OVER THE LINE
Few cattle grazed across the Olla's well-fenced acres--and these cattle
were of a poor strain, lean Mexican stock that would never run into
weight as beef. Pete had expected to see many cattle--and much work to
be done. Instead, there were few cattle; and as for work--he had been
put to riding line with big Ed Brevoort. For two weeks he had done
nothing else. Slowly it dawned upon Pete that The Spider's ranch was
little more than a thoroughfare for the quick handling of occasional
small bands of cattle from one questionable owner to another. He saw
many brands, and few of them were alike, and among them none that were
familiar. Evidently the cattle were from the south line. The
saddle-stock was branded "J.E." and "The Olla." These brands appeared
on none of the cattle that Pete had seen. About a month after his
arrival, and while he was drifting slowly along the fence with
Brevoort, Pete caught sight of a number of horsemen, far out beyond the
ranch-line, riding slowly toward the north. He spoke to Brevoort, who
nodded. "We're like to be right busy soon."
Brevoort and Pete rode to the ranch-house that evening to get supplies
for their line shack. The place was all but deserted. The cook was
there--and the Mexican José who looked after the "fast ones" in the
stables; but Brent, Harper, Sandy Bell, and the rest of the men were
gone. Pete thought of the horsemen that he had seen--and of Brevoort's
remark, that they would "be right busy soon." Pete wondered how soon,
and how busy.
The day after the departure of the men, Brevoort told Pete that they
would take turn about riding the north line, in an eight-hour shift,
and he cautioned Pete to be on the lookout for a messenger riding a bay
horse--"Not a cow-horse, but a thoroughbred."
This was at the line shack.
Several nights later, as Pete was riding his line, he noticed that Blue
Smoke occasionally stopped and sniffed, and always toward the north.
Near the northwestern angle of the fence, Pete thought he could hear
the distant drumming of hoofs. Blue Smoke fretted and fought the bit.
Pete dismounted and peered into the darkness. The rhythmic stride of a
running horse came to him--not the quick patter of a cow-pony, but the
long, sweeping stride of a racer.
Then out of the night burst a rider on a foam-flecked horse that reared
almost into the gate, which Pete unlooped and dragged back.
"That you, Brevoort?" called the horseman.
"He's at the shack," Pete shouted, as the other swept past.
"Looks like we're goin' to be right busy," reflected Pete as he swung
to the saddle. "We'll jest jog over to the shack and report."
When he arrived at the line shack, Brevoort was talking with the
hard-riding messenger. Near them stood the thoroughbred, his flanks
heaving, his neck sweat-blackened, his sides quivering with fatigue.
He had covered fifty miles in five hours.
"--and countin' the Concho stuff--I'd say something like two hundred
head," the messenger was saying. "Brent'll be in to-morrow, long 'bout
noon. So far, she worked slick. No trouble and a show of gettin'
through without any trouble. Not much young stock, so they're drivin'
fast."
Brevoort turned to Pete. "Take this horse over to the corral. Tell
Moody that Harper is in, and that the boys will be here in a couple of
days. He'll know what to do."
Pete rode at a high lope, leading the thoroughbred, and wondering why
the messenger had not gone on to the corral. Moody, the cook, a
grizzled, heavy-featured man, too old for hard riding, expressed no
surprise at Pete's message, but awakened the Mexican stableman and told
him to fetch up a "real one," which the Mexican did with alertness,
returning to the house leading another sleek and powerful thoroughbred.
"Take him over to the shack," said Moody. "Harper wants him." And he
gave Pete a package of food which he had been preparing while the
Mexican was at the stable.
When Pete returned to the line shack he found Brevoort sitting in the
doorway smoking, and the messenger asleep on the ground, his head on
his saddle.
"Here's your horse," said Brevoort, "and some chuck."
Harper sat up quickly, too quickly for a man who had ridden as far as
he had. Pete wondered at the other's hardihood and grit, for Harper
was instantly on his feet and saddling the fresh horse, and
incidentally cursing the Olla, Brent, and the universe in general, with
a gusto which bespoke plenty of unspoiled vigor.
"Tell Brent the coast is clear," said Brevoort as Harper mounted.
They could hear his horse getting into his stride long before the sound
of his hoofbeats was swallowed up in the abyss of the night.
Pete turned in. Brevoort rode out to drift along the line fence until
daylight.
