THE BLACK SOMBRERO
When Andy had ridden far enough to feel secure in turning and riding
north--in fact, his plan was to work back to the Concho in a wide
circle--he reined in and dismounted. From a low ridge he surveyed the
western desert, approximated his bearings, and had his foot in the
stirrup when he saw four tiny dots that bobbed up and down on the
distant sky-line of the west. He had left an easy trail to follow and
the pursuers were riding hard. They were still a long distance from
him. He led his horse down the far side of the ridge and mounted. He
rode straight east for perhaps a quarter of a mile. Then he turned and
at right angles to his trail sped north behind the long, low, sandy
ridge. He could not be seen until the posse had topped it--and even
then it was probable they would fling down the slope, following his
tracks until they came to where he had turned. Straight ahead of him
the ridge swung to the left. In half an hour or so he would again
cross it, which he hoped to do before he was discovered. Once over the
ridge, he would head for the Concho. To follow him would mean that his
pursuers would be riding directly away from Pete's trail. Many long
desert miles lay between Andy and the Concho, but he argued that his
horse was as fresh as the horses of his pursuers. He would give them a
good run. If they overtook him before they reached the ranch, the most
they could do would be to curse him for misleading them. He reasoned
that the posse was from the T-Bar-T--that at best the sheriff could not
have been advised of the shooting in time to join them. They would
have no official right to detain him or interfere with his
progress--once they knew who he was.
A trot, a lope, then back to a swinging trot again--and as yet no
riders had appeared on the hills. Andy was making good time. The
crest of the ridge shimmered in the noon sun. At this pace he would be
over and down the western side before they saw him.
When the posse finally caught sight of the man they were after far out
across the level and riding toward the west, they knew at once that he
was making for the Concho and what protection his fellows might afford
him under the circumstances. This did not fit into their scheme. The
man-hunt had tuned their pulses to a high pitch. They wanted to lay
hands on Gary's slayer--to disarm him and bring him into the town of
Concho themselves--or, if he showed fight, to "get" him. They forgot
that he was little more than a boy. He was an enemy--and potently
dangerous.
"It's Young Pete," said a cowboy. "I know him by that black hat."
Plying quirt and spur the posse flung down the ridge and out across the
plain below. They would ride their quarry down before he reached the
boundary of the Concho--before he got among his friends.
Andy turned and glanced back. They were gaining on him. He knew that
his own horse was doing his best. Again he glanced back. The riders
were forcing their horses to a terrific pace that could not last long.
In a mile or so they would be close enough to use their rifles. But
the harder they rode the better Andy liked it. They would be in sorry
shape to make the long ride south after Pete, when they realized that
they were chasing the wrong man. If he could get out of it without
getting shot, he would consider himself lucky. Ahead of him lay a flat
of brushless land offering no shelter. He hoped that his horse would
not be killed by a chance shot. In that event his pride would force
him to retaliate, until he was either killed or captured. He had about
made up his mind to rein up and surrender when he heard the singing
_whizz-zip_ of a bullet that sprayed sand ahead of him. Then came the
faint _pop_ of a rifle far behind. He pulled up, swiftly unbuckled his
belt, and hung his gun on the saddle-horn. Then he stepped away from
his horse--an unconsciously fine thing to do--and turned toward the
distant posse. Again came that shrill, sinister _whizz-zip_ and he was
standing bareheaded in the glaring sun as the black sombrero spun round
and settled lightly in the sand beside him. He wisely thrust up his
hands--arguing that if the posse could see to shoot with such accuracy
they could see and possibly appreciate his attitude. He felt outraged,
and wanted to fight. He did not realize at the moment that his
pursuers were acting in good faith according to their viewpoint.
Meanwhile they flung toward him, spreading out fanwise in case of some
possible treachery. Without moving a muscle Andy stood with his hands
raised, blinkingly trying to identify each individual rider.
There was Houck on his big gray cow-horse. To the left rode Simpson,
known all over the range as Gary's close friend. Andy half-expected to
see Cotton with the posse, but Cotton was not there. He did not
recognize the two riders on the wings of the posse.
"Mornin', fellas!" he called as the cowboys swept up. "What's the
idea?"
"This!" snarled Simpson as he took out his rope.
"Hold on!" cried Houck, dismounting and covering White. "This ain't
our man! It's young Andy White!"
"You might 'a' found that out before you started shootin'," said Andy,
lowering his hands. "My gun's on the saddle there."
Despite the fact that it was Andy White, Houck took no chances, but
searched him. Then, "what in hell was _your_ idea?"
"Me? Why, I was ridin' to the Concho when one of you guys shot my hat
off. I reckoned it was about time to pull up."
