The Ridin Kid from Powder River | Page 4

driftin'," he told the other.
Murder burned in the horse-trader's narrow eyes, but immediate physical ambition was lacking.
Annersley bulked big. The horse-trader cursed the old man in two languages. Annersley climbed into the buckboard, gave Pete the lead-rope of the recent purchase, and clucked to his horse, paying no attention whatever to the volley of invectives behind him.
"He'll git his gun and shoot you in the back," whispered Young Pete.
"Nope, son. He'll jest go and git another drink and tell everybody in Concho how he's goin' to kill me--some day. I've handled folks like him frequent."
"You sure kin fight!" exclaimed Young Pete enthusiastically.
"Never hit a man in my life. I never dast to," said Annersley.
"You jest set on 'em, eh?"
"Jest set on 'em," said Annersley. "You keep tight holt to that rope. That fool hoss acts like he wanted to go back to your camp."
Young Pete braced his feet and clung to the rope, admonishing the horse with outland eloquence. As they crossed the arroyo, the led horse pulled back, all but unseating Young Pete.
"Here, you!" cried the boy. "You quit that--afore my new pop takes you by the neck and the--pants and sits on you!"
"That's the idea, son. Only next time, jest tell him without cussin'."
"He always cusses the hosses," said Young Pete. "Everybody cusses 'em."
"'Most everybody. But a man what cusses a hoss is only cussin' hisself. You're some young to git that--but mebby you'll recollect I said so, some day."
"Didn't you cuss him when you set on him?" queried Pete.
"For why, son?"
"Wa'n't you mad?"
"Shucks, no."
"Don't you ever cuss?"
"Not frequent, son. Cussin' never pitched any hay for me."
Young Pete was a bit disappointed. "Didn't you never cuss in your life?"
Annersley glanced down at the boy.
"Well, if you promise you won't tell nobody, I did cuss onct, when I struck the plough into a yellow-jacket's nest which I wa'n't aimin' to hit, nohow. Had the reins round my neck, not expectin' visitors, when them hornets come at me and the hoss without even ringin' the bell. That team drug me quite a spell afore I got loose. When I got enough dirt out of my mouth so as I could holler, I set to and said what I thought."
"Cussed the hosses and the doggone ole plough and them hornets--and everything!" exclaimed Pete.
"Nope, son, I cussed myself for hangin' them reins round my neck. What you say your name was?"
"Pete."
"What was the trader callin' you--any other name besides Pete?"
"Yes, I reckon he was. When he is good 'n' drunk he would be callin' me a doggone little--"
"Never mind, I know about that. I was meanin' your other name."
"My other name? I ain't got none. I'm Pete."
Annersley shook his head. "Well, pardner, you'll be Pete Annersley now. Watch out that hoss don't jerk you out o' your jacket. This here hill is a enterprisin' hill and leads right up to my place. Hang on! As I was sayin', we're pardners, you and me. We're goin' up to my place on the Blue and tend to the critters and git washed up and have supper, and mebby after supper we'll mosey around so you kin git acquainted with the ranch. Where'd you say your pop come from?"
"I dunno. He ain't my real pop."
Annersley turned and looked down at the lean, bright little face. "Yon hungry, son?"
"You bet!"
"What you say if we kill a chicken for supper--and celebrate."
"G'wan, you're joshin' me!"
"Nope. I like chicken. And I got one that needs killin'; a no-account ole hen what won't set and won't lay."
"Then we'll ring her doggone head off, eh?"
"Somethin' like that--only I ain't jest hatin' that there hen. She ain't no good, that's all."
Young Pete pondered, watching Annersley's grave, bearded face. Suddenly he brightened. "I know! Nobody kin tell when you're joshin' 'em, 'cause your whiskers hides it. Guess I'll grow some whiskers and then I kin fool everybody."
Old man Annersley chuckled, and spoke to the horses. Young Pete, happier than he had ever been, wondered if this good luck would last--if it were real, or just a dream that would vanish, leaving him shivering in his tattered blanket, and the horse-trader telling him to get up and rustle wood for the morning fire.
The buckboard topped the rise and leveled to the tree-girdled mesa. Young Pete stared. This was the most beautiful spot he had ever seen. Ringed round by a great forest of spruce, the Blue Mesa lay shimmering in the sunset like an emerald lake, beneath a cloudless sky tinged with crimson, gold, and amethyst. Across the mesa stood a cabin, the only dwelling in that silent expanse. And this was to be his home, and the big man beside him, gently urging the horse, was his partner. He had said so. Surely the great adventure had begun.
Annersley glanced down. Young Pete's hand