hould she write
to him? All he had ever done for her was to make her a lot of bother
and hard work. And what good was his money to him? He couldn't just
walk into a store and buy an education and have it wrapped up in paper
and take it to her and say, "Here, Miss Gray. I got a education--the
best they had in the outfit. Now if you'll take it as a kind of
present--and me along with it . . ."

Pete was camping within fifty yards of the spot where old Pop Annersley
had tried to teach him to read and write--it seemed a long time ago,
and Annersley himself seemed more vague in Pete's memory, as he tried
to recall the kindly features and the slow, deliberate movements of the
old man. It irritated Pete that he could not recall old man
Annersley's face distinctly. He could remember his voice, and one or
two characteristic gestures--but his face--

Pete stared into the camp-fire, dreaming back along that trail over
which he had struggled and fought and blundered; back to the time when
he was a waif in Enright, his only companion a lean yellow dog . . .
Pete nodded and his eyes closed. He turned lazily and leaned back
against his saddle.

The mesa, carpeted with sod-grass, gave no warning of the approaching
horseman, who had seen the tiny fire and had ridden toward it. Just
within the circle of firelight he reined in and was about to call out
when that inexplicable sense inherent in animals, the Indian, and in
some cases the white man, brought Pete to his feet. In that same
lightning-swift, lithe movement he struck his gun from the holster and
stood tense as a buck that scents danger on the wind.

Pete blinked the sleep from his eyes. "Keep your hands right where
they be and step down off that hoss--"

The rider obeyed. Pete moved from the fire that his own shadow might
not fall upon the other. "Pete!" exclaimed the horseman in a sort of
choking whisper.

The gun sagged in Peter's hand. "Andy! For God's sake!--I come clost
to killin' you!" And he leaped and caught Andy White's hand, shook it,
flung his arm about his shoulders, stepped back and struck him
playfully on the chest, grabbed him and shook him--and then suddenly he
turned and walked back to the fire and sat down, blinking into the
flames, and trying to swallow nothing, harder than he had ever tried to
swallow anything in his life.

He heard Andy's step behind him, and heard his own name spoken again.
"It was my fault, Pete. I ought to 'a' holle