_ CHAPTER XVI. THE OPEN HOLSTER
If there ever was a morning calculated to inspire good-will and heartiness in a human being it was that morning. The dawn came swiftly, battering through a fleece of clouds and painting the Blue Mesa in all the gorgeous and utterly indescribable colors of an Arizona sunrise. The air was crisp and so clear that it seemed to sparkle, like water. Andy White whistled as he gathered up the blankets and plodded toward the cabin. Pete felt like whistling, but for some reason he was silent. He followed Andy to the cabin and saw that the cowboy Cotton was making coffee.
"All we got is cold grub," stated Pete, "but we got plenty for everybody."
"We fetched some coffee and bacon," said Cotton. But he did not invite them to eat.
Pete glanced at Andy. Evidently Cotton had had his instructions or was afraid to make any friendly overtures. Gary was still lying on the mattress by the window, apparently asleep.
Pete stepped to where his own gun hung and buckled it on. "Let's mosey over to the spring and wash," he suggested to Andy. "I ain't no dude, but I kind o' like to wash before I eat."
"Here, too," said Andy. "Mebby we can locate the horses on the way."
When they returned to the cabin, Gary and Cotton were eating breakfast. Pete flung a pair of broken hobbles on the floor. "Somebody's cayuse got rid of these," he stated casually. He knew that they had been on Gary's horse, as he had seen Gary hobble him. Pete turned and strode out. Andy was unwrapping their lunch. Presently Gary and Cotton appeared and picked up their ropes. Andy White, who had seen his own easily caught pony, graciously offered the use of it in hunting the strayed horse, but Gary declined the offer gruffly.
"He's so doggone mean his face hurts him," stated Pete, as Gary and Cotton set off together.
"We'll lose some time if his hoss has lit out for home," said Andy.
"Gary's doin' all he kin to make a job of it," declared Pete. "But I don't wait for him. Soon's we finish eatin' I'm goin' to locate Blue Smoke and git to work. We kin run that line without any help from them. Let 'em walk till they're tired."
"And what do you think of a couple of punchers--
punchers, mind you--that sit down and eat bacon and drink coffee and don't as much as say 'come in'?"
"I don't waste time thinkin' about such, Andy. You finish up the grub. I got all I want."
"Shucks! This ain't all. We ain't touched the grub in your saddle-pockets yet. Ma Bailey sure fixed us up right."
"That'll do for noon," said Pete. "I'll run your hoss in, when I git Blue Smoke. Your hoss'll follow, anyway."
"Jest a minute till I git my rope."
"Nope, you stay here. That Blue Smoke hoss knows me. If he spots two of us comin' he's like to git excited and mebby bust his hobbles and light out. I'll ketch him all right."
"Jest as you say, Pete."
The sun was warming the air and it was pleasant to sit and watch the light clouds trail along the far horizon. Andy leaned back against the cedar and rolled a cigarette. He grinned as he recalled how Pete had called Gary at every turn, and yet had given the other no chance to find excuse for a quarrel. Pete was certainly "a cool hand--for a kid." White, several years Pete's senior, always thought of him as not much more than a boy.
Meanwhile Pete, who knew every foot of ground on the homestead, trailed through the scrub toward the spring. Down an occasional opening he could see the distant forest that edged the mesa, and once he thought he saw a horse's head behind a bush, but it turned out to be the stub of a fallen tree. The brush hid the cabin as he worked toward the timber. Presently he discovered Blue Smoke's tracks and followed them down into a shallow hollow where the brush was thick. He wound in and out, keeping the tracks in sight and casually noting where the horse had stopped to graze. Near the bottom of the hollow he heard voices. He had been so intent on tracking the horse that he had forgotten Gary and Cotton. The tracks led toward the voices. Pete instinctively paused and listened, then shrugged his shoulders and stepped forward. A thick partition of brush separated him from the unseen speaker. Pete stopped midway in his stride.
"If you squat down here you can see the winder, right under this bush. The moon was shinin'. It was a plumb easy shot. And it sure stopped homesteadin' in this end of the country."
