_ CHAPTER XVII. A FALSE TRAIL
"Sure he's dead!" reiterated Cotton. "Didn't I see them two holes plumb through him and the blood soakin' his shirt when I turned him over? If I'd 'a' had my gun on me that Young Pete would be right side of Steve, right now! But I couldn't do nothin' without a gun. Pete Annersley was plumb scared. That's why he killed Steve. Jest you gimme a gun and watch me ride him down! I aim to settle with that Jay."
Cotton was talking to Houck of the T-Bar-T, blending fact and fiction in a blustering attempt to make himself believe he had played the man. During his long, foot-weary journey to the ranch he had roughly invented this speech and tried to memorize it. Through repetition he came to believe that he was telling the truth. Incidentally he had not paused to catch up his horse, which was a slight oversight, considering the trail from the Blue to his home ranch.
"What's the matter with the gun you're packin'?" asked Houck.
Cotton had forgotten his own gun.
"I--it was like this, Bill. After Young Pete killed Gary, I went back to the shack and got my gun. At first, Andy White wasn't goin' to leave me have it--but I tells him to fan it. I reckon he's pretty nigh home by now."
"Thought you said you didn't see White after the shooting--that he forked his horse and rode for the Concho? Cotton, you're lyin' so fast you're like to choke."
"Honest, Bill! If I'd 'a' had my gun . . ."
"Oh, hell! Don't try to swing that bluff. Where's your horse?"
"I couldn't ketch him, honest."
"Thought you said you caught him in the brush and tied him to a tree and Young Annersley threatened to kill you if you went for your saddle."
"That's right--honest, Bill, that's what he said."
"Then how is it that Bobby Lent caught your horse strayin' in more 'n a hour ago? Dam' if I believe a word you say. You're plumb crazy."
"Honest, Bill. I hope to die if Steve Gary ain't layin' over there with two holes in him. He's sure dead. Do you think I footed it all the way jest because I like walkin'?"
Houck frowned and shook his head. "You say him and Young Pete had come to words?"
"Yep; about ole man Annersley. Steve was tellin' me about the raid when Pete steps up and tells him to say it over ag'in. Steve started to talk when Pete cuts down on him--twict. My God, he was quick! I never even seen him draw."
"Did Gary say
he was the one that plugged Annersley?"
"Yep. Said he did it--and asked Pete what he was goin' to do about it."
"Then Steve was drunk or crazy. You go git a horse and burn the trail to Concho. Tell Sutton that Young Pete Annersley killed Gary, up to the Blue Mesa. Tell him we're out after Young Pete. Can you git that straight?"
"What if the sheriff was to pinch me for bein' in that scrap?"
"You! In a gun-fight? No. He wouldn't believe that if you told him so. You jest tell Sutton what I said, and git goin'! Don't lie to him--or he'll spot it and pinch you dam' quick."
With Cotton gone, Houck saddled up and rode out to where one of his men was mending fence. "Take your horse and git all the boys you can reach before night. Young Pete Annersley shot Steve over to the Blue this mornin'."
The cowboy, unlike Cotton, whistled his surprise, dropped his tools, mounted, and was off before Houck had reined back toward the ranch-house.
It was near twelve that night when a quiet band of riders dismounted at the Annersley cabin, separated, and trailed off in the darkness to look for Gary. One of them found him where he had fallen and signaled with his gun. They carried Gary to the cabin. In the flickering light of the open stove they saw that he was still alive. There was one chance in a thousand that he could recover. They washed his wounds and one of the men set out toward Concho, to telephone to Enright for a doctor. The rest grouped around the stove and talked in low tones, waiting for daylight. "Chances are the kid went south," said Houck, half to himself.
"How about young White?" queried a cowboy.
"I dunno. Either he rode with Pete Annersley or he's back at the Concho. Daylight'll tell."
"If Steve could talk--" said the cowboy.
"I guess Steve is done for," said Houck. "I knew Young Pete was a tough kid--but I didn't figure he'd try to down Steve."
"Supposin' they both had a hand in it--White and Young Pete?"
Houck shook his head. "Anybody got any whiskey?" he asked.
Some one produced a flask. Houck knelt and raised Gary's head, tilting the flask carefully. Presently Gary's lips moved and his chest heaved.
"Who was it? White?" questioned Houck.
Gary moved his head in the negative.
