood.
"Well, it beats me," said Andy. "Now, a white man is all for the big
money. He'd take the dollar, get it changed, and be two-bits ahead,
every time. But I got to drift along. Say, amigo, if any of my
friends come a-boilin down this way, jest tell 'em that Pete--that's
me--was in a hurry, and headed east. Sabe?"
"Si."
"Pete--with the black sombrero." Andy touched his hat.
"Si. 'Pete.'"
"Adios. Wisht I could take a goat along. That milk was sure
comfortin'."
The herder watched Andy mount and ride away. Then he plodded back to
the shack and busied himself patiently soldering tiny rings on the
silver pieces, that the set of buttons for his daughter's jacket might
be complete. He knew that the young stranger must be a fugitive,
otherwise he would not have ridden into the desert so hurriedly. He
had not inquired about water, nor as to feed for his horse. Truly he
was in great haste!
Life meant but three things to the old Indian. Food, sleep, and
physical freedom. He had once been in jail and had suffered as only
those used to the open sky suffer when imprisoned. The young vaquero
had eaten, and had food with him. His eyes had shown that he was not
in need of sleep. Yet he had all but said there would be men looking
for him.
The old Indian rose and picked up a blanket. In the doorway he paused,
surveying the western horizon. Satisfied that no one was in sight, he
padded out to where Andy had tied his horse and swept the blanket
across the tracks in the loose sand. Walking backwards he drew the
blanket after him, obliterating the hoof-prints until he came to a rise
where the ground was rocky. Without haste he returned and squatted in
the shack. He was patiently working on a silver piece when some one
called out peremptorily.
The old Indian's face was expressionless as he nodded to the posse of
cowboys.
"Seen anything of a young fella ridin' a blue roan and sportin' a black
hat?" asked Houck.
The Indian shook his head.
"He's lyin'," asserted a cowboy. "Comes as natural as breathin' to
him. We trailed a hoss to this here wickiup"--the hot lust of the
man-hunt was in the cowboy's eyes as he swung down--"and we aim to see
who was ridin' him!"
Houck and his three companions sat their horses as the fourth member of
the posse shouldered the old Indian aside and entered the shack.
"Nothin' in there," he said, as he reappeared, "but somebody's been
here this mornin'." And he pointed to the imprint of a high-heeled
boot in the sand of the yard.
"Which way did he ride?" asked Houck, indicating the footprint.
The old herder shook his head. "Quien sabe?" he grunted, shrugging his
shoulders.
"Who knows, eh? Well, you know--for one. And you're goin' to say--or
there'll be a heap big bonfire right here where your shack is."
Meanwhile one of the men, who had pushed out into the desert and was
riding in a circle, hallooed and waved his arm.
"He headed this way," he called. "Some one dragged a blanket over his
trail."
The cowboy who was afoot strode up to the herder. "We'll learn you to
play hoss with this outfit!" He swung his quirt and struck the Indian
across the face. The old Indian stepped back and stiffened. His
sunken eyes blazed with hatred, but he made no sound or sign. He knew
that if he as much as lifted his hand the men would kill him. To him
they were the law, searching for a fugitive. The welt across his face
burned like the sear of fire--the cowardly brand of hatred on the
impassive face of primitive fortitude! This because he had fed a
hungry man and delayed his pursuers.
Long after the posse had disappeared down the far reaches of the
desert, the old Indian stood gazing toward the east, vaguely wondering
what would have happened to him had he struck a white man across the
face with a quirt. He would have been shot down--and his slayer would
have gone unpunished. He shook his head, unable to understand the
white man's law. His primitive soul knew a better law, "an eye for an
eye and a tooth for a tooth," a law that knew no caste and was as old
as the sun-swept spaces of his native land. He was glad that his
daughter had not been there. The white men might have threatened and
insulted her. If they had . . . The old herder padded to his shack
and squatted down, to finish soldering the tiny rings on the buttons
for his daughter's jacket.