The Ridin Kid from Powder River | Page 7

a first-class saddle-hoss."
The old man smiled broadly. Pete, like a hungry mosquito, was hard to
catch.
"You kin ride him," said Annersley. "'Course, if he pitches you--" And
the old man chuckled.
"Pitch me? Say, pardner, I'm a ridin' son-of-a-gun from Powder River
and my middle name is 'stick.' I kin ride 'm comin' and goin'--crawl 'm
on the run and bust 'm wide open every time they bit the dirt. Turn me
loose and hear me howl. Jest give me room and see me split the air!

You want to climb the fence when I 'm a-comin'!"
"Where did you git that little song?" queried Annersley.
"Why--why, that's how the fellas shoot her over to the round-up at
Magdalena and Flag. Reckon I been there!"
"Well, don't you bust ole Apache too hard, son. He's a mighty forgivin'
hoss--but he's got feelin's."
"Huh! You're a-joshin' me agin. I seen your whiskers kind o' wiggle.
You think I'm scared o' that hoss?"
"Just a leetle mite, son. Or you wouldn't 'a' sung that there high-chin
song. There's some good riders that talk lots. But the best riders I ever
seen, jest rode 'em--and said nothin'."
"Like when you set on my other pop, eh?"
"That's the idee."
Pete, used to a rough-and-tumble existence, was deeply impressed by
the old man's quiet outlook and gentle manner. While not altogether in
accord with Annersley's attitude in regard to profanity and chewing
tobacco--still, Young Pete felt that a man who could down the
horse-trader and sit on him and suffer no harm was somehow worth
listening to.
CHAPTER III
A WARNING
That first and unforgettable year on the homestead was the happiest
year of Pete's life. Intensely active, tireless, and resourceful--as are
most youngsters raised in the West--he learned to milk the tame cow,
manipulate the hay-rake, distinguish potato-vines from weeds and hoe
accordingly, and through observation and Annersley's thrifty example,
take care of his clothing and few effects. The old man taught Pete to

read and to write his own name--a painful process, for Young Pete
cared nothing for that sort of education and suffered only that he might
please his venerable partner. When it came to the plaiting of rawhide
into bridle-reins and reatas, the handling of a rope, packing for a
hunting trip, reading a dim trail when tracking a stray horse, or any of
the many things essential to life in the hills, Young Pete took hold with
boyish enthusiasm, copying Annersley's methods to the letter. Pete was
repaid a thousand-fold for his efforts by the old man's occasional:
"Couldn't 'a' done it any better myself, pardner."
For Annersley seldom called the boy "Pete" now, realizing that
"pardner" meant so much more to him.
Pete had his rifle--an old carbine, much scratched and battered by the
brush and rock--a thirty-thirty the old man had purchased from a
cowboy in Concho.
Pete spent most of his spare time cleaning and polishing the gun. He
had a fondness for firearms that almost amounted to a passion.
Evenings, when the work was done and Annersley sat smoking in the
doorway, Young Pete invariably found excuse to clean and oil his gun.
He invested heavily in cartridges and immediately used up his
ammunition on every available target until there was not an
unpunctured tin can on the premises. He was quick and accurate, finally
scorning to shoot at a stationary mark and often riding miles to get to
the valley level where there were rabbits and "Jacks," that he
occasionally bowled over on the run. Once he shot a coyote, and his
cup of happiness brimmed--for the time being.
All told, it was a most healthful and happy life for a boy, and Young
Pete learned, unconsciously, to "ride, shoot, and Tell the Truth," as
against "Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic," for which he cared nothing.
Pete might have gone far--become a well-to-do cattleman or
rancher--had not Fate, which can so easily wipe out all plans and
precautions in a flash, stepped in and laid a hand on his bridle-rein.
That summer occasional riders stopped at the cabin, were fed and

housed and went on their way. They came chiefly from the T-Bar-T
ranch--some few from Concho, a cattle outfit of the lower country. Pete
intuitively disliked these men, despite the fact that they rode excellent
horses, sported gay trappings, and "joshed" with him as though he were
one of themselves. His instinct told him that they were not altogether
friendly to Annersley. They frequently drifted into warm argument as
to water-rights and nesters in general--matters that did not interest
Young Pete at the time, who failed, naturally, to grasp the ultimate
meaning of the talk. But the old man never seemed perturbed by these
arguments, declining, in his good-natured way, to take them seriously,
and