The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 29

"It is my horse that he shall have--" Boca began.

But her mother interrupted quietly. "The young senor will return--and there are many ways to pay. We are poor. You will not forget us. You will come again, alone in the night. And it is not Malvey that will show you the way."

"Not if I see him first, senora."

"You jest--but even now you would kill Malvey if he were here."

"You sure are tellin' Malvey's fortune," laughed Pete. "Kin you tell mine?"

"Again you jest--but I will speak. You will not kill Malvey, yet you shall find your own horse. You will be hunted by men, but you will not always be as you are now. Some day you will have wealth, and then it is that you will remember this night. You will come again at night, and alone--but Boca will not be here. You will grow weary of life from much suffering, even as I. Then it is that you will think of these days and many days to come--and these days shall be as wine in your old age--" Boca's mother paused as though listening. "But like wine--"

and again she paused.

"Headache?" queried Pete. "Well, I know how that feels, without the wine. That fortune sounds good to me--all except that about Boca.

Now, mebby you could tell me which way Malvey was headed?"

"He has ridden to Showdown."

"So that red-headed hoss-thief fanned it right back to his boss, eh?

He must 'a' thought I was fixed for good."

"It is his way. Men spake truly when they called him the bull. He is big--but he is as a child."

"Well, there's goin' to be one mighty sick child for somebody to nurse, right soon," stated Pete.

"I have said that it is bad that you ride to Showdown. But you will go there--and he whom men call The Spider--he shall be your friend--even with his life."

As quietly as she came the Mexican woman departed, leaving Boca and Pete gazing at each other in the dusk. "She makes me afraid sometimes," whispered Boca.

"Sounds like she could jest plumb see what she was talkin' about. Kind of second-sight, I reckon. Wonder why she didn't put me wise to Malvey when I lit in here with him? It would 'a' saved a heap of trouble."

"It is the dream," said Boca. "These things she has seen in a dream."

"I ain't got nothin' against your ole--your mother, Boca, but by the way I'm feelin', she's sure due to have a bad one, right soon."

"You do not believe?" queried Boca quite seriously.

"Kind of--half. I don't aim to know everything."

"She said you would come back," and Boca smiled.

"_That_ dream'll sure come true. I ain't forgettin'. But I ain't goin' to wait till you're gone."

Boca touched Pete's hand. "And you will bring me a present. A dress--or a ring, perhaps?"

"You kin jest bank on that! I don't aim to travel where they make 'em reg'lar, but you sure get that present--after I settle with Malvey."

"That is the way with men," pouted Boca. "They think only of the quarrel."

"You got me wrong, senorita. I don't want to kill n.o.body. The big idee is to keep from gittin' b.u.mped off myself. Now you'd think a whole lot of me if I was to ride off and forgit all about what Malvey done?"

"I would go with you," said Boca softly.

"Honest? Well, you'd sure make a good pardner." Pete eyed the girl with a new interest. Then he shook his head. "I--you'd sure make a good pardner--but it would be mighty tough for you. I'd do most anything--but that. You see, Chicita, I'm in bad. I'm like to get mine most any time. And I ain't no ladies' man--nohow."

"But you will come back?" queried Boca anxiously.

"As sure as you're livin'! Only you want to kind o' eddicate your ole man to handle bottles more easy-like. He ought to know what they're made for."

"Your head--it is cool," said Boca, reaching up and touching Pete's forehead.

"Oh, I'm feelin' fine, considerin'."

"Then I am happy," said Boca.

Pete never knew just how he happened to find Boca's hand in his own.

But he knew that she had a very pretty mouth, and fine eyes; eyes that glowed softly in the dusk. Before he realized what had happened, Boca was in his arms, and he was telling her again and again that "he sure would come back."

She murmured her happiness as he kissed her awkwardly, and quickly, as though bidding her a hasty farewell. But she would not let him go with that. "Mi amor! Mi corazone!" she whispered, as she clasped her hands behind his head and gently drew his mouth to hers.

Pete felt embarra.s.sed, but his embarra.s.sment melted in the soft warmth of her affection and he returned her kisses with all the ardor of youth. Suddenly she pushed him away and rose. Her mother had called her.

"About twelve," whispered Pete. "Tell your ole man I'll bush out here.

It's a heap cooler."

She nodded and left him. Pete heard Flores speak to her gruffly.

"Somebody ought to put that ole side-of bacon in the well,"

soliloquized Pete. "I could stand for the ole lady, all right, and Boca sure is a lily . . . but I was forgettin' I got to ride to Showdown to-night."

CHAPTER XXIII

THE DEVIL-WIND

As Pete lay planning his departure--he wondered if Boca would think to find him a canteen and food for his long ride--the stars, hitherto clear-edged and brilliant, became blurred as though an almost invisible mist had drifted between them and the earth. He rubbed his eyes. Yes, there was no mistake about it. He was wide awake, and the sky was changing. That which had seemed a mist now appeared more like a fine dust, that swept across the heavens and dimmed the desert sky. It occurred to him that he was at the bottom of a fairly deep canon and that that impalpable dust meant wind, A little later he heard it,--at first a faint, far-away sound like the whisper of many voices; then a soft, steady hiss as when wind-driven sand runs over sand. A hot wind sprang up suddenly and swept with a rush down the night-walled canon.

It was the devil-wind of the desert, the wind that curls the leaf and shrivels the vine, even in the hours when there is no sun. When the devil-wind drives, men lie naked beneath the sky in sleepless misery.

Horses and cattle stand with heads lowered and flanks drawn in, suffering an invisible torture from which there is no escape. The dawn brings no relief--no freshening of the air. The heat drives on--three days--say those who know the southern desert--and no man rides the trails, but seeks what shade may be, and lies torpid and silent--or if he speaks, it is to curse the land.

Pete knew that this devil-wind would make old Flores restless. He stepped round to the doorway and asked for water. From the darkness within the adobe came Flores's voice and the sound of a match against wood. The Mexican appeared with a candle.

"My head feels queer," stated Pete, as an excuse for disturbing Flores.

"I can't find the olla--and I'm dead for a drink."

"Then we shall drink this," said Flores, fetching a jug of wine from beneath the bench.

"Not for mine! I'm dizzy enough, without that."