"Ridin' to the Concho, eh? I suppose you'll say next that you got lost
and thought the Concho was over this way?"
"Nope. I was ridin' to the Concho to report the shootin' of Steve Gary
to my boss."
Houck, who had imagined that White would disclaim any knowledge of the
shooting until forced to admit it, took a new tack. "Where's Pete
Annersley?"
"That's jest what I was wonderin'. Last time I see him he was fannin'
it east. I took out after him--but I must 'a' missed him."
"That'll do to tell the sheriff. We want to know what you know about
the shootin'-up of Steve."
"Nothin'. I was over by the shack waiting for Pete when I thought I
heard a couple of shots. Didn't pay no attention to that--'cause Pete
was always poppin' his gun at somethin'. Then pretty soon Pete walks
in, and I go out with him and help him ketch his hoss. He don't say
much--and I don't. Then first thing I know he lights on that little
buckskin hoss of his--"
"And forgets his hat," interrupted Houck.
"Nope. He was wearin' a hat the last I seen of him."
"And ridin' a buckskin cayuse, eh? Now Cotton says it was a blue roan."
Andy laughed. "That hombre Cotton's got mighty poor eyesight. Why, he
couldn't see good enough to ketch up his own hoss. Pete told me Cotton
set out for home afoot. I didn't see him, but I'd take Pete's word
against Cotton's any time."
"Mebby you think we're takin' your word about Young Pete--and the
shootin'??
"Why not?"
"We can make you talk!" threatened Simpson.
"I reckon you could," said Andy easily. "Four to one--and my gun
hangin' over there on the saddle-horn. But suppose you did? How are
you goin' to' know I'll talk straight or lie to you? You ain't throwed
any big scare into me yet"--and Andy stooped and caught up his hat and
thrust his finger through the hole in the crown--"because I ain't done
nothin' to be scared about. I ain't shot nobody and I ain't seen
nobody get shot. Cotton could 'a' told you that."
"That's right," asserted Houck reluctantly. "White here had nothin' to
do with the shootin'. Cotton said that. We lost some time trailin'
you"--Houck turned to Andy--"but we don't aim to lose any more. Which
way did young Pete ride?"
Andy laughed. "You would say I lied if I told you. But I'm goin' to
tell you straight. Young Pete took the old Ranger Trail south, through
the timber. And I want to tell you gentlemen he was goin' like hell
a-smokin' when I seen him last. Mebby you don't believe that? And
there's somethin' else--that old Ranger Trail forks three times this
side of Cienegas--and she forks twice afore she crosses the line.
She's a dim trail when she's doin' her best acrost the rocks, and
they's places in her where she's as blind as a dead ox. Water is as
scarce as cow-punchers at a camp-meetin' and they ain't no feed this
side of Showdown. And Showdown never tore its shirt tryin' to be
polite to strangers. I been there. 'Course, when it comes to rustlers
and cardsharps and killers--but you fellas know how that is. I--"
"Come on, boys," said Houck, reining round. "White here is puttin' up
a talk to hold us--and Young Pete's usin' the time."
Andy watched them ride away, a queer expression lighting his face.
"They hate like the Ole Scratch to believe me--and they are hatin'
themselves for havin' to."
He pulled off Pete's hat and turned it over, gazing at the two little
round holes curiously. "Pete, old scout," he said, smiling
whimsically, "here's hopin' they never come closer to gettin' you than
they did to gettin' me. Keep a-ridin'--for you sure got to be that
'Ridin' Kid from Powder River' this journey--and then some."
Andy turned the black sombrero round in his hands. "All this here
hocus comes of the killin' of a old man that never lifted a finger
against nobody--and as game a kid as ever raked a hoss with a spur.
But one killin' always means more. I ain't no gunman--or no killer.
But, by cracky! some of my ideas has changed since I got that hole in
my hat. I wisht I'd 'a' rode with Pete. I wouldn't ask nothin' better
right now than to stand back to back with him, out in the open
somewhere and let 'em come! Because why? Because the only law that a
man's got in this country is hisself--and if he's right, why, crossin'
over with his gun explainin' his idees ain't the worst way to go.
Anyhow, it ain't any worse than gettin' throwed from a bronc and
gettin' his neck broke or gettin' stomped out in a stampede. Them's
just regular, common ways of goin' out. I just wonder how Pete is
makin' it?"
Andy put on his hat, glanced at the sun, and strode to his pony. Far
across the eastern desert he saw the posse--a mere moving dot against
the blue. "Wolf-hungry to make a killin' because they're foolin'
themselves that they're actin' out the law! Well, come on, Chico, old
hoss, we got to make home before sundown."