The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 17

"Ain't you goin' to bury him?" queried Bailey.

Pete whirled. The color ran up his neck and face. "H'lo, Jim."

"How'd you know it was me?" Bailey stood up.

"Knowed your voice."

"Well, come on up. I was wonderin' who was down there settin' off the fireworks. Didn't hear you till I got most on top of you. You sure got some private shootin'-gallery."

Pete led his pony up the steep trail and squatted beside Bailey. "How long you been watching me, Jim?"

"Oh, jest since you started shooting under your hoss. What's the idea?"

"Nothin', jest practicin'."

"You must 'a' been practicin' quite a' spell. You handle that smoke-wagon like an ole-timer."

"I ain't advertisin' it."

"Well, it's all right, Pete. Glad I got a front seat. Never figured you was a top-hand with a gun. Now I'm wise. I know enough not to stack up against you."

Pete smiled his slow smile and pushed back his hat. "I reckon you're right about that. I never did no shootin' in company. Ole Jose Montoya always said to do your practicin' by yourself, and then n.o.body knows just how you would play your hand."

Bailey frowned and nodded. "Well, seein' as I'm in on it, Pete, I'd kind of like to know myself."

"Why, I'm jest figurin' that some day mebby somebody'll want to hang my hide on the fence. I don't aim to let him."

"Meanin' Gary?"

"The same. I ain't _lookin'_ for Gary--even if he did shoot down Pop Annersley--nor I ain't tryin' to keep out of his way. I'm ridin' this country and I'm like to meet up with him 'most any time. That's all."

"Shucks, Pete! You forget Gary. He sure ain't worth gettin' hung for.

Gary ain't goin' to put you down so long as you ride for the Concho.

He knows somebody 'd get him. You jest practice shootin' all you like--but tend to business the rest of the time and you'll live longer.

You can figure on one thing, if Gary was to get you he wouldn't live to get out of this country."

"You're handin' me your best card," said Pete. "Gary killed Annersley.

The law didn't get Gary. And none of you fellas got him. He's ridin'

this here country yet. And you was tellin' me to forget him."

"But that's different, Pete. No one saw Gary shoot Annersley. It was night. Annersley was killed in his cabin--by a shot through the window. Anybody might have fired that shot. Why, you were there yourself--and you can't prove who done it."

"I can't, eh? Well, between you and me, Jim, I _know_. One of Gary's own men said that night when they were leavin' the cabin, 'It must 'a'

been Steve that drilled the ole man because Steve was the only puncher who knowed where the window was and fired into it.'"

"I didn't know that. So you aim to even up, eh?"

"Nope. I jest aim to be ready to even up."

Bailey strode back to his horse. "I'm goin' up in the hills and look for a deer. Want to take a little pasear with me?"

"Suits me, Jim."

"Come on, then."

They mounted and rode side by side across the noon mesa.

The ponies stepped briskly. The air was like a song. Far away the blue hills invited exploration of their timbered and mysterious silences.

"Makes a fella feel like forgettin' everything and everybody--but jest this," said Pete, gesturing toward the ranges.

"The bucks'll be on the ridges," remarked Bailey.

CHAPTER XIII

GAME

They got their buck--a big six-point--just before the sun dipped below the flaming sky-line. In order to pack the meat in, one or the other would have to walk. Pete volunteered, but Bailey generously offered to toss up for the privilege of riding. He flipped a coin and won.

"Suits me," said Pete, grinning. "It's worth walkin' from here to the ranch jest to see you rope that deer on my hoss. I reckon you'll sweat."

It took about all of the foreman's skill and strength, a.s.sisted by Pete, to rope the deer on the pony, who had never packed game and who never intended to if he could help it. And it was a nervous horse that Pete led down the long woodland trail as the shadows grew distorted and grim in the swiftly fading light Long before they reached the mesa level it was dark. The trail was carpeted with needles of the pine and their going was silent save for the creak of the saddles and the occasional click of a hoof against an uncovered rock. Pete's horse seemed even more nervous as they made the last descent before striking the mesa. "Somethin' besides deer is bother'n' him," said Pete as they worked cautiously down a steep switchback. The horse had stopped and was trembling. Bailey glanced back. "Up there!" he whispered, gesturing to the trail above them. Pete had also been looking round, and before Bailey could speak again, a sliver of flame split the darkness and the roar of Pete's six-gun shattered the eerie silence of the hillside. Bailey's horse plunged off the trail and rocketed straight down the mountain. Pete's horse, rearing from the hurtling shape that lunged from the trail above, tore the rope from his hand and crashed down the hillside, snorting. Something was threshing about the trail and coughing horribly. Pete would have run if he had known which way to run. He had seen two lambent green dots glowing above him and had fired with that quick instinct of placing his shot--the result of long practice. The flopping and coughing ceased. Pete, with c.o.c.ked gun poked ahead of him, struck a match. In its pale flare he saw the long gray shape of a mountain lien stretched across the trail.

Evidently the lion had smelled the blood of the deer, or the odor of the sweating horses--a mountain lion likes horse-flesh better than anything else--and had padded down the trail in the darkness, following as close as he dared. The match flamed and spluttered out. Pete wisely backed away a few paces and listened. A little wind whispered in the pines and a branch creaked, but there came no sound of movement from the lion. "I reckon I plugged him right!" muttered Pete. "Wonder what made Jim light out in sech a hurry?" And, "Hey, Jim!" he called.

From far below came a faint _Whoo_! _Halloo_! Then the words separate and distinct: "I--got--your--horse."

"I--got--a--lion," called Pete shrilly.

"Who--is lyin'--?" came from the depths below.

Pete grinned despite his agitation. "Come--on--back!" shouted Pete.

He thought he heard Bailey say something like "d.a.m.n," but it may have been, "I am." Pete struck another match and stepped nearer the lion this time. The great, lithe beast was dead. The blunt-nose forty-five at close range had torn away a part of its skull. "I done spiled the head," complained Pete. In the succeeding darkness he heard the faint tinkle of shod feet on the trail.

Presently he could distinctly hear the heavy breathing of the horse and the gentle creak of the saddle. Within speaking distance he told the foreman that he had shot a whopper of a lion and it looked as though they would need another pack-horse. Bailey said nothing until he had arrived at the angle of the switchback, when he lighted a match and gazed at the great gray cat of the rocks.

"You get twenty dollars bounty," he told Pete. "And you sure stampeded me into the worst piece of down timber I've rode for a long time.

Gosh! but you're quick with that smoke-wagon of yours! Lost my hat and liked to broke my leg ag'in' a tree, but I run plumb onto your horse draggin' a rope. I tied him down there on the flat. I figure you've saved a dozen calves by killin' that kitty-cat. Did you know it was a lion when you shot?"

"Nope, or I'd 'a' sure beat the hosses down the grade. I jest cut loose at them two green eyes a-burnin' in the brush and _whump_! down comes Mr. Kitty-cat almost plumb atop me. Mebby I wasn't scared! I was wonderin' why you set off in sech a hurry. You sure burned the ground down the mountain."

"Just stayin' with my saddle," laughed Bailey. "Old Frisco here ain't lost any lions recent."

"Will he pack?"

"I dunno. Wish it was daylight."