"Young Pete?" Gary's white lips shaped to a faint whisper--"Yes."
One of the men folded a slicker and put it under Gary's head.
Houck stood up. "I guess it's up to us to get Pete Annersley."
"You can count me out," said a cowboy immediately. "Steve was allus huntin' trouble and it looks like he found it this trip. They's plenty without me to ride down the kid. Young Pete may be bad--but I figure he had a dam' good excuse when he plugged Steve, here. You can count me out."
"And me," said another. "If young Pete was a growed man--"
"Same here," interrupted the third. "Any kid that's got nerve enough to down Steve has got a right to git away with it. If you corner him he's goin' to fight--and git bumped off by a bunch of growed men--mebby four to one. That ain't my style."
Houck turned to several cowboys who had not spoken. They were Gary's friends, of his kind--in a measure. "How is it, boys?" asked Houck.
"We stick," said one, and the others nodded.
"Then you boys"--and Houck indicated the first group--"can ride back to the ranch. Or, here, Larkin, you can stay with Steve till the doc shows up. The rest of you can drift."
Without waiting for dawn the men who had refused to go out after Pete rode back along the hill-trail to the ranch. But before they left, Houck took what hastily packed food they had and distributed it among the posse, who packed it in their saddle-pockets. The remaining cowboys lay down for a brief sleep. They were up at dawn, and after a hasty breakfast set out looking for tracks. Houck himself discovered Andy White's tracks leading from the spot where Gary had been found, and calling the others together, set off across the eastern mesa.
Meanwhile Andy White was sleeping soundly in a coulee many miles from the homestead, and just within sight of a desert ranch, to which he had planned to ride at daybreak, ask for food and depart, leaving the impression that he was Pete Annersley in haste to get beyond the reach of the law. He had stopped at the coulee because he had found grass and water for his horse and because he did not want to risk being found at the ranch-house. A posse would naturally head for the ranch to search and ask questions. Fed and housed he might oversleep and be caught. Then his service to Pete would amount to little. But if he rode in at daybreak, ahead of the posse, ate and departed, leaving a hint as to his assumed identity, he could mislead them a day longer at least. He built all his reasoning on the hope that the posse would find and follow his tracks.
Under the silent stars he slept, his head on his saddle, and near him lay Pete's black sombrero.
In the disillusioning light of morning, that which Andy had taken to be a ranch-house dwindled to a goat-herder's shack fronted by a brush-roofed lean-to. Near it was a diminutive corral and a sun-faded tent. The old Indian herder seemed in no way surprised to see a young rider dismount and approach cautiously--for Andy had entered into the spirit of the thing. He paused to glance apprehensively back and survey the western horizon. Andy greeted the Indian, who grunted his acknowledgment in the patois of the plains.
"Any vaqueros ride by here this morning?" queried Andy.
The herder shook his head.
"Well, I guess I got time to eat," said Andy.
A faint twinkle touched the old Indian's eyes, but his face was as expressionless as a dried apple.
"Si," he said.
"But not a whole lot of time," asserted Andy.
The Indian rose and fetched a pail of goat's milk and some tortillas from the shack. He shuffled back to his hermitage and reappeared with a tin cup. Andy, who meanwhile had consumed one leathery tortilla, shook his head. "Never mind the cup, amigo." He tilted the pail and drank--paused for breath, and drank again. He set the pail down empty. "I was some dry," he said, smiling. "Got any more of these rawhide flapjacks?"
The herder nodded, stooped to enter the shack, and came out with a half-dozen of the tortillas, which Andy rolled and stuffed in his saddle-pocket. "Mighty good trail bread!" he said enthusiastically. "You can't wear 'em out."
Again the herder nodded, covertly studying this young rider who did not look like an outlaw, whose eye was clear and untroubled. Well, what did it matter?--a man must eat.
The old Indian had given unquestioningly from his poverty, with the simple dignity of true hospitality. As for who this stranger was, of what he had done--that was none of his affair. A man must eat.
"I'm payin' for this,"--and Andy proffered a silver dollar.
The other turned the piece round in his fingers as though hesitating to accept it.
"Si. But has not the senor some little money?"
"That's all right, amigo. Keep it."
