PARTNERS OF CHANCE
by
HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS
Author of _The Ridin' Kid from Powder River_, _Sundown Slim_,_Overland Red_, etc.
Grosset & DunlapPublishers, New York
1921
CONTENTS
I. LITTLE JIM II. PANHANDLE III. A MINUTE TOO LATE IV. "A LITTLE GREEN RIVER" V. "TOP HAND ONCE" VI. A HORSE-TRADE VII. AT THE WATER-HOLE VIII. HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS IX. AT THE BOX-S X. TO TRY HIM OUT XI. PONY TRACKS XII. JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN XIII. AT AUNT JANE'S XIV. ANOTHER GAME XV. MORE PONY TRACKS XVI. SAN ANDREAS TOWN XVII. THAT MESCAL XVIII. JOE SCOTT XIX. DORRY COMES TO TOWN XX. ALONG THE FOOTHILLS XXI. "GIT ALONG CAYUSE" XXII. BOX-S BUSINESS XXIII. THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL XXIV. CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG XXV. TWO TRAILS HOME
CHAPTER I
LITTLE JIM
Little Jim knew that something strange had happened, because Big Jim,his father, had sold their few head of cattle, the work team, and thefarm implements, keeping only the two saddle-horses and the pack-horse,Filaree. When Little Jim asked where his mother had gone, Big Jim toldhim that she had gone on a visit, and would be away a long time. LittleJim wanted to know if his mother would ever come back. When Big Jim saidthat she would not, Little Jim manfully suppressed his tears, and, beingof that frontier stock that always has an eye to the main chance, hethrust out his hand. "Well, I'll stick with you, dad. I reckon we canmake the grade."
Big Jim turned away and stood for a long time gazing out of the cabinwindow toward town. Presently he felt a tug at his coat-sleeve.
"Is ma gone to live in town?"
"Yes."
"Then why don't you go get her?"
"She don't want to come back, Jimmy."
Little Jim could not understand this. Yet he had often heard his mothercomplain of their life on the homestead, and as often he had watched hisfather sitting grimly at table, saying nothing in reply to his wife'squerulous complainings. The boy knew that his father had worked hard tomake a home. They had all worked hard. But, then, that had seemed theonly thing to do.
Presently Big Jim swung round as though he had made a decision. Helighted the lamp in the kitchen and made a fire. Little Jim scurried outto the well with a bucket. Little Jim was a hustler, never waiting to betold what to do. His mother was gone. He did not know why. But he knewthat folks had to eat and sleep and work. While his father preparedsupper, Little Jim rolled up his own shirt-sleeves and washedvigorously. Then he filled the two glasses on the table, laid the platesand knives and forks, and finding nothing else to do in the house, justthen, he scurried out again and returned with his small arms filled withfirewood.
Big Jim glanced at him. "I guess we don't need any more wood, Jimmy.We'll be leaving in the morning."
"What? Leavin' here?"
His father nodded.
"Goin' to town, dad?"
"No. South."
"Just us two, all alone?"
"Yes. Don't you want to go?"
"Sure! But I wish ma was comin', too."
Big Jim winced. "So do I, Jimmy. But I guess we can get along all right.How would you like to visit Aunt Jane, down in Arizona?"
"Where them horn toads and stingin' lizards are?"
"Yes--and Gila monsters and all kinds of critters."
"Gee! Has Aunt Jane got any of 'em on her ranch?"
Big Jim forced a smile. "I reckon so."
Little Jim's face was eager. "Then I say, let's go. Mebby I can get toshoot one. Huntin' is more fun than workin' all the time. I guess ma gottired of workin', too. She said that was all she ever expected to do,'long as we lived out here on the ranch. But she never told _me_ she wasgoin' to quit."
"She didn't tell me, either, Jimmy. But you wouldn't understand."
Jimmy puckered his forehead. "I guess ma kind of throwed us down, didn'tshe, dad?"
"We'll have to forget about it," said Big Jim slowly. "Down at AuntJane's place in--"
"Somethin' 's burnin', dad!"
