CHAPTER V
A CHANGE OF BASE
To say that Young Pete had any definite plan when he left Concho andtook up with an old Mexican sheep-herder would be stretching thepossibilities. And Pete Annersley's history will have to speak foritself as illustrative of a plan from which he could not have departedany more than he could have originated and followed to its finalultimatum.
Life with the storekeeper had been tame. Pete had no horse; and thesheriff, taking him at his word, had refused to give up either one ofthe rifles unless Pete would declare which one he had used that fatefulnight of the raid. And Pete would not do that. He felt that somehowhe had been cheated. Even the storekeeper Roth discouraged him fromusing fire-arms, fearing that the boy might some day "cut loose" atsomebody without word or warning. Pete was well fed and did not haveto work hard, yet his ideas of what constituted a living were farremoved from the conventions of Concho. He wanted to ride, to hunt, todrive team, to work in the open with lots of elbow-room and under awide sky. His one solace while in the store was the array of riflesand six-guns which he almost reverenced for their suggestive potency.They represented power, and the only law that he believed in.
Some time after Pete had disappeared, the store-keeper, going over hisstock, missed a heavy-caliber six-shooter. He wondered if the boy hadtaken it. Roth did not care so much for the loss of the gun as for thefact that Pete might have stolen it. Later Roth discovered a crudelyprinted slip of paper among the trinkets in the showcase. "I took agun and cartriges for my wagges. You never giv me Wages." Which wastrue enough, the storekeeper figuring that Pete's board and lodgingwere just about offset by his services. In paying Pete a dollar aweek, Annersley had established a precedent which involved Young Pete'spride as a wage-earner. In making Pete feel that he was really worthmore than his board and lodging, Annersley had helped the boy to acertain self-respect which Pete subconsciously felt that he had lostwhen Roth, the storekeeper, gave him a home and work but no pay. YoungPete did not dislike Roth, but the contrast of Roth's close methodswith the large, free-handed dealings of Annersley was ever before him.Pete was strong for utility. He had no boyish sense of the dramatic,consciously. He had never had time to play. Everything he did, he didseriously. So when he left Concho at dusk one summer evening, he didnot "run away" in any sense. He simply decided that it was time to goelsewhere--and he went.
The old Mexican, Montoya, had a band of sheep in the high country.Recently the sheep had drifted past Concho, and Pete, alive to anythingand everything that was going somewhere, had waited on the Mexican atthe store. Sugar, coffee, flour, and beans were packed on the shaggyburros. Pete helped carry the supplies to the doorway and watched himpack. The two sharp-nosed sheep-dogs interested Pete. They seemed soalert, and yet so quietly satisfied with their lot. The last thing theold Mexican did was to ask for a few cartridges. Pete did notunderstand just what kind he wanted. With a secretiveness whichthrilled Pete clear to the toes, the old herder, in the shadowy rear ofthe store, drew a heavy six-shooter from under his arm and passed itstealthily to Pete, who recognized the caliber and found cartridges forit. Pete's manner was equally stealthy. This smacked of adventure!Cattlemen and sheepmen were not friendly, as Pete knew. Pete had nolove for the "woolies," yet he hated cattlemen. The old Mexicanthanked him and invited him to visit his camp below Concho. PossiblyPete never would have left the storekeeper--or at least notimmediately--had not that good man, always willing to cater to Pete'scuriosity as to guns and gunmen, told him that old Montoya, while aMexican, was a dangerous man with a six-gun; that he was seldommolested by the cattlemen, who knew him to be absolutely without fearand a dead shot.
"Huh! That old herder ain't no gun-fighter!" Pete had said, althoughhe believed the storekeeper. Pete wanted to hear more.
"Most Mexicans ain't," replied Roth, for Pete's statement was half achallenge, half a question. "But Jose Montoya never backed down from afight--and he's had plenty."
Pete was interested. He determined to visit Montoya's camp thatevening. He said nothing to Roth, as he intended to return.
