_ CHAPTER VII. PLANS
Several nights later a horseman rode into Montoya's camp. Pete, getting supper, pretended great indifference until he heard the horseman's voice. It was young Andy White who had come to visit, as he had promised. Pete's heart went warm, and he immediately found an extra tin plate and put more coffee in the pot. He was glad to see White, but he was not going to let White know how glad. He greeted the young cowboy in an offhand way, taking the attitude of being so engrossed with cooking that he could not pay great attention to a stray horseman just then. But later in the evening, after they had eaten, the two youths chatted and smoked while Montoya listened and gazed out across the evening mesa. He understood. Pete was tired of the sheep and would sooner or later take up with the cattle. That was natural enough. He liked Pete; really felt as a father toward him. And the old Mexican, who was skilled in working leather, thought of the hand-carved holster and belt that he had been working on during his spare time--a present that he had intended giving Pete when it was completed. There was still a little work to do on the holster; the flower pattern in the center was not quite finished. To-morrow he would finish it--for he wanted to have it ready. If Pete stayed with him, he would have it--and if Pete left he should have something by which to remember Jose de la Crux Montoya--something to remember him by, and something useful--for even then Montoya realized that if Young Pete survived the present hazards that challenged youth and an adventurous heart, some day, as a man grown, Pete would thoroughly appreciate the gift. A good holster, built on the right lines and one from which a gun came easily, would be very useful to a man of Pete's inclinations. And when it came to the fit and hang of a holster, Montoya knew his business.
Three weeks later, almost to a day, the sheep were grazing below the town of Concho, near the camp where Pete had first visited Montoya and elected to work for him. On the higher levels several miles to the east was the great cattle outfit of the Concho; the home-buildings, corrals, and stables. Pete had seen some of the Concho boys--chance visitors at the homestead on the Blue--and he had been thinking of these as the sheep drifted toward Concho. After all, he was not equipped to ride, as he had no saddle, bridle, chaps, boots, and not even a first-class rope. Pete had too much pride to acknowledge his lack of riding-gear or the wherewithal to purchase it, even should he tie up with the Concho boys. So when Andy White, again visiting the sheep-camp, told Pete that the Concho foreman had offered no encouragement in regard to an extra hand, Pete nodded as though the matter were of slight consequence, which had the effect of stirring Andy to renewed eloquence anent the subject--as Pete had hoped. The boys discussed ways and means. There was much discussion, but no visible ways and means. Andy's entire wealth was invested in his own gay trappings. Pete possessed something like seventeen dollars. But there is nothing impossible to youth--for when youth realizes the impossible, youth has grown a beard and fears the fire.
Both boys knew that there were many poor Mexicans in the town of Concho who, when under the expansive influence of wine, would part with almost anything they or their neighbors possessed, for a consideration. There were Mexicans who would sell horse, saddle, and bridle for that amount, especially when thirsty--for seventeen dollars meant unlimited vino and a swaggering good time--for a time. Pete knew this only too well. He suggested the idea to Andy, who concurred with enthusiasm.
"Cholas is no good anyhow," blurted Andy. "You ain't robbin' nobody when you buy a Chola outfit. Let's go!"
Montoya, who sat by the fire, coughed.
"'Course, I was meanin' some Cholas," said Andy.
The old herder smiled to himself. The boys amused him. He had been young once--and very poor. And he had ridden range in his youthful days. A mild fatalist, he knew that Pete would not stay long, and Montoya was big enough not to begrudge the muchacho any happiness.
"I'm goin' over to town for a spell," explained Pete.
Montoya nodded.
"I'm comin' back," Pete added, a bit embarrassed.
"Bueno. I shall be here."
Pete, a bit flustered, did not quite catch the mild sarcasm, but he breathed more freely when they were out of sight of camp. "He's sure a white Mexican," he told Andy. "I kind o' hate to leave him, at that."
"You ain't left him yet," suggested Andy with the blunt candor of youth.
