_ CHAPTER XV. FOUR MEN
Pete grew silent as he rode with Andy toward the hill-trail that led to his old home on the Blue Mesa, where he finally surveyed the traces of old man Annersley's patient toil. The fences had been pulled down and the water-hole enlarged. The cabin, now a rendezvous for occasional riders of the T-Bar-T, had suffered from weather and neglect. The door sagging from one hinge, the grimy, cobwebbed windows, the unswept floor, and the litter of tin cans about the yard, stirred bitter memories in Pete's heart. Andy spoke of Annersley, "A fine old man," but Pete had no comment to make. They loafed outside in the afternoon sunshine, momentarily expecting the two men from the T-Bar-T. Presently Andy White rose and wandered off toward the spring. Pete sat idly tossing pellets of earth at a tin can. He was thinking of Annersley, of the old man's unvarying kindliness and quaint humor. He wished that Annersley were alive, could know of his success--Pete had done pretty well for a lad of sixteen--and that they could talk together as in the old days. He rose presently and entered the abandoned cabin. The afternoon sunlight flickered palely through the dusty windows. Several window-panes had been broken out, but the one marked with two bullet holes, radiating tiny cracks in the glass, was still there. The oilcloth on the table was torn and soiled. The mud of wet weather had been tracked about the floor. The stove was rusted and cracked. Pete wondered why men must invariably abuse things that were patently useful, when those things did not belong to any one especially; for the stove, the windows, the table, the two home-made chairs showed more than disuse. They had been wantonly broken, hacked, or battered. Some one had pried the damper from the stove, broken it in two, and had used half of it for a lid-lifter. A door had been torn from the wall-cupboard and split into kindling, as a few painted splinters attested. And some one had shot several holes in the door, evidently endeavoring to make the initial "T" with a forty-five. An old pair of discarded overalls lay in one corner, a worn and useless glove in another. Pete was glad that Annersley would never know of all this--and yet it seemed as though Annersley
could see these things--and Pete, standing alone in the room, felt as though he were in some way to blame for this disorder and squalidness. Time and occupation had rather dulled Pete's remembrance of the actual detail of the place, but now its original neatness and orderliness came back to him vividly.
He was mentally rehabilitating the cabin when a boot-heel crunched on the ground outside and Andy appeared in the doorway. "The T-Bar-T boys are comin'. Seen 'em driftin' down the Ranger Trail."
"They was to be here this mornin'," said Pete. "Reckon they aim to bush here all night and ride to-morrow. Hope they brought some grub along."
"We got plenty. Come on outside. This here ole room kind o' gits on my nerves."
Pete strode out. They stood watching the approaching riders. Suddenly Andy White touched Pete's arm. "One of 'em is Gary!" he said, speaking low.
Pete stopped and, picking up a clod, jerked it toward a fence-post. The clod happened to hit the post and was flicked into dust. "That for Gary," said Pete.
Andy grinned, but his eyes were grave. "We'll be right busy," he said in a sort of tentative way.
Pete nodded and hitched up his chaps. One of the approaching horsemen waved a hand. Andy acknowledged the salute.
The T-Bar-T men rode in and dismounted. "Where's Bailey?" was Gary's first word.
"Jim sent us to fix up that line with you," replied Andy. "He's over to Enright."
Gary glanced at Pete, who stared at him, but made no gesture of greeting. But Pete had read Gary's unspoken thought. "Bailey had sent a couple of kids over to the Blue to help survey the line." And Pete did not intend to let Gary "get by" with the idea that his attitude was not understood.
"Where's Houck?" asked Pete, naming the foreman of the T-Bar-T.
Cotton, Gary's companion, a light-haired, amiable but rather dull youth, stated that Houck was over to the ranch.
"I reckoned he'd come hisself," said Pete. "He knows this country better 'n most."
"Oh, I dunno," sneered Gary. "Some of us been here before."
"They wasn't no line then," said Pete quietly, "but they's goin' to be one."
"You makin' it?" queried Gary.
