The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 55

"Then let me call Mr. Annersley, please. There are so many--patients out there."

"All right, miss."

Doris took Pete's place as she told him. Little Ruth entered a demurrer, although she liked Doris. "Pete knew all about forces and cows. He must come wight back . . ."

"What a beautiful bossy!" said Doris as Ruth rearranged the slightly disjointed cow.

"Dat a _cow_," said Ruth positively. "Pete says dat a _cow_!"

"And what a wonderful pony!"

"Dat a _force_, Miss Dowis. Pete say dat a force."

It was evident to Doris that Pete was an authority, not without honor in his own country, and an authority not to be questioned, for Ruth gravely informed Doris that Pete could "wide" and "wope" and knew everything about "forces" and "cows."

Meanwhile Pete, seated on the edge of his cot, was telling the plain-clothes men that he was willing to go with them whenever they were ready, stipulating, however, that he wanted to visit the Stockmen's Security and Savings Bank first, and as soon as possible.

Incidentally he stubbornly refused to admit that he had anything to do with the killing of Brent, whom the sheriff of Sanborn had finally identified as the aforetime foreman of the Olla.

"There's nothing personal about this, young fella," said one of the men as Pete's dark eyes blinked somberly. "It's our business, that's all."

"And it's a dam' crawlin' business," a.s.serted Pete. "You couldn't even let The Spider cross over peaceful."

"I reckon he earned all he got," said one of the men.

"Mebby. But it took three fast guns to git him--and he put _them_ out of business first. I'd 'a' liked to seen some of you rubber-heeled heifers tryin' to put the irons on him."

"That kind of talk won't do you no good when you're on the stand, young fella. It ain't likely that Sam Brent was your first job. Your record reads pretty strong for a kid."

"Meanin' Gary? Well, about Gary"--Pete fumbled in his shirt. "I got a letter here" . . . He studied the closely written sheet for a few seconds, then his face cleared. "Jest run your eye over that. It's from Jim Bailey, who used to be my fo'man on the Concho."

The officers read the letter, one gazing over the other's shoulder, "Who's this Jim Bailey, anyhow?"

"He's a white man--fo'man of the Concho, and my boss, onct."

"Well, you're lucky if what he says is so. But that don't square you with the other deal."

"There's only one man that could do that," said Pete. "And I reckon he ain't ridin' where you could git him."

"That's all right, Annersley. But even if you didn't get Brent, you were on that job. You were running with a tough bunch."

"Who's got my gun?" queried Pete abruptly.

"It's over to the station with the rest of your stuff."

"Well, it wa'n't a forty-five that put Brent out of business. My gun is."

"You can tell that to the sheriff of Sanborn County. And you'll have a hard time proving that you never packed any other gun."

"You say it's the sheriff of Sanborn County that'll be wantin' to know?"

"Yes. We're holding you for him."

"That's different. I reckon I kin talk to _him_."

"Well, you'll get a chance. He's in town---waiting to take you over to Sanborn."

"I sure would like to have a talk with him," said Pete. "Would you mind tellin' him that?"

"Why--no. We'll tell him."

"'Cause I aim to take a little walk this afternoon," a.s.serted Pete, "and mebby he'd kind o' like to keep me comp'ny."

"You'll have company--if you take a walk," said one of the detectives significantly.

CHAPTER XL

THE MAN DOWNSTAIRS

Pete did not return to the veranda to finish his puzzle game with little Ruth. He smiled rather grimly as he realized that he had a puzzle game of his own to solve. He lay on the cot and his eyes closed as he reviewed the vivid events in his life, from the beginning of the trail, at Concho, to its end, here in El Paso. It seemed to spread out before him like a great map: the desert and its towns, the hills and mesas, trails and highways over which men scurried like black and red ants, commingling, separating, hastening off at queer tangents, meeting in combat, disappearing in crevices, reappearing and setting off again in haste, searching for food, bearing strange burdens, scrambling blindly over obstacles--collectively without seeming purpose--yet individually bent upon some quest, impetuous and headstrong in their strange activities. "And gittin' nowhere," soliloquized Pete, "except in trouble."

He thought of the letter from Bailey, and, sitting up, re-read it slowly. So Steve Gary had survived, only to meet the inevitable end of his kind. Well, Gary was always hunting trouble . . . Roth, the storekeeper at Concho, ought to have the number of that gun which Pete packed. If the sheriff of Sanborn was an old-timer he would know that a man who packed a gun for business reasons did not go round the country experimenting with different makes and calibers. Only the "showcase" boys in the towns swapped guns. Ed Brevoort had always used a Luger. Pete wondered if there had been any evidence of the caliber of the bullet which had killed Brent. If the sheriff were an old-timer such evidence would not be overlooked.

Pete got up and wandered out to the veranda. The place was deserted.

He suddenly realized that those who were able had gone to their noon meal. He had forgotten about that. He walked back to his room and sat on the edge of his cot. He was lonesome and dispirited. He was not hungry, but he felt decidedly empty. This was the first time that Doris had allowed him to miss a meal, and it was her fault! She might have called him. But what did she care? In raw justice to her--why _should_ she care?

Pete's brooding eyes brightened as Doris came in with a tray. She had thought that he had rather have his dinner there. "I noticed that you did not come down with the others," she said.

Pete was angry with himself. Adam-like he said he wasn't hungry anyhow.

"Then I'll take it back," said Doris sweetly,

Adam-like, Pete decided that he was hungry. "Miss Gray," he blurted, "I--I'm a doggone short-horn! I'm goin' to eat. I sure want to square myself."

"For what?"

Doris was gazing at him with a serene directness that made him feel that his clothing was several sizes too large for him. He realized that generalities would hardly serve his turn just then.

"I was settin' here feelin' sore at the whole doggone outfit," he explained. "Sore at you--and everybody."

"Well?" said Doris unsmilingly.

"I'm askin' you to forgit that I was sore at you." Pete was not ordinarily of an apologetic turn, and he felt that he pretty thoroughly squared himself.

"It really doesn't matter," said Doris, as she placed his tray on the table and turned to go.