_ CHAPTER XVIII. THE BLACK SOMBRERO
When Andy had ridden far enough to feel secure in turning and riding north--in fact, his plan was to work back to the Concho in a wide circle--he reined in and dismounted. From a low ridge he surveyed the western desert, approximated his bearings, and had his foot in the stirrup when he saw four tiny dots that bobbed up and down on the distant sky-line of the west. He had left an easy trail to follow and the pursuers were riding hard. They were still a long distance from him. He led his horse down the far side of the ridge and mounted. He rode straight east for perhaps a quarter of a mile. Then he turned and at right angles to his trail sped north behind the long, low, sandy ridge. He could not be seen until the posse had topped it--and even then it was probable they would fling down the slope, following his tracks until they came to where he had turned. Straight ahead of him the ridge swung to the left. In half an hour or so he would again cross it, which he hoped to do before he was discovered. Once over the ridge, he would head for the Concho. To follow him would mean that his pursuers would be riding directly away from Pete's trail. Many long desert miles lay between Andy and the Concho, but he argued that his horse was as fresh as the horses of his pursuers. He would give them a good run. If they overtook him before they reached the ranch, the most they could do would be to curse him for misleading them. He reasoned that the posse was from the T-Bar-T--that at best the sheriff could not have been advised of the shooting in time to join them. They would have no official right to detain him or interfere with his progress--once they knew who he was.
A trot, a lope, then back to a swinging trot again--and as yet no riders had appeared on the hills. Andy was making good time. The crest of the ridge shimmered in the noon sun. At this pace he would be over and down the western side before they saw him.
When the posse finally caught sight of the man they were after far out across the level and riding toward the west, they knew at once that he was making for the Concho and what protection his fellows might afford him under the circumstances. This did not fit into their scheme. The man-hunt had tuned their pulses to a high pitch. They wanted to lay hands on Gary's slayer--to disarm him and bring him into the town of Concho themselves--or, if he showed fight, to "get" him. They forgot that he was little more than a boy. He was an enemy--and potently dangerous.
"It's Young Pete," said a cowboy. "I know him by that black hat."
Plying quirt and spur the posse flung down the ridge and out across the plain below. They would ride their quarry down before he reached the boundary of the Concho--before he got among his friends.
Andy turned and glanced back. They were gaining on him. He knew that his own horse was doing his best. Again he glanced back. The riders were forcing their horses to a terrific pace that could not last long. In a mile or so they would be close enough to use their rifles. But the harder they rode the better Andy liked it. They would be in sorry shape to make the long ride south after Pete, when they realized that they were chasing the wrong man. If he could get out of it without getting shot, he would consider himself lucky. Ahead of him lay a flat of brushless land offering no shelter. He hoped that his horse would not be killed by a chance shot. In that event his pride would force him to retaliate, until he was either killed or captured. He had about made up his mind to rein up and surrender when he heard the singing
whizz-zip of a bullet that sprayed sand ahead of him. Then came the faint
pop of a rifle far behind. He pulled up, swiftly unbuckled his belt, and hung his gun on the saddle-horn. Then he stepped away from his horse--an unconsciously fine thing to do--and turned toward the distant posse. Again came that shrill, sinister
whizz-zip and he was standing bareheaded in the glaring sun as the black sombrero spun round and settled lightly in the sand beside him. He wisely thrust up his hands--arguing that if the posse could see to shoot with such accuracy they could see and possibly appreciate his attitude. He felt outraged, and wanted to fight. He did not realize at the moment that his pursuers were acting in good faith according to their viewpoint.
Meanwhile they flung toward him, spreading out fanwise in case of some possible treachery. Without moving a muscle Andy stood with his hands raised, blinkingly trying to identify each individual rider.
There was Houck on his big gray cow-horse. To the left rode Simpson, known all over the range as Gary's close friend. Andy half-expected to see Cotton with the posse, but Cotton was not there. He did not recognize the two riders on the wings of the posse.
"Mornin', fellas!" he called as the cowboys swept up. "What's the idea?"
"This!" snarled Simpson as he took out his rope.
"Hold on!" cried Houck, dismounting and covering White. "This ain't our man! It's young Andy White!"
"You might 'a' found that out before you started shootin'," said Andy, lowering his hands. "My gun's on the saddle there."
Despite the fact that it was Andy White, Houck took no chances, but searched him. Then, "what in hell was
your idea?"
"Me? Why, I was ridin' to the Concho when one of you guys shot my hat off. I reckoned it was about time to pull up."
