still a little wine--and we buy what we may need of
Mescalero. If you will come in--"

"So they missed old Mescalero! Well, he's lucky. No, I don't come in.
I tried boardin' at your house onct."

"Then I will get the tortillas." And Flores shuffled into the saloon.
Presently he returned with a half-dozen tortillas wrapped up in an old
newspaper. Pete tossed him a dollar, and packing the tortillas in his
saddle-pockets, gazed round at the town, the silent and deserted
houses, the empty street, and finally at The Spider's place.

Old Flores stood in the doorway staring at Pete with drink-blurred
eyes. Pete hesitated. He thought of dismounting and going in and
speaking to Flores's wife. But no! It would do neither of them any
good. Flores had intimated that she had gone crazy. And Pete did not
want to talk of Boca--nor hear her name mentioned. "Boca's where she
ain't worryin' about anybody," he reflected as he swung round and rode
out of town.

Once before he had camped in the same draw, a few miles west of
Showdown, and Blue Smoke seemed to know the place, for he had swung
from the trail of his own accord, striding straight to the water-hole.

"And if you keep on actin' polite," Pete told the pony as he hobbled
him that evening, "you'll get a good reputation, like Jim Owen said;
which is plumb necessary, if you an' me's goin' to be pals. But if
gettin' a good reputation is goin' to spoil your wind or legs any--why,
jest keep on bein' onnery--which Jim was tellin' me is called
'Character.'"

As Pete hardened to the saddle and Blue Smoke hardened to the trail,
they traveled faster and farther each day, until, on the Blue Mesa,
where the pony grazed and Pete squatted beside his night-fire in the
open, they were but a half-day's journey from the Concho. Pete almost
regretted that their journey must come to an end. But he could not go
on meandering about the country without a home and without an object in
life: _that_ was pure loafing.

Pete might have excused himself on the ground that he needed just this
sort of thing after his serious operation; but he was honest with
himself, admitting that he felt fit to tackle almost any kind of hard
work, except perhaps writing letters--for he now thought well enough of
himself to believe that Doris Gray would answer his letter to her from
Sanborn. And of course he would answer her letter--and if he answered
that, she would naturally answer . . . Shucks! Why s