Pete pondered. Tucked under his arm were the two bobcat skins and the coyote-hide. He would try to sell them to the storekeeper, Roth. All told, he would then have about twenty dollars. That was quite a lot of money--in Concho.
Roth was closing shop when they entered town. He greeted Pete heartily, remarked at his growth and invited him in. Pete introduced Andy, quite unnecessarily, for Andy knew the storekeeper. Pete gazed at the familiar shelves, boxes and barrels, the new saddles and rigs, and in fact at everything in the store save the showcase which contained the cheap watches, trinkets, and six-shooters.
"I got a couple o' skins here," he said presently. "Mebby you could buy 'em."
"Let's see 'em, Pete."
Pete unfolded the stiff skins on the counter.
"Why, I'll give you two dollars for the lot. The cat-skins are all right. The coyote ain't worth much."
"All right. I--I'm needin' the money right now," stammered Pete--"or I'd give 'em to you."
"How you making it?" queried Roth.
"Fine! But I was thinkin' o' makin' a change. Sheep is all right--but I'm sick o' the smell of 'em. Montoya is all right, too. It ain't that."
Roth gazed at the boy, wondering if he would say anything about the six-gun. He liked Pete and yet he felt a little disappointed that Pete should have taken him altogether for granted.
"Montoya was in--yesterday," said Roth.
"Uh-huh? Said he was comin' over here. He's back in camp. Me and Andy was lookin' for a Chola that wants to sell a hoss."
"Mighty poor lot of cayuses round here, Pete. What you want with a horse?"
"'T ain't the hoss. It's the saddle an' bridle I'm after. If I were to offer to buy a saddle an' bridle I'd git stuck jest as much for 'em as I would if I was to buy the whole works. Might jest as well have the hoss. I could trade him for a pair of chaps, mebby."
"Goin' to quit the sheep business?"
"Mebby--if I can git a job ridin'."
"Well, good luck. I got to close up. Come over and see me before you break camp."
"I sure will! Thank you for the--for buyin' them hides."
Pete felt relieved--and yet not satisfied. He had wanted to speak about the six-shooter he had taken--but Andy was there, and, besides, it was a hard subject to approach gracefully even under the most favorable auspices. Perhaps, in the morning . . .
"Come on over to Tony's Place and mebby we can run into a Mex that wants to sell out," suggested Andy.
Pete said good-night to Roth.
"Don't you boys get into trouble," laughed Roth, as they left. He had not even hinted about the six-shooter. Pete thought that the storekeeper was "sure white."
The inevitable gaunt, ribby, dejected pony stood at the hitching-rail of the saloon. Pete knew it at once for a Mexican's pony. No white man would ride such a horse. The boys inspected the saddle, which was not worth much, but they thought it would do. "We could steal 'im," suggested Andy, laughing. "Then we could swipe the rig and turn the cayuse loose."
For a moment this idea appealed to Pete. He had a supreme contempt for Mexicans. But suddenly he seemed to see himself surreptitiously taking the six-shooter from Roth's showcase--and he recalled vividly how he had felt at the time--"jest plumb mean," as he put it. Roth had been mighty decent to him. . . . The Mexican, a wizened little man, cross-eyed and wrinkled, stumbled from the saloon.
"Want to sell your hoss?" Pete asked in Mexican.
"Si! How much you give?" said the other, coming right to the point.
"Ten dollars."
"He is a good horse--very fast. He is worth much more. I sell him for twenty dollars."
"Si."
Andy White put his hand on Pete's shoulder. "Say, Pete," he whispered, "I know this hombre. The poor cuss ain't hardly got enough sense to die. He comes into town reg'lar and gits drunk and he's got a whole corral full of kids and a wife, over to the Flats. I'm game, but it's kinda tough, takin' his hoss. It's about all he's got, exceptin' a measly ole dog and a shack and the clothes on his back. That saddle ain't worth much, anyhow."
Pete thought it over. "It's his funeral," he said presently.