"Ridin' to the Concho, eh? I suppose you'll say next that you got lost and thought the Concho was over this way?"
"Nope. I was ridin' to the Concho to report the shootin' of Steve Gary to my boss."
Houck, who had imagined that White would disclaim any knowledge of the shooting until forced to admit it, took a new tack. "Where's Pete Annersley?"
"That's jest what I was wonderin'. Last time I see him he was fannin' it east. I took out after him--but I must 'a' missed him."
"That'll do to tell the sheriff. We want to know what you know about the shootin'-up of Steve."
"Nothin'. I was over by the shack waiting for Pete when I thought I heard a couple of shots. Didn't pay no attention to that--'cause Pete was always poppin' his gun at somethin'. Then pretty soon Pete walks in, and I go out with him and help him ketch his hoss. He don't say much--and I don't. Then first thing I know he lights on that little buckskin hoss of his--"
"And forgets his hat," interrupted Houck.
"Nope. He was wearin' a hat the last I seen of him."
"And ridin' a buckskin cayuse, eh? Now Cotton says it was a blue roan."
Andy laughed. "That hombre Cotton's got mighty poor eyesight. Why, he couldn't see good enough to ketch up his own hoss. Pete told me Cotton set out for home afoot. I didn't see him, but I'd take Pete's word against Cotton's any time."
"Mebby you think we're takin' your word about Young Pete--and the shootin'??
"Why not?"
"We can make you talk!" threatened Simpson.
"I reckon you could," said Andy easily. "Four to one--and my gun hangin' over there on the saddle-horn. But suppose you did? How are you goin' to' know I'll talk straight or lie to you? You ain't throwed any big scare into me yet"--and Andy stooped and caught up his hat and thrust his finger through the hole in the crown--"because I ain't done nothin' to be scared about. I ain't shot nobody and I ain't seen nobody get shot. Cotton could 'a' told you that."
"That's right," asserted Houck reluctantly. "White here had nothin' to do with the shootin'. Cotton said that. We lost some time trailin' you"--Houck turned to Andy--"but we don't aim to lose any more. Which way did young Pete ride?"
Andy laughed. "You would say I lied if I told you. But I'm goin' to tell you straight. Young Pete took the old Ranger Trail south, through the timber. And I want to tell you gentlemen he was goin' like hell a-smokin' when I seen him last. Mebby you don't believe that? And there's somethin' else--that old Ranger Trail forks three times this side of Cienegas--and she forks twice afore she crosses the line. She's a dim trail when she's doin' her best acrost the rocks, and they's places in her where she's as blind as a dead ox. Water is as scarce as cow-punchers at a camp-meetin' and they ain't no feed this side of Showdown. And Showdown never tore its shirt tryin' to be polite to strangers. I been there. 'Course, when it comes to rustlers and cardsharps and killers--but you fellas know how that is. I--"
"Come on, boys," said Houck, reining round. "White here is puttin' up a talk to hold us--and Young Pete's usin' the time."
Andy watched them ride away, a queer expression lighting his face. "They hate like the Ole Scratch to believe me--and they are hatin' themselves for havin' to."
He pulled off Pete's hat and turned it over, gazing at the two little round holes curiously. "Pete, old scout," he said, smiling whimsically, "here's hopin' they never come closer to gettin' you than they did to gettin' me. Keep a-ridin'--for you sure got to be that 'Ridin' Kid from Powder River' this journey--and then some."
Andy turned the black sombrero round in his hands. "All this here hocus comes of the killin' of a old man that never lifted a finger against nobody--and as game a kid as ever raked a hoss with a spur. But one killin' always means more. I ain't no gunman--or no killer. But, by cracky! some of my ideas has changed since I got that hole in my hat. I wisht I'd 'a' rode with Pete. I wouldn't ask nothin' better right now than to stand back to back with him, out in the open somewhere and let 'em come! Because why? Because the only law that a man's got in this country is hisself--and if he's right, why, crossin' over with his gun explainin' his idees ain't the worst way to go. Anyhow, it ain't any worse than gettin' throwed from a bronc and gettin' his neck broke or gettin' stomped out in a stampede. Them's just regular, common ways of goin' out. I just wonder how Pete is makin' it?"
Andy put on his hat, glanced at the sun, and strode to his pony. Far across the eastern desert he saw the posse--a mere moving dot against the blue. "Wolf-hungry to make a killin' because they're foolin' themselves that they're actin' out the law! Well, come on, Chico, old hoss, we got to make home before sundown." _