Long before Pete arrived at the camp he saw the tiny fire--a dot of redagainst the dark--and he heard the muffled trampling of the sheep asthey bedded down for the night. Within a few yards of the camp thedogs challenged him, charging down the gentle slope to where he stood.Pete paid no attention to them, but marched up to the fire. OldMontoya rose and greeted him pleasantly. Another Mexican, a slimyouth, bashfully acknowledged Pete's presence and called in the dogs.Pete, who had known many outland camp-fires, made himself at home,sitting cross-legged and affecting a mature indifference. The oldMexican smoked and studied the youngster, amused by his evident attemptto appear grown-up and disinterested.
"That gun, he poke you in the rib, hey?"--and Montoya chuckled.
Pete flushed and glanced down at the half-concealed weapon beneath hisarm. "Tied her on with string--ain't got no shoulder holster," Peteexplained in an offhand way.
"What you do with him?" The old Mexican's deep-set eyes twinkled.Pete studied Montoya's face. This was a direct but apparently friendlyquery. Pete wondered if he should answer evasively or directly. Thefact was that he did not know just why he had taken the gun--or what heintended to do with it. After all, it was none of Montoya's business,yet Pete did not wish to offend the old man. He wanted to hear moreabout gun-fights with the cattlemen.
"Well, seein' it's you, senor,"--Pete adopted the grand air as mostbefitting the occasion,--"I'm packin' this here gun to fightcow-punchers with. Reckon you don't know some cow-punchers killed mydad. I was just a kid then. [Pete was now nearly fourteen.] Some dayI'm goin' to git the man what killed him."
Montoya did not smile. This muchacho evidently had spirit. Pete'sinvention, made on the spur of the moment, had hit "plumb center," ashe told himself. For Montoya immediately became gracious, profferedPete tobacco and papers, and suggested coffee, which the young Mexicanmade while Pete and the old man chatted. Pete was deeply impressed byhis reception. He felt that he had made a hit with Montoya--and thatthe other had taken him seriously. Most men did not, despite the factthat he was accredited with having slain two T-Bar-T cowboys. Astrange sympathy grew between this old Mexican and the lean,bright-eyed young boy. Perhaps Pete's swarthy coloring and black eyeshad something to do with it. Possibly Pete's assurance, as contrastedwith the bashfulness and timidity of the old Mexican's nephew, hadsomething to do with Montoya's immediate friendliness. In any event,the visit ended with an invitation to Pete to become a permanent memberof the sheep-camp, Montoya explaining that his nephew wanted to gohome; that he did not like the loneliness of a herder's life.
Pete had witnessed too many horse-trades to accept this proposal atonce. His face expressed deep cogitation, as he flicked the ashes fromhis cigarette and shook his head. "I dunno. Roth is a pretty goodboss. 'Course, he ain't no gun-fighter--and that's kind of in yourfavor--"
"What hombre say I make fight with gun?" queried Montoya.
"Why, everybody! I reckon they's mighty few of 'em want to stack upagainst you."
Montoya frowned. "I don' talk like that," he said, shrugging hisshoulders.
Pete felt that he was getting in deep--but he had a happy inspiration."You don't have to talk. Your ole forty-four does the talking Ireckon."
"You come and cook?" queried Montoya, coming straight to the point.
"I dunno, amigo. I'll think about it."
"Bueno. It is dark, I will walk with you to Concho."
"You think I'm a kid?" flared Pete. "If was dark when I come over hereand it ain't any darker now. I ain't no doggone cow-puncher what's gotto git on a hoss afore he dast go anywhere."
Montoya laughed. "You come to-morrow night, eh?"
"Reckon I will."
"Then the camp will be over there--in the canon. You will see thefire."
"I'll come over and have a talk anyway," said Pete, still unwilling tolet Montoya think him anxious. "Buen
os noches!"
Montoya nodded. "He will come," he said to his nephew. "Then it isthat you may go to the home. He is small--but of the very greatcourage."
The following evening Pete appeared at the herder's camp. The dogs ranout, sniffed at him, and returned to the fire. Montoya made a placefor him on the thick sheepskins and asked him if he had eaten. Yes, hehad had supper, but he had no blankets. Could Montoya let him have ablanket until he had earned enough money to buy one?