"That's all right--but dam' if I want to bury him." And Andy, the sprightly, rolled a cigarette and eyed Pete, who stood pondering.
Presently Pete turned to the Mexican. "I was only joshin' you, amigo. You fork your cayuse and fan it for home."
Pete felt that his chance of buying cheap equipment had gone glimmering, but he was not unhappy. He gestured to Andy. Together they strode across to the store and sat on the rough wood platform. Pete kicked his heels and whistled a range tune. Andy smoked and wondered what Pete had in mind. Suddenly Pete rose and pulled up his belt. "Come on over to Roth's house," he said. "I want to see him."
"He's turned in," suggested Andy.
"That's all right. I got to see him."
"I'm on! You're goin' to pay somethin' down on a rig, and git him to let you take it on time. Great idee! Go to it!"
"You got me wrong," said Pete.
Roth had gone to bed, but he rose and answered the door when he heard Pete's voice. "Kin I see you alone?" queried Pete.
"I reckon so. Come right in."
Pete blinked in the glare of the lamp, shuffled his feet as he slowly counted out eighteen dollars and a half. "It's for the gun I took," he explained.
Roth hesitated, then took the money.
"All right, Pete. I'll give you a receipt. Just wait a minute."
Pete gazed curiously at the crumpled bit of paper that Roth fetched from the bedroom. "I took a gun an' cartriges for Wagges. You never giv me Wages."
Pete heaved a sigh. "I reckon we're square."
Roth grinned. "Knowed you'd come back some day. Reckon you didn't find a Mexican with a horse to sell, eh?"
"Yep. But I changed my mind."
"What made you change your mind?"
"I dunno."
"Well, I reckon I do. Now, see here, Pete. You been up against it 'most all your life. You ain't so bad off with old Montoya, but I sabe how you feel about herding sheep. You want to get to riding. But first you want to get a job. Now you go over to the Concho and tell Bailey--'he's the foreman--that I sent you, and that if he'll give you a job, I'll outfit you. You can take your time paying for it."
Pete blinked and choked a little. "I ain't askin' nobody to
give me nothin'," he said brusquely.
"Yes, you be. You're asking Bailey for a job. It's all right to ask for something you mean to pay for, and you'll pay for your job by workin'. That there rig you can pay for out of your wages. I was always intending to do something for you--only you didn't stay. I reckon I'm kind o' slow. 'Most everybody is in Concho. And seeing as you come back and paid up like a man--I'm going to charge that gun up against wages you earned when you was working for me, and credit you with the eighteen-fifty on the new rig. Now you fan it back to Montoya and tell him what you aim to do and then if you got time, come over to-morrow and pick out your rig. You don't have to take it till you get your job."
Pete twisted his hat in his hands. He did not know what to say. Slowly he backed from the room, turned, and strode out to Andy White. Andy wondered what Pete had been up to, but waited for him to speak.
Presently Pete cleared his throat. "I'm coming over to your wickiup to-morrow and strike for a job. I got the promise of a rig, all right. Don't want no second-hand rig, anyhow! I'm the Ridin' Kid from Powder River and I'm comin' with head up and tail a-rollin'."
"Whoopee!" sang Andy, and swung to his pony.
"I'm a-comin'!" called Pete as Andy clattered away into the night.
Pete felt happy and yet strangely subdued. The dim road flickered before him as he trudged back to the sheep-camp. "Pop would 'a' done it that way," he said aloud. And for a space, down the darkening road he walked in that realm where the invisible walk, and beside him trudged the great, rugged shape of Annersley, the spirit of the old man who always "played square," feared no man, and fulfilled a purpose in the immeasurable scheme of things. Pete knew that Annersley would have been pleased. So it was that Young Pete paid the most honorable debt of all, the debt to memory that the debtor's own free hand may pay or not--and none be the wiser, save the debtor. Pete had "played square." It was all the more to his credit that he hated like the dickens to give up his eighteen dollars and a half, and yet had done so. _