And Pete dreamed strange dreams of night-riders who came and went
swiftly and mysteriously; and of a dusty, shuffling herd that wound its
slow way across the desert, hazed by a flitting band of armed riders
who continually glanced back as though fearful of pursuit. Suddenly
the dream changed. He was lying on a bed in a long, white-walled room,
dimly lighted by a flickering gas-jet, and Boca stood beside him gazing
down at him wistfully. He tried to speak to her, but could not. Nor
did she speak to him, but laid her hand on his forehead, pressing down
his eyelids. Her hand was dry and hot. Pete tried to open his
eyes--to raise his hand, to speak. Although his eyes were closed and
Boca's hot hand was pressed down on them, Pete knew that round-about
was a light and warmth of noonday . . . Boca's hand drew back--and
Pete lay staring straight into the morning sun which shone through the
open doorway. In the distance he could see Brevoort riding slowly
toward him. Pete raised on his elbow and threw back the blankets. As
he rose and pulled on his overalls he thought of the messenger. He
knew that somewhere back on the northern trail the men of the Olla were
pushing a herd of cattle slowly south,--cattle from the T-Bar-T, the
Blue, and . . . he suddenly recalled Harper's remark--"And countin' the
Concho stuff . . ." Pete thought of Jim Bailey and Andy White, and of
pleasant days riding for the Concho. But after all, it was none of his
affair. He had had no hand in stealing the cattle. He would do well
enough to keep his own hide whole. Let the cattlemen who lived under
the law take care of their own stock and themselves. And curiously
enough, Pete for the first time wondered what had become of Malvey--if
the posse had actually shot him, or if they had simply taken the horse
and let Malvey go. The arrival of Brevoort put an end to his pondering.
"Brent will be in to-day," said Brevoort. "You stick around here; and
call me about noon."
"The old man ain't takin' chances," remarked Pete.
"You're wrong there," asserted Brevoort. "He's takin' the long chance
every time, or he wouldn't be foreman of this outfit. You'll find that
out if you stick round here long enough. If you don't call it takin' a
chance pullin' off a trick like this one that's comin', jest try it
yourself."
"He handles men easy," asserted Pete, recalling Brent's rather fatherly
advice in regard to Texas and the opportunity for a young man to go
straight.
"You sure please me most to death," drawled Brevoort. "You been a
right quiet little pardner, and smilin', so I'm going to tell you
somethin' that you can keep right on bein' quiet about. Sam Brent
would send you or me or any man into a gun-fight, or a posse, or a
jail, and never blink his eye, if he thought it was good business for
him. He'd do it pleasant, too, jest like he was sendin' you to a
dance, or a show. But he'd go jest as quick hisself, if he had to."
"Then I guess we got no kick," said Pete.
"I ain't kickin'. I'm jest puttin' you wise."
"I ain't forgittin', Ed."
Pete turned, following Brevoort's gaze. The man they were talking
about was in sight and riding hard. Presently Brent was close enough
to nod to them. Although he had ridden far and fast, he was as casual
as sunshine. Neither in his voice nor his bearing was the least trace
of fatigue.
"I'm goin' to need you," he told Pete. "We're short of hands right
now. If you need anything over in the line shack, go git it and come
along down after Ed and me."
Pete took the hint and left Brevoort and Brent to ride to the house
together while he rode over to the shack and warmed up some coffee and
beans. In an hour he was at the house. A thoroughbred stood at the
hitching-rail. Pete noticed that the animal carried Brevoort's saddle.
Evidently there was to be more hard riding. As Pete entered the big
room, he also noticed that Brevoort was heavily armed, and carried an
extra belt of cartridges. Brent was examining a rifle when Pete
stepped in. "You may need this," said Brent, handing the rifle and
scabbard to Pete. "Go over to the bunk-house and get another belt and
some shells."
When Pete returned, Blue Smoke was in the corral and his own saddle was
on a big bay that looked like a splendid running-mate for Brevoort's
mount. Pete busied himself slinging the rifle, curious as to what his
new venture would or could be, yet too proud to show that he was
interested.
Brevoort, hitching up his belt, swung to his horse. Without hesitation
Pete followed. Well-fed, eager and spirited, the horses lunged out
into the open and settled into a long, swinging stride--a gait that was
new to Pete, accustomed as he was to the shorter, quick action of the
cow-pony.
They rode south, across the sunlit expanse of emptiness between the
hacienda and the line. A few hundred yards beyond the fence, Brevoort
reined in. "Mexico," he said, gesturing round about. "Our job is to
ride to the Ortez rancho and get that outfit movin' up this way."