Big Jim turned to the stove. Little Jim gazed at his father's backcritically. There was something in the stoop of the broad shoulders thatwas unnatural, strange--something that caused Little Jim to hesitate inhis questioning. Little Jim idolized his father, and, with unfailingintuition, believed in him to the last word. As for his mother, who hadleft without explanation and would never return--Little Jim missed her,but more through habit of association than with actual grief.
He knew that his mother and father had not gotten along very well forsome time. And now Little Jim recalled something that his mother hadsaid: "He's as much your boy as he is mine, Jim Hastings, and, if youare set on sending him to school, for goodness' sake get him some decentclothes, which is more than I have had for many a year."
Until then Jimmy had not realized that his clothing or his mother's wasother than it should be. Moreover, he did not want to go to school. Hepreferred to work on the ranch with his father. But it was chiefly thetone of his mother's voice that had impressed him. For the first time inhis young life, Little Jim felt that he was to blame for something whichhe could not understand. He was accustomed to his mother's sudden fitsof unreasonable anger, often followed by a cuff, or sharp reprimand. Butshe had never mentioned his need of better clothing before, nor her ownneed.
As for being as much his father's boy as his mother's--Little Jim feltthat he quite agreed to that, and, if anything, that he belonged more tohis father, who was kind to him, than to any one else in the world.Little Jim, trying to reason it out, now thought that he knew why hismother had left home. She had gone to live in town that she might havebetter clothes and be with folks and not wear her fingers to the bonesimply for a bed and three meals a day, as Little Jim had heard her saymore than once.
But the trip to Aunt Jane's, down in Arizona, was too vivid in hisimagination to allow room for pondering. Big Jim had said they were toleave in the morning. So, while supper was cooking, Little Jim slippedinto his bedroom and busied himself packing his own scant belongings.Presently his father called him. Little Jim plodded out bearing his fewspare clothes corded in a neat bundle, with an old piece of canvas forthe covering. His father had taught him to pack.
Big Jim stared. Then a peculiar expression flitted across his face.Little Jim was always for the main chance.
"I'm all hooked up to hit the trail, dad."
In his small blue overalls and jumper, in his alert and manful attitude,Little Jim was a pocket edition of his father.
"Where's your shootin'-iron?" queried Big Jim jokingly.
"Why, she's standin' in the corner, aside of yours. A man don't pack hisshootin'-iron in his bed-roll when he hits the trail. He keeps herhandy."
"For stingin' lizards, eh?"
"For 'most anything. Stingin' lizards, Injuns, or hoss-thieves, oranything that we kin shoot. We ain't takin' no chances on this heretrip."
Big Jim gestured toward the table and pulled up his chair. Little Jimwas too heartily interested in the meal to notice that his father gazedcuriously at him from time to time. Until then, Big Jim had thought ofhis small son as a chipper, sturdy, willing boy--his boy. But now,Little Jim seemed suddenly to have become an actual companion, apartner, a sharer in things as they were and were to be.
Hard work and inherent industry had developed in Little Jim anindependence that would have been considered precocious in the East. BigJim was glad that the mother's absence did not seem to affect the boymuch. Little Jim seemed quite philosophical about it. Yet, deep in hisheart, Little Jim missed his mother, more than his father realized. Thehouse seemed strangely empty and quiet. And it had seemed queer that BigJim should cook the supper, and, later, wash the dishes.<
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That evening, just before they went to bed, Big Jim ransacked thebureau, sorting out his own things, and laying aside a few things thathis wife had left: a faded pink ribbon, an old pair of high-heeledslippers, a torn and unmended apron, and an old gingham dress. Gatheringthese things together, Big Jim stuffed them in the kitchen stove. LittleJim watched him silently.
But when his father came from the stove and sat down, Little Jim slippedover to him. "Dad, are you mad at ma for leavin' us?" he queried.
Big Jim shook his head. "No, Jimmy. Just didn't want to leave her thingsaround, after we had gone. Benson'll be movin' in sometime this week. Isold our place to him."
"The stove and beds and everything?"
"Everything."
Little Jim wrinkled his nose and sniffed. "Them things you put in thestove smell just like brandin' a critter," he said, gesturing toward thekitchen.
Big Jim gazed hard at his young son. Then he smiled to himself, andshook his head. "Just like brandin' a critter," he repeated, half tohimself. "Just like brandin' a critter."