The Ridin Kid from Powder River | Page 2

profanity without realizing its significance. He also
learned to chew tobacco and realized its immediate significance. He
mastered the art, however, and became in his own estimation a man
grown--a twelve-year-old man who could swear, chew, and show
horses to advantage when the trader could not, because the horses were
not afraid of Young Pete.
When Pete got kicked or cuffed he cursed the trader heartily. Once,
after a brutal beating, Young Pete backed to the wagon, pulled the rifle
from beneath the seat, and threatened to kill the trader. After that the
rifle was never left loaded. In his tough little heart Pete hated his master,
but he liked the life, which offered much variety and promised no little
romance of a kind.
Pete had barely existed for twelve years. When the trader came along
with his wagon and ponies and cajoled Pete into going with him, Pete
gladly turned his face toward wider horizons and the great adventure.
Yet for him the great adventure was not to end in the trading of horses
and drifting from town to town all his life.
Old man Annersley held down a quarter-section on the Blue Mesa
chiefly because he liked the country. Incidently he gleaned a living by
hard work and thrift. His homestead embraced the only water for miles
in any direction, water that the upland cattlemen had used from time
immemorial. When Annersley fenced this water he did a most natural
and necessary thing. He had gathered together a few head of cattle,
some chickens, two fairly respectable horses, and enough timber to
build a comfortable cabin. He lived alone, a gentle old hermit whose
hand was clean to every man, and whose heart was tender to all living
things despite many hard years in desert and range among men who
dispensed such law as there was with a quick forefinger and an
uncompromising eye. His gray hairs were honorable in that he had
known no wastrel years. Nature had shaped him to a great, rugged
being fitted for the simplicity of mountain life and toil. He had no
argument with God and no petty dispute with man. What he found to
do he did heartily. The horse-trader, camped near Concho, came to

realize this.
Old man Annersley was in need of a horse. One of his team had died
that winter. So he unhooked the pole from the buckboard, rigged a pair
of shafts, and drove to Concho, where he heard of the trader and finally
located that worthy drinking at Tony's Place. Young Pete, as usual, was
in camp looking after the stock. The trader accompanied Annersley to
the camp. Young Pete, sniffing a customer, was immediately up and
doing. Annersley inspected the horses and finally chose a horse which
Young Pete roped with much swagger and unnecessary language, for
the horse was gentle, and quite familiar with Young Pete's professional
vocabulary.
"This here animal is sound, safe, and a child could ride him," asserted
Young Pete as he led the languid and underfed pony to the wagon.
"He's got good action." Pete climbed to the wagon-wheel and mounted
bareback. "He don't pitch, bite, kick, or balk." The horse, used to being
shown, loped a few yards, turned and trotted back. "He neck-reins like
a cow-hoss," said Pete, "and he can turn in a ten-cent piece. You can
rope from him and he'll hold anything you git your rope on."
"Reckon he would," said Annersley, and his eyes twinkled. "'Specially
a hitchin'-rail. Git your rope on a hitchin'-rail and I reckon that
hitchin'-rail would never git away from him."
"He's broke right," reasserted Young Pete. "He's none of your ornery,
half-broke cayuses. You ought to seen him when he was a colt! Say, 't
wa'n't no time afore he could outwork and outrun any hoss in our
bunch."
"How old be you?" queried Annersley.
"Twelve, goin' on thirteen."
"Uh-huh. And the hoss?"
"Oh, he's got a little age on him, but that don't hurt him none."

Annersley's beard twitched. "He must 'a' been a colt for quite a spell.
But I ain't lookin' for a cow-hoss. What I want is a hoss that I can work.
How does he go in harness?"
"Harness! Say, mister, this here hoss can pull the kingpin out of a
wagon without sweatin' a hair. Hook him onto a plough and he sure can
make the ole plough smoke."
Annersley shook his head. "That's a mite too fast for me, son. I'd hate to
have to stop at the end of every furrow and pour water on that there
plough-point to keep her cool."
"'Course if you're lookin' for a cheap hoss," said Young Pete, nothing
abashed, "why, we got 'em. But I was showin' you the best in the
string."
"Don't know that