pack, and plenty of easy detail to take up his immediate
time. Perhaps he would talk with Montoya after supper about making a
change. Perhaps not. It might be better to wait until he saw Andy
White again.

In camp that night Montoya asked Pete if he were sick. Pete shook his
head; "Jest thinkin'," he replied.

Old Montoya, wise in his way, knew that something had occurred, yet he
asked no further questions, but rolled a cigarette and smoked,
wondering whether Young Pete were dissatisfied with the pay he gave
him--for Pete now got two dollars a week and his meals. Montoya
thought of offering him more. The boy was worth more. But he would
wait. If Pete showed any disposition to leave, then would be time
enough to speak. So they sat by the fire in the keen evening air, each
busy with his own thoughts, while the restless sheep bedded down,
bleating and shuffling, and the dogs lay with noses toward the fire,
apparently dozing, but ever alert for a stampede; alert for any
possibility--even as were Montoya and Pete, although outwardly placid
and silent.

Next morning, after the sheep were out, Pete picked up a pack-rope and
amused himself by flipping the loop on the burros, the clumps of brush,
stubs, and limbs, keeping at it until the old herder noticed and
nodded. "He is thinking of the cattle," soliloquized Montoya. "I will
have to get a new boy some day. But he will speak, and then I shall
know."

While Pete practiced with the rope he was figuring how long it would
take him to save exactly eighteen dollars and a half, for that was the
price of a Colt's gun such as he had taken from the store at Concho.
Why he should think of saving the money for a gun is not quite clear.
He already had one. Possibly because they were drifting back toward
the town of Concho, Pete wished to be prepared in case Roth asked him
about the gun. Pete had eleven dollars pinned in the watch-pocket of
his overalls. In three weeks, at most, they would drive past Concho.
He would then have seventeen dollars. Among his personal effects he
had two bobcat skins and a coyote-hide. Perhaps he could sell them for
a dollar or two. How often did Andy White ride the Largo Canon? The
Concho cattle grazed to the east. Perhaps White had forgotten his
promise to ride over some evening. Pete swung his loop and roped a
clump of brush. "I'll sure forefoot you, you doggone longhorn!" he
said. "I'll git my iron on you, you maverick! I'm the