The herder shook his head, and held up two fingers. Andy smiled. "I get you! You don't aim to bank all your wealth in one lump. Lemme see? All I got left is a couple of two-bit pieces. Want 'em?" The herder nodded and took the two coins and handed back the dollar. Then he padded stolidly to the shack and reappeared, bearing a purple velvet jacket which was ornamented with buttons made from silver quarters. He held it up, indicating that two of the buttons were missing. "Muchacha," he grunted, pointing toward the south.
"I get you. Your girl is out looking after the goats, and you aim to kind of surprise her with a full set of buttons when she gets back. She'll ask you right quick where you got 'em, eh?"
A faint grin touched the old Indian's mouth. The young vaquero was of the country. He understood.
"Well, it beats me," said Andy. "Now, a white man is all for the big money. He'd take the dollar, get it changed, and be two-bits ahead, every time. But I got to drift along. Say, amigo, if any of my friends come a-boilin down this way, jest tell 'em that Pete--that's me--was in a hurry, and headed east. Sabe?"
"Si."
"Pete--with the black sombrero." Andy touched his hat.
"Si. 'Pete.'"
"Adios. Wisht I could take a goat along. That milk was sure comfortin'."
The herder watched Andy mount and ride away. Then he plodded back to the shack and busied himself patiently soldering tiny rings on the silver pieces, that the set of buttons for his daughter's jacket might be complete. He knew that the young stranger must be a fugitive, otherwise he would not have ridden into the desert so hurriedly. He had not inquired about water, nor as to feed for his horse. Truly he was in great haste!
Life meant but three things to the old Indian. Food, sleep, and physical freedom. He had once been in jail and had suffered as only those used to the open sky suffer when imprisoned. The young vaquero had eaten, and had food with him. His eyes had shown that he was not in need of sleep. Yet he had all but said there would be men looking for him.
The old Indian rose and picked up a blanket. In the doorway he paused, surveying the western horizon. Satisfied that no one was in sight, he padded out to where Andy had tied his horse and swept the blanket across the tracks in the loose sand. Walking backwards he drew the blanket after him, obliterating the hoof-prints until he came to a rise where the ground was rocky. Without haste he returned and squatted in the shack. He was patiently working on a silver piece when some one called out peremptorily.
The old Indian's face was expressionless as he nodded to the posse of cowboys.
"Seen anything of a young fella ridin' a blue roan and sportin' a black hat?" asked Houck.
The Indian shook his head.
"He's lyin'," asserted a cowboy. "Comes as natural as breathin' to him. We trailed a hoss to this here wickiup"--the hot lust of the man-hunt was in the cowboy's eyes as he swung down--"and we aim to see who was ridin' him!"
Houck and his three companions sat their horses as the fourth member of the posse shouldered the old Indian aside and entered the shack. "Nothin' in there," he said, as he reappeared, "but somebody's been here this mornin'." And he pointed to the imprint of a high-heeled boot in the sand of the yard.
"Which way did he ride?" asked Houck, indicating the footprint.
The old herder shook his head. "Quien sabe?" he grunted, shrugging his shoulders.
"Who knows, eh? Well, you know--for one. And you're goin' to say--or there'll be a heap big bonfire right here where your shack is."
Meanwhile one of the men, who had pushed out into the desert and was riding in a circle, hallooed and waved his arm.
"He headed this way," he called. "Some one dragged a blanket over his trail."
The cowboy who was afoot strode up to the herder. "We'll learn you to play hoss with this outfit!" He swung his quirt and struck the Indian across the face. The old Indian stepped back and stiffened. His sunken eyes blazed with hatred, but he made no sound or sign. He knew that if he as much as lifted his hand the men would kill him. To him they were the law, searching for a fugitive. The welt across his face burned like the sear of fire--the cowardly brand of hatred on the impassive face of primitive fortitude! This because he had fed a hungry man and delayed his pursuers.
Long after the posse had disappeared down the far reaches of the desert, the old Indian stood gazing toward the east, vaguely wondering what would have happened to him had he struck a white man across the face with a quirt. He would have been shot down--and his slayer would have gone unpunished. He shook his head, unable to understand the white man's law. His primitive soul knew a better law, "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth," a law that knew no caste and was as old as the sun-swept spaces of his native land. He was glad that his daughter had not been there. The white men might have threatened and insulted her. If they had . . . The old herder padded to his shack and squatted down, to finish soldering the tiny rings on the buttons for his daughter's jacket. _