YOUNG PETE

With the inevitable pinto or calico horse in his string the horse-trader drifted toward the distant town of Concho, accompanied by a lazy cloud of dust, a slat-ribbed dog, and a knock-kneed foal that insisted on getting in the way of the wagon team.  Strung out behind this indolently moving aggregation of desert adventurers plodded an indifferent lot of cayuses, their heads lowered and their eyes filled with dust.

Young Pete, perched on a saddle much too large for him, hazed the tired horses with a professional “Hi!  Yah!  Git in there, you doggone, onnery, three-legged pole-cat you!” A gratuitous command, for the three-legged pole-cat referred to had no other ambition than to shuffle wearily along behind the wagon in the hope that somewhere ahead was good grazing, water, and chance shade.

The trader was lean, rat-eyed, and of a vicious temper.  Comparatively, the worst horse in his string was a gentleman.  Horse-trading and whiskey go arm-in-arm, accompanied by their copartners, profanity and tobacco-chewing.  In the right hand of the horse-trader is guile and in his left hand is trickery.  And this squalid, slovenly-booted, and sombrero’d gentleman of the outlands lived down to and even beneath all the vicarious traditions of his kind, a pariah of the waste places, tolerated in the environs of this or that desert town chiefly because of Young Pete, who was popular, despite the fact that he bartered profanely for chuck at the stores, picketed the horses in pasturage already preempted by the natives, watered the horses where water was scarce and for local consumption only, and lied eloquently as to the qualities of his master’s caviayard when a trade was in progress.  For these manful services Young Pete received scant rations and much abuse.

Pete had been picked up in the town of Enright, where no one seemed to have a definite record of his immediate ancestry.  He was quite willing to go with the trader, his only stipulation being that he be allowed to bring along his dog, another denizen of Enright whose ancestry was as vague as were his chances of getting a square meal a day.  Yet the dog, despite lean rations, suffered less than Young Pete, for the dog trusted no man.  Consequently he was just out of reach when the trader wanted to kick something.  Young Pete was not always so fortunate.  But he was not altogether unhappy.  He had responsibilities, especially when the trader was drunk and the horses needed attention.  Pete learned much profanity without realizing its significance.  He also learned to chew tobacco and realized its immediate significance.  He mastered the art, however, and became in his own estimation a man grown—­a twelve-year-old man who could swear, chew, and show horses to advantage when the trader could not, because the horses were not afraid of Young Pete.

When Pete got kicked or cuffed he cursed the trader heartily.  Once, after a brutal beating, Young Pete backed to the wagon, pulled the rifle from beneath the seat, and threatened to kill the trader.  After that the rifle was never left loaded.  In his tough little heart Pete hated his master, but he liked the life, which offered much variety and promised no little romance of a kind.