The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 36

Pete and the foreman had something to eat in the chuck-house, and returned to the larger building. Brent read The Spider's letter, rolled the end of his silver-gray mustache between his thumb and forefinger, and finally glanced up. "So, you're Pete Annersley?"

"That's my name."

"Have a chair. You're right young to be riding alone. How did you come to throw in with The Spider?"

Pete hesitated. Why should he tell this man anything other than that he had been sent by The Spider with the letter which--he had been told--would explain his presence and embody his instructions?

"Don't he say in that letter?" queried Pete.

"He says you were mixed up in a bank robbery over to Enright," stated the foreman.

"That's a dam' lie!" flared Pete.

"I reckon you'll do," said Brent, as he folded the letter. The Spider had made that very statement in his letter to Brent for the purpose of finding out, through the foreman, whether or not Pete had taken it upon himself to read the letter before delivering it. And Brent, aware of The Spider's methods, realized at once why his chief had misstated the facts. It was evident that Pete had not read the letter, otherwise he would most probably have taken his cue from The Spider's a.s.sertion about the bank robbery and found himself in difficulties, for directly after the word "Enright" was a tiny "x"--a code letter which meant "This is not so."

"Reckon I'll do what?" queried Pete. "Let The Spider or anybody like him run a whizzer on me after I run a good hoss ragged to git here with his doggone letter--and then git stuck up like I was a hoss-thief? You got another guess, uncle."

The old cowman's eyes twinkled. "You speak right out in meetin', don't you, son?" His drawl was easy and somehow reminded Pete of Pop Annersley. "Now there's some wouldn't like that kind of talk--even from a kid."

"I'd say it to The Spider as quick as I would to you," a.s.serted Pete.

"Which might be takin' a chance, both ways."

"Say"--and Pete smiled--"I guess I been talkin' pretty fast, I was some het up. The Spider used me as white as he could use anybody, I reckon.

But ever since that killin' up to his place, I been sore at the whole doggone outfit runnin' this here world. What does a fella git, anyhow, for stickin' up for himself, if he runs against a killer? He gits b.u.mped off--or mebby he kills the other fella and gits run out of the country or hung. Pardners stick, don't they? Well, how would it git you if you had a pardner that--well, mebby was a girl and she got killed by a bunch of deputies jest because she was quick enough to spoil their game? Would you feel like shakin' hands with every doggone hombre you met up with, or like tellin' him to go to h.e.l.l and sendin'

him there if he was lookin to argue with you? I dunno. Mebby I'm wrong--from the start--but I figure all a fella gits out of this game is a throwdown, comin' or goin'--'for the deck is stacked and the wheel is crooked."

"I was fifty-six last February," said Brent.

"And how many notches you got on your gun?" queried Pete.

"Oh, mebby two, three," drawled the foreman.

"That's it! Say you started in callin' yourself a growed man when you was twenty. Every ten years you had to hand some fella his finish to keep from makin' yours. 'Got to kill to live,' is right!"

"Son, you got a good horse, and yonder is the whole State of Texas, where a man can sure lose himself without tryin' hard. There's plenty of work down there for a good cow-hand. And a man's name ain't printed on his face. n.o.body's got a rope on you."

"I git you," said Pete. "But I throwed in with The Spider--and that goes."

"That's your business--and as you was sayin' your business ain't mine.

But throwin' a fast gun won't do you no good round here."

"Oh, I don't claim to be so doggone fast," stated Pete.

"Faster than Steve Gary?"

Pete's easy glance centered to a curious, tense gaze which was fixed on the third b.u.t.ton of Brent's s.h.i.+rt. "What about Steve Gary?" asked Pete, and even Brent, old hand as he was, felt the sinister significance in that slow question. The Spider's letter had said to "give him a try-out," which might have meant almost anything to a casual reader, but to Brent it meant just what he had been doing that evening--seeking for a weak spot in Pete's make-up, if there were such, before hiring him.

"My gun is in the bedroom," said Brent easily.

"Well, Gary's wasn't," said Pete.

"We ain't had a gun-fight on this ranch since I been foreman," said Brent. "And we got some right fast men, at that. Seein' you're goin'

to work for me a spell, I'm goin' to kind of give you a line on things.

You can pick your own string of horses--anything that you can get your rope on that ain't branded 'J.E.', which is pet stock and no good at workin' cattle. You met up with Ed Brevoort this evenin'. Well, you can ride fence with Ed and he'll show you the high spots and hollows--and the line--south. If you run onto any strangers ridin' too close to the line, find out what they want. If you can't find out, get word to me. That goes for strangers. But if you get to arguin' with any of my boys--talk all you like--but don't start a smoke--_for you won't get away with it_. The Spider ain't payin' guns to shoot up his own outfit. If you're lookin' for real trouble, all you got to do is to ride south acrost the line--and you'll find it. And you're gettin'

a straight hundred a month and your keep as long as you work for the Olla."

"Which is some different from takin' my hoss and fannin' it easy for Texas," said Pete, grinning.

"Some different," said Brent.

CHAPTER XXVII

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 hors.e.m.e.n, 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 Jose 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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 s.h.i.+ft, 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.