The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 23

"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 senor 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 b.u.t.tons made from silver quarters. He held it up, indicating that two of the b.u.t.tons 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 b.u.t.tons 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 b.u.t.tons 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'," a.s.serted a cowboy. "Comes as natural as breathin' to him. We trailed a hoss to this here wickiup"--the hot l.u.s.t 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 impa.s.sive face of primitive fort.i.tude! 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 s.p.a.ces 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 b.u.t.tons for his daughter's jacket.

CHAPTER XVIII

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 s.h.i.+mmered 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 att.i.tude. 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 h.e.l.l 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?"