The Ridin' Kid from Powder River

  CHAPTER II

  FIREARMS AND NEW FORTUNES

  For a few days the old man had his hands full. Young Pete, used tothinking and acting for himself, possessed that most valuable but oftendangerous asset, initiative. The very evening that he arrived at thehomestead, while Annersley was milking the one tame cow out in thecorral, Young Pete decided that he would help matters along by catchingthe hen which Annersley had pointed out to him when he drove into theyard. Milking did not interest Young Pete; but chasing chickens did.

  The hen, a slate-colored and maternal-appearing biddy, seemed torealize that something unusual was afoot. She refused to be driveninto the coop, perversely diving about the yard and circling theout-buildings until even Young Pete's ambition flagged. Out of breathhe marched to the house. Annersley's rifle stood in the corner. YoungPete eyed it longingly, finally picked it up and stole gingerly to thedoorway. The slate-colored hen had cooled down and was at the momentcontemplating the cabin with head sideways, exceedingly suspicious andruffled, but standing still. Just as Young Pete drew a bead on her,the big red rooster came running to assure her that all was well--thathe would protect her; that her trepidation was unfounded. He blusteredand strutted, declaring himself Lord High Protector of the hen-yard andjust about the handsomest thing in feathers--_Bloom_! Young Peteblinked, and rubbed his shoulder. The slate-colored hen sprinted forparts unknown. The big red rooster flopped once or twice and then gaveup the ghost. He had strutted across the firing line just as YoungPete pulled the trigger. The cow jumped and kicked over the milk-pail.Old Annersley came running. But Young Pete, the lust of the chasespurring him on, had disappeared around the corner of the cabin afterthe hen. He routed her out from behind the haystack, herded herswiftly across the clearing to the lean-to stable, and corralled her,so to speak, in a manger. Just as Annersley caught up with him, Peteleveled and fired--at close range. What was left of the hen--which waschiefly feathers, he gathered up and held by the remaining leg. "I gother!" he panted.

  Annersley paused to catch his breath. "Yes--you got her.Gosh-A'mighty, son--I thought you had started in to clean out theranch! You downed my rooster and you like to plugged me an' thatheifer there. The bullit come singin' along and plunked into therain-bar'l and most scared me to death. What in the ole scratchstarted you on the war-path, anyhow?"

  Pete realized that he had overdone the matter slightly. "Why,nothin'--only you said we was to eat that hen for supper, an' Icouldn't catch the dog-gone ole squawker, so I jest set to and pluggedher. This here gun of yourn kicks somethin' fierce!"

  "Well, I reckon you was meanin' all right. But Gosh-A'mighty! Youmight 'a' killed the cow or me or somethin'!"

  "Well, I got her, anyhow. I got her plumb center."

  "Yes--you sure did." And the old man took the remains of the hen fromPete and "hefted" those remains with a critical finger and thumb. "Onelaig left, and a piece of the breast." He sighed heavily. Young Petestared up at him, expecting praise for his marksmanship and energy.The old man put his hand on Pete's shoulder. "It's all right thistime, son. I reckon you wasn't meanin' to murder that rooster. I onlygot one, and--"

  "He jest run right in front of the hen when I cut loose. He might 'a'knowed better."

  "We'll go see." And Annersley plodded to the yard, picked up thedefunct rooster and entered the cabin.

  Young Pete cooled down to a realization that his new pop was notaltogether pleased. He followed Annersley, who told him to put the gunback in the corner.

  "Got to clean her first," asserted Young Pete.

  "You look out you don't shoot yourself," said Annersley from thekitchen.

  "Huh," came from the ambitious, young hunter of feathered game, "I knowall about guns--and this here ole musket sure needs cleanin' bad. Sheliked to kicked my doggone head off."

  They ate what was left of the hen, and a portion of the rooster. Aftersupper Annersley sat outside with the boy and talked to him kindly.Slowly it dawned upon Young Pete that it was not considered good formin the best families of Arizona to slay law-abiding roosters withoutexplicit directions and permission from their owners. The old manconcluded with a promise that if Young Pete liked to shoot, he shouldsome day have a gun of his own if he, in turn, would agree to do noshooting without permission. The promise of a real gun of his owntouched Young Pete's tough little heart. He stuck out his hand. Thecompact was sealed.