Pete smiled. "I was sent over here with Andy to do that same thing. But you're sure welcome to hand out any idees you got, seein' your fo'man ain't here."
Andy, who saw the inevitable end of this kind of talk, nudged Pete. "Let's eat," he said. "I reckon we're all willin'."
Gary, like most of his type, was always anticipating an insult, possibly because his general attitude toward humanity was deliberately intended to provoke argument and recrimination. He was naturally quarrelsome--and a bully because of his unquestioned physical courage. He was popular in a way with those of his fellows who looked upon a gunman--a killer--as a kind of hero. The foreman of the T-Bar-T found him valuable as a sort of animate scarecrow. Gary's mere presence often served to turn the balance when the T-Bar-T riders had occasion to substantiate a bluff or settle a dispute with some other outfit riding the high country. And because Gary imagined that Bailey of the Concho had deliberately sent such youngsters as Andy White and Young Pete to the Blue Mesa to settle the matter of a boundary line, Gary felt insulted. He was too narrow-minded to reason that Bailey could hardly know whom Houck of the T-Bar-T would send. Gary's ill-humor was not improved by the presence of Young Pete nor by Pete's pugnacious attitude. Strangely enough, Gary was nervous because he knew that Young Pete was not afraid of him.
Andy White was keenly aware of this, and found occasion that evening in Gary's temporary absence to caution Pete, who immediately called attention to the fact that they had all hung up their guns except Gary.
"All the better!" asserted Andy. "That lets you out if he was to start something."
"Yes. And it mebby might let me out for good, Andy. Gary is jest the kind to shoot a man down without givin' him a chanct. It ain't like Gary was scared of me--but he's scared of what I know. I hung up my gun 'cause I told Jim I wouldn't set to lookin' for a scrap with Gary, or any man. Gary ain't got sand enough to do the same. But there won't be no fuss. I reckon he dassent draw on me with you two fellas here. Where 'd he and Cotton go, anyhow?"
"I dunno, Pete. They moseyed out without sayin' anything."
"Looks like Gary wanted to put Cotton wise."
"Well, if anything starts, I'll sure keep my eye on that Cotton hombre," said Andy.
"He's easy--and slow," stated Pete. "He ain't got a fightin' eye."
"Here they come," whispered Andy. "I kin hear 'em talkin'."
Pete immediately began to whistle. Andy rose and poked a stick of wood in the stove. "She's right cool up here," he remarked.
"We been kind o' sizin' up things," stated Cotton as Gary and he entered the cabin; an excuse for their absence that was unnecessary and obviously manufactured.
Pete smiled. "I got 'em sized up. Never did cotton to workin' in the dark."
Gary paused in the act of unsnapping his chaps.
He was about to say something when Andy White interrupted by suggesting that they turn in early and rise early that they might get the work done in daylight and not have to spend another night at the cabin.
Gary dragged an old mattress from the bedroom and, dropping it beneath the window, spread his blanket, rolled up in it, and at Cotton's query as to sharing half of the mattress told Cotton to "sleep where he dam' pleased."
"He's a friendly cuss, ain't he?" remarked Pete.
"Who?" asked Gary, half-rising.
"Why, Cotton, there," replied Pete. "You didn't think I was meanin' you, did you?"
Andy nudged Pete in the dark. "All right," said Pete, ignoring Andy's meaning. "You git your blanket and we'll bush outside."
They spread their blankets under a cedar, some distance from the cabin, and lay gazing at the stars.
Presently Andy turned to Pete. "Pete," he said gravely, "you're walkin' right into trouble. Every time Gary starts to lope, you rein him up mighty short. He's fightin' the bit, and first thing you know--"
"I'll git pitched, eh? Well, mebby you're right. I done told Bailey that if I ever did meet Steve Gary I would leave him do the talking but I sure can't stand for his line o' talk. He's plumb mean."
"I'll be mighty glad when we git through with this job," said Andy.
"Shucks! It won't take three hours! I know every tree and stump on this flat. We'll be driftin' home 'long about four to-morrow." _