ns were packed on the shaggy
burros. Pete helped carry the supplies to the doorway and watched him
pack. The two sharp-nosed sheep-dogs interested Pete. They seemed so
alert, and yet so quietly satisfied with their lot. The last thing the
old Mexican did was to ask for a few cartridges. Pete did not
understand just what kind he wanted. With a secretiveness which
thrilled Pete clear to the toes, the old herder, in the shadowy rear of
the store, drew a heavy six-shooter from under his arm and passed it
stealthily to Pete, who recognized the caliber and found cartridges for
it. Pete's manner was equally stealthy. This smacked of adventure!
Cattlemen and sheepmen were not friendly, as Pete knew. Pete had