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Updated: June 22, 2025
"I couldn't ketch him, honest." "Thought you said you caught him in the brush and tied him to a tree and Young Annersley threatened to kill you if you went for your saddle." "That's right honest, Bill, that's what he said." "Then how is it that Bobby Lent caught your horse strayin' in more 'n a hour ago? Dam' if I believe a word you say. You're plumb crazy." "Honest, Bill.
"We got some fast ones," was all that the foreman chose to say, just then. Pete and the foreman had something to eat in the chuck-house, and returned to the larger building. Brent read The Spider's letter, rolled the end of his silver-gray mustache between his thumb and forefinger, and finally glanced up. "So, you're Pete Annersley?" "That's my name." "Have a chair.
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.
The captain set down his bag, leaned on his stick, deliberately scrutinized the other man. Larry returned the look frankly. They were of nearly the same age but any one seeing them would have set the Englishman as at least five years the senior of the young doctor. Geoffrey Annersley had been trained in a stern school. A man does not wear a captain's bars and four wound stripes for nothing.
It was near twelve that night when a quiet band of riders dismounted at the Annersley cabin, separated, and trailed off in the darkness to look for Gary. One of them found him where he had fallen and signaled with his gun. They carried Gary to the cabin. In the flickering light of the open stove they saw that he was still alive. There was one chance in a thousand that he could recover.
And say I was to git you one of them guns like you said; you couldn't shoot chewin'-tobacco in that gun, could you?" "Most anybody knows that!" laughed Pete. "But you could buy cartridges with that dollar an' shoot lots." "Would you lick me if I bought chewin'?" "Shucks, no! I was jest leavin' it to you." "When do I git that dollar the first one?" Annersley smiled to himself.
To be shut from the sun and the space of the range perhaps for life or to be sentenced to be hanged, powerless to make any kind of a fight, without friends or money . . . He thought of The Spider, of Boca, of Montoya, and of Pop Annersley; of Andy White and Bailey. He wondered if Ed Brevoort had got clear of El Paso. He knew that there was some one in the hall, waiting.
If the T-Bar-T outfit were going to run his pop out of the country, Young Pete intended to be in at the running. The feel of the carbine beneath his leg gave him courage. Up to the time Annersley had adopted him, Pete had had to fight and scheme and dodge his way through life. He had asked no favors and expected none.
Pete intuitively disliked these men, despite the fact that they rode excellent horses, sported gay trappings, and "joshed" with him as though he were one of themselves. His instinct told him that they were not altogether friendly to Annersley.
Then the Englishman held out his hand with a pleasant and unexpectedly boyish smile. "So you are Larry," he said. "Your brother sent me to you." "Ted! You have seen him?" For a minute Larry forgot who Geoffrey Annersley was, forgot Ruth, forgot himself, remembered only Ted and gave his guest a heartier handshake than he had willed for his "Kid" brother's sake.
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