  "Git a thirty-thirty," he suggested.

  "What do you know about thirty-thirties?"

  "Huh, I know lots. My other pop was tellin' me you could git a manwith a thirty a whole heap farther than you could with any oleforty-four or them guns. I shot heaps of rabbits with his."

  "Well, we'll see. But you want to git over the idee of gettin' a manwith any gun. That goes with horse-tradin' and liquor and such. Butwe sure aim to live peaceful, up here."

  Meanwhile, Young Pete, squatting beside Annersley, amused himself byspitting tobacco juice at a procession of red ants that trailed fromnowhere in particular toward the doorstep.

  "Makes 'em sick," he chuckled as a lucky shot dissipated the procession.

  "It's sure wastin' cartridges on mighty small game," remarked Annersley.

  "Don't cost nothin' to spit on 'em," said Young Pete.

  "Not now. But when you git out of chewin'-tobacco, then where yougoin' to git some more?"

  "To the store, I reckon."

  "Uh-huh. But where you goin' to git the money?"

  "He was givin' me all the chewin' I wanted," said Pete.

  "Uh-huh. Well, I ain't got no money for chewin'-tobacco. But I tellyou what, Pete. Now, say I was to give you a dollar a week for--foryour wages. And say I was to git you one of them guns like you said;you couldn't shoot chewin'-tobacco in that gun, could you?"

  "Most anybody knows that!" laughed Pete.

  "But you could buy cartridges with that dollar--an' shoot lots."

  "Would you lick me if I bought chewin'?"

  "Shucks, no! I was jest leavin' it to you."

  "When do I git that dollar--the first one?"

  Annersley smiled to himself. Pete was shrewd and in no way inclined tocommit himself carelessly. Horse-trading had sharpened his wits to arazor-edge and dire necessity and hunger had kept those wits keen.Annersley was amused and at the same time wise enough in his patient,slow way to hide his amusement and talk with Pete as man to man. "Why,you ain't been workin' for me a week yet! And come to think--thatrooster was worth five dollars--every cent! What you say if I was tocharge that rooster up to you? Then after five weeks you was to git adollar, eh?"

  Pete pondered this problem. "Huh!" he exclaimed suddenly. "You etmore 'n half that rooster--and some of the hen."

  "All right, son. Then say I was to charge you two dollars for what youet?"

  "Then, I guess beans is good enough for me. Anyhow, I never stole yourrooster. I jest shot him."

  "Which is correct. Reckon we'll forgit about that rooster and startfresh." The old man fumbled in his pocket and brought up a silverdollar. "Here's your first week's wages, son. What you aim to do withit?"

  "Buy cartridges!" exclaimed Pete. "But I ain't got no gun."

  "Well, we'll be goin' to town right soon. I'll git you a gun, andmebby a scabbard so you can carry it on the saddle."

  "Kin I ride that hoss I seen out there?" queried Pete.

  "What about ridin' the hoss you sold me? From what you said, I reckonthey ain't no hoss can touch him, in this country."

  Pete hesitated on the thin edge of committing himself, tottered andalmost fell, but managed to retain his balance. "Sure, he's a goodhoss! Got a little age on him, but that don't hurt none. I wasthinkin' mebby you'd like that other cayuse of yours broke right.Looks to me like he needs some handlin' to make a first-classsaddle-hoss."

  The old man smiled broadly. Pete, like a hungry mosquito, was hard tocatch.

  "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 Riverand 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. Turnme 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 atMagdalena and Flag. Reckon I been there!"

  "Well, don't you bust ole Apache too hard, son. He's a mightyforgivin' 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 therehigh-chin song. There's some good riders that talk lots. But the bestriders 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 theold man's quiet outlook and gentle manner. While not altogether inaccord with Annersley's attitude in regard to profanity and chewingtobacco--still, Young Pete felt that a man who could down thehorse-trader and sit on him and suffer no harm was somehow worthlistening to.