The Ridin Kid from Powder River | Page 4

"Kin I kick him--jest onct, while you hold him down?"
"Nope, son. That's too much like his way. You run along and git your
blanket if you're goin' with me."
Young Pete scrambled to the wagon and returned with a tattered
blanket, his sole possession, and his because he had stolen it from a
Mexican camp near Enright. He scurried to the buckboard and hopped
in.
Annersley rose and brought the trader up with him as though the latter
were a bit of limp tie-rope.
"And now we'll be driftin'," he told the other.
Murder burned in the horse-trader's narrow eyes, but immediate
physical ambition was lacking.
Annersley bulked big. The horse-trader cursed the old man in two
languages. Annersley climbed into the buckboard, gave Pete the
lead-rope of the recent purchase, and clucked to his horse, paying no
attention whatever to the volley of invectives behind him.
"He'll git his gun and shoot you in the back," whispered Young Pete.
"Nope, son. He'll jest go and git another drink and tell everybody in
Concho how he's goin' to kill me--some day. I've handled folks like him
frequent."
"You sure kin fight!" exclaimed Young Pete enthusiastically.

"Never hit a man in my life. I never dast to," said Annersley.
"You jest set on 'em, eh?"
"Jest set on 'em," said Annersley. "You keep tight holt to that rope.
That fool hoss acts like he wanted to go back to your camp."
Young Pete braced his feet and clung to the rope, admonishing the
horse with outland eloquence. As they crossed the arroyo, the led horse
pulled back, all but unseating Young Pete.
"Here, you!" cried the boy. "You quit that--afore my new pop takes you
by the neck and the--pants and sits on you!"
"That's the idea, son. Only next time, jest tell him without cussin'."
"He always cusses the hosses," said Young Pete. "Everybody cusses
'em."
"'Most everybody. But a man what cusses a hoss is only cussin' hisself.
You're some young to git that--but mebby you'll recollect I said so,
some day."
"Didn't you cuss him when you set on him?" queried Pete.
"For why, son?"
"Wa'n't you mad?"
"Shucks, no."
"Don't you ever cuss?"
"Not frequent, son. Cussin' never pitched any hay for me."
Young Pete was a bit disappointed. "Didn't you never cuss in your
life?"
Annersley glanced down at the boy.

"Well, if you promise you won't tell nobody, I did cuss onct, when I
struck the plough into a yellow-jacket's nest which I wa'n't aimin' to hit,
nohow. Had the reins round my neck, not expectin' visitors, when them
hornets come at me and the hoss without even ringin' the bell. That
team drug me quite a spell afore I got loose. When I got enough dirt out
of my mouth so as I could holler, I set to and said what I thought."
"Cussed the hosses and the doggone ole plough and them hornets--and
everything!" exclaimed Pete.
"Nope, son, I cussed myself for hangin' them reins round my neck.
What you say your name was?"
"Pete."
"What was the trader callin' you--any other name besides Pete?"
"Yes, I reckon he was. When he is good 'n' drunk he would be callin'
me a doggone little--"
"Never mind, I know about that. I was meanin' your other name."
"My other name? I ain't got none. I'm Pete."
Annersley shook his head. "Well, pardner, you'll be Pete Annersley
now. Watch out that hoss don't jerk you out o' your jacket. This here
hill is a enterprisin' hill and leads right up to my place. Hang on! As I
was sayin', we're pardners, you and me. We're goin' up to my place on
the Blue and tend to the critters and git washed up and have supper, and
mebby after supper we'll mosey around so you kin git acquainted with
the ranch. Where'd you say your pop come from?"
"I dunno. He ain't my real pop."
Annersley turned and looked down at the lean, bright little face. "Yon
hungry, son?"
"You bet!"

"What you say if we kill a chicken for supper--and celebrate."
"G'wan, you're joshin' me!"
"Nope. I like chicken. And I got one that needs killin'; a no-account ole
hen what won't set and won't lay."
"Then we'll ring her doggone head off, eh?"
"Somethin' like that--only I ain't jest hatin' that there hen. She ain't no
good, that's all."
Young Pete pondered, watching Annersley's grave, bearded face.
Suddenly he brightened. "I know! Nobody kin tell when you're joshin'
'em, 'cause your whiskers hides it. Guess I'll grow some whiskers and
then I kin fool everybody."
Old man Annersley chuckled, and spoke to the horses. Young Pete,
happier than he had ever been, wondered if this good luck would
last--if it were real, or just a dream