"Goin' to turn the cattle over to 'em?" queried Pete.
"Yes--and that quick they won't know they got 'em. It's a big deal, if
she goes through. If she don't, it's like to be the finish of the
Olla."
"Meanin' if the T-Bar-T and the Concho gits busy, there's like to be
some smoke blowin' down this way?"
"The same. Recollect what I was tellin' you this mornin'."
"About Brent sendin' a man into a fight?"
"Yes. But I wasn't figurin' on provin' it to you so quick," drawled
the Texan. "Hold your horse down to a walk. We'll save speed for a
spell. No, I wasn't figurin' on this. You see, when I hired out to
Brent, I knew what I was doin'--so I told him I'd jest earn my pay on
the white side of the border--but no Mexico for mine. That was the
understandin'. Now he goes to work and sends you and me down into this
here country on a job which is only fit for a Greaser. I'm goin' to
see it through, but I done made my last ride for the Olla."
"Brent was sayin' he was short of hands," suggested Pete.
"Which is correct. But there's that José who knows every foot of the
dry-spot clean to the Ortez--and he knows every hoss-thief in this
sun-blasted country. Does he send José? No. He sends two white men,
tellin' me that it is too big a deal to trust the Mexican with."
"And a fine chance of gittin' bumped off by a lousy bunch of Cholas
callin' themselves soldiers, eh?"
"You said it."
"Well, we got good hosses, anyway. And I sabe the Mexican talk."
"Guess that's why Brent sent you along. He knows I talk mighty little
Mexican." And Brevoort gazed curiously at Pete.
"Seein' as you feel that way about it, Ed, I got somethin' I been
millin' over in my head. Now, when The Spider sent me down here he
said he had some important business he wanted me to handle. Brent was
to tell me. Now I don't see anything important about ridin' line or
chasin' into Mexico to wake up a bunch of Greasers and tell 'em to get
busy. Uncle Sammy Brent's got somethin' hid up his sleeve, Ed."
Brevoort, riding slowly beside Pete, turned from gazing across the
desert and looked Pete over from spur to sombrero with a new interest.
He thought he knew now why The Spider had sent Pete to the ranch and
why Brent, in turn, had sent Pete on this dangerous mission. "Is The
Spider much of a friend of yours?" queried Brevoort suddenly.
"Why, I dunno. 'Course he acted like he was--but you can't tell about
him. He--he helped me out of a hole onct."
"Did you ever help him out?"
"Me? No, I never had the chanct."
"Uh-huh. Well, just you pull in your hoss and run your good eye over
this a minute." And Brevoort drew a folded slip of paper from his
shirt-pocket and handed it to Pete. It was a brief note addressed to
Brevoort and signed "J.E." It instructed Brevoort to accompany Pete
Annersley to El Paso after the sale of the cattle and to see to it that
the money which Annersley would have with him was deposited to the
credit of James Ewell in the Stockmen's Security and Savings Bank.
Pete had difficulty in reading the note and took some time to read it,
finally handing it back to Brevoort in silence. And then, "Where did
you git it? Who is 'J.E.'?"
"From Harper. 'J.E.' is Jim Ewell--The Spider."
"So Harper rode to Showdown and back?"
"He took word from Brent to The Spider that the boys had started," said
Brevoort.
"And Brent--" Pete hesitated for fear of committing himself even though
he trusted Brevoort. But Brevoort had no hesitation. He anticipated
Pete's thought and spoke frankly.
"Brent figured it fine. I knew why he sent you and me on this
ride--but I was tryin' to find out if you was wise--or ridin' blind.
If we come back, Brent won't show his hand. If we don't come back
he'll collect the dough and vamoose. Kin you see a hole in the fence?"
"You're whistlin', Ed! It's one crook tryin' to git the best of
another crook. But I would 'a' said Brent was straight. I say The
Spider's money goes into that there bank."
"Same here. I ain't so dam' honest that it hurts me, but I quit when
it comes to stealin' from the man that's payin' my wages."
"Then I reckon you and me is pardners in this deal," and Pete, boyishly
proffered his hand.
Big Ed Brevoort grasped Pete's hand, and held it till the horses shied
apart. "To the finish," he said.
"To the finish," echoed Pete, and with one accord they slackened rein.
The thoroughbreds reached out into that long, tireless running stride
that brought their riders nearer and nearer to the Ortez rancho and the
Mexican agent of the guerilla captain whose troops were so sadly in
need of beef.