The old herder told him that he could have the nephew's blankets; Pedrowas to leave camp next day and go home. As for money, Montoya did notpay wages. Of course, for tobacco, or a coat or pants, he could havethe money when he needed them.
Pete felt a bit taken aback. He had burnt his bridges--he could notreturn to Concho--yet he wanted a definite wage. "I kin pack--make andbreak camp--and sure cook the frijoles. Pop learned me all that; buthe was payin' me a dollar a week. He said I was jest as good as a man.A dollar a week ain't much."
The old herder shook his head. "Not until I sell the wool can I pay."
"When do you sell that wool?"
"When the pay for it is good. Sometimes I wait."
"Well, I kin see where I don't get rich herdin' sheep."
"We shall see. Perhaps, if you are a good boy--"
"You got me wrong, senor. Roth he said I was the limit--and even myold pop said I was a tough kid. I ain't doin' this for my health. Ihooked up with you 'cause I kinda thought--"
"Si?"
"Well, Roth was tellin' as how you could make a six-gun smoke fasterthan most any hombre a-livin'. Now, I was figurin' if you would showme how to work this ole smoke-wagon here"--and Pete touched the hugelump beneath his shirt--"why, that would kinda be like wages--but Iain't got no money to buy cartridges."
"I, Jose de la Crux Montoya, will show you how to work him. It is abig gun for such a chico."
"Oh, I reckon I kin hold her down. When do we start the shootin'match?"
Montoya smiled.
"Manana, perhaps."
"Then that's settled!" Pete heaved a sigh. "But how am I goin' to gitthem cartridges?"
"From the store."
"That's all right. But how many do I git for workin' for you?"
Montoya laughed outright. "You will become a good man with the sheep.You will not waste the flour and the beans and the coffee and thesugar, like Pedro here. You will count and not say--'Oh, I think it'sso much'--and because of that I will buy you two boxes of cartridges."
"Two boxes--a hundred a month?"
"Even so. You will waste many until you learn."
"Shake!" said Pete. "That suits me! And if any doggone ole brush-catsor lion or bear come pokin' around this here camp, we'll sure smoke 'emup. And if any of them cow-chasers from the mountain or the Conchostarts monkeyin' with our sheep, there's sure goin' to be a cowboyfuneral in these parts! You done hired a good man when you hired me!"
"We shall see," said Montoya, greatly amused. "But there is much workto be done as well as the shooting."
"I'll be there!" exclaimed Pete. "What makes them sheep keep a-moanin'and a-bawlin' and a-shufflin' round? Don't they never git to sleep?"
"Si, but it is a new camp. To-morrow night they will be quiet. It isalways so."
"Well, they sure make enough noise. When do we git goin'?"
"Pedro, he will leave manana. In two days we will move the camp."
"All right. I don't reckon Roth would be lookin' for me in anysheep-camp anyhow." Young Pete was not afraid of the storekeeper, butthe fact that he had taken the gun troubled him, even though he hadleft a note explaining that he took the gun in lieu of wages. Heshared Pedro's blankets, but slept little. The sheep milled and bawledmost of the night. Even before daybreak Pete was up and building afire. The sheep poured from the bedding-ground and pattered down tothe canon stream. Later they spread out across the wide canon-bottomand grazed, watched by the dogs.
Full-fed and happy, Young Pete helped Pedro clean the camp-utensils.The morning sun, pushing up past the canon-rim, picked out the detailsof the camp one by one--the smouldering fire of cedar wood, the packs,saddles and ropes, the water-cask, the lazy burros waiting for the sunto warm them to action, the blankets and sheepskin bedding, and fartherdown the canon a still figure standing on a slight rise of ground andgazing into space--the figure of Jose de la Crux Montoya, thesheep-herder whom Roth had said feared no man and was a dead shot.
Pete knew Spanish--he had heard little else spoken in Concho--and hethought that "Joseph of the Cross" was a strange name for a recognizedgunman. "But Mexicans always stick crosses over graves," soliloquizedPete. "Mebby that's why he's got that fancy name. Gee! But this surebeats tendin' store!"