Gary was speaking. Pete drew a step nearer.
"You ain't sayin' who fired that shot,"--and Cotton laughed obsequiously.
Pete stepped from behind the bush. Gary was facing toward the cabin. Cotton was squatting near by smoking a cigarette.
"Tell him," said Pete. "I want to know myself."
"What's it to you?" snarled Gary, and he stepped back. Gary's very attitude was a challenge. Pete knew that he could not drop his rope and pull his own gun quick enough to save himself. He saw Gary's hand move almost imperceptibly toward his holster.
"I reckon I made a mistake," said Pete slowly--and he let the rope slip from his hand as though utterly unnerved. "I--I talked kind o' quick," he stammered.
"Well, you won't make no more mistakes," sneered Gary, and he dropped his hand to his gun. "You want to know who plugged that old hoss-thief, Annersley, eh? Well, what you goin' to say when I tell you it was me?"
Pete saw that Gary was working himself up to the pitch when he would kill. And Pete knew that he had but one chance in a thousand of breaking even with the killer. He would not have time to draw--but Montoya had taught him the trick of shooting through the open holster . . . Cotton heard Pete's hand strike the butt of his gun as the holster tilted up. Pete fired twice. Staring as though hypnotized, Gary clutched at his shirt over his chest with his free hand. He gave at the knees and his body wilted and settled down--even as he threw a desperate shot at Pete in a last venomous effort to kill.
"You seen it was an even break," said Pete, turning to Cotton, who immediately sank to his knees and implored Pete not to kill him.
"But I reckon you'd lie, anyhow," continued Pete, paying no attention to the other's mouthings. "Hunt your cayuse--and git a-movin'."
Cotton understood that. Glancing over his shoulder at Gary he turned and ran toward the timber. Pete stepped to the crumpled figure and gazed at the bubbling hole in the chest. Then he stepped hack and mechanically holstered his gun which he had pulled as he spoke to Cotton. "They'll git me for this," he whispered to himself. "It was an even break--but they'll git me." Pete fought back his fear with a peculiar pride--the pride that scorned to appear frightened before his chum, Andy White. The quarrel had occurred so unexpectedly and terminated so suddenly, that Pete could not yet realize the full extent of the tragedy. While quite conscious of what he was doing and intended to do, he felt as though he were walking in a horrible dream from which he would never awaken. His instincts were as keen as ever--for he was already planning his next move--but his sensibilities had suffered a blunt shock--were numb to all external influence. He knew that the sun was shining, yet he did not feel its warmth. He was walking toward the cabin, and toward Andy. He stumbled as he walked, taking no account of the irregularities of the ground. He could hardly believe that he had killed Gary. To convince himself against his own will he mechanically drew his gun and glanced at the two empty shells. "Three and two is five," he muttered. "I shot twict." He did not realize that Gary had shot at him--that a shred of his flannel shirt was dangling from his sleeve where Gary's bullet had cut it. "Wonder if Andy heard?" he kept asking himself. "I got to tell Andy."
Almost before he realized it he was standing under the cedar and Andy was speaking. "Thought I heard some one shoot, over toward the woods."
As Pete did not answer, Andy thought that the horse had got away from him. "Did you get him?" he queried.
Pete nodded dully. "I got him. He's over there--in the brush."
"Why didn't you fetch him in? Did he get the best of you? You look like he give you a tussle."
"I got him--twict," said Pete.
"Twict? Say, Pete, are you loco? What's ailin' you, anyhow?"
"Nothin'. Me and Gary just had it out. He's over there--in the brush."
"Gary!"
"Yes. I reckon I got him."
"Hell!" The ruddy color sank from Andy's face. He had supposed that Gary and Cotton were by this time tracking the strayed horses toward the T-Bar-T. "Where's Cotton?" he asked.
"I told him to fan it."
"But, Pete--!"
"I know. They's no use talkin', Andy. I come back to tell you--and to git your rope. Mine's over by Gary."
"What you goin' to do, Pete?"
"Me? Why, I'm goin' to drift as soon as I can git a saddle on Blue. Cotton he seen the shootin'--but that don't do me no good. He'll swear that I pulled first. He'd say 'most anything--he was too scared to know what come off. Gary's hand was on his gun when I let him have it--twict."
Andy noticed then Pete's torn sleeve. "I reckon that's right. Look at that!"
Pete turned his head and glanced at his sleeve. "Never knowed he shot--it was all done so quick." He seemed to awaken suddenly to the significance of his position. "I'll take your rope and go git Smoke. Then I'm goin' to drift."
"But where?"
"You're my pardner, Andy, but I ain't sayin'. Then you won't have to lie. You'll have to tell Jim--and tell him it was like I said--
if Gary come at me, that would be different. I'm leavin' it to you to square me with Jim Bailey." Pete picked up the rope and started toward the spring.
"I'm goin' with you," said White, "and ketch my hoss. I aim to see you through with this."
In an hour they were back at the cabin with the horses. Andy White glanced at his watch. "Cotton is afoot--for I seen his hoss over there. But he can make it to the T-Bar-T in three hours. That'll give us a start of two hours, anyhow. I don't know which way you aim to ride, but--"
"I'm playin' this hand alone," stated Pete as he saddled Blue Smoke. "No use your gittin' in bad."
White made no comment, but cinched up his pony. Pete stepped to him and held out his hand. "So-long, Andy. You been a mighty square pardner."
"Nothin' doin'!" exclaimed Andy. "I'm with you to the finish."
"Nope, Andy. If we was both to light out, you'd be in it as bad as me."
"Then what do you say if we both ride down to Concho and report to the sheriff?"
"I tried that onct--when they killed Pop Annersley. I know how that would work."
"But what you goin' to do?"
"I'm ridin'," and Pete swung to his horse. Blue Smoke pitched across the clearing under the spur and rein that finally turned him toward the south. Pete's sombrero flew off as he headed for the timber. Andy, reining 'round his horse, that fretted to follow, swung down and caught up Pete's hat on the run. Pete had pulled up near the edge of the timber. Andy, as he was about to give Pete his hat, suddenly changed it for his own. "For luck!" he cried, as Pete slackened rein and Blue Smoke shot down the dim forest trail.
Pete, perhaps influenced by Montoya's example, always wore a high-crowned black sombrero. Andy's hat was the usual gray. In the excitement of leaving, Pete had not thought of that; but as he rode, he suspected Andy's motive, and glanced back. But Andy was not following, or if he were, he was riding slowly.
Meanwhile Andy cheerfully put himself in the way of assisting Pete to escape. He knew the country and thought he knew where Pete was headed for. Before nightfall a posse would be riding the high country hunting the slayer of Gary. They would look for a cowboy wearing a black sombrero. Realizing the risk that he ran, and yet as careless of that risk as though he rode to a fiesta, Young Andy deliberately turned back to where Gary lay--he had not yet been to that spot--and, dismounting, picked up Pete's rope. He glanced at Gary, shivered, and swung to his horse. Riding so that his trail would be easy to read he set off toward the open country, east. The fact that he had no food with him, and that the country was arid and that water was scarce, did not trouble him. All he hoped for was to delay or mislead the posse long enough to enable Pete to reach the southern desert. There Pete might have one chance in twenty of making his final escape. Perhaps it was a foolish thing to do, but Andy White, inspired by a motive of which there is no finer, did not stop to reason about it. "He that giveth his life for a friend . . ." Andy knew nothing of such a quotation. He was riding into the desert, quite conscious of the natural hazards of the trail, and keen to the possibilities that might follow in the form of an excited posse not too discriminating, in their eagerness to capture an outlaw, yet he rode with a light heart. After all, Pete was not guilty of murder. He had but defended his own life. Andy's heart was light because of the tang of adventure, and a certain appreciation of what a disappointed posse might feel and express--and because Romance ran lightly beside him, heartening him on his way; Romance, whose ears are deaf to all moral considerations and whose eyes see only the true adventurer, be he priest or pirate; Romance whose eyes are blind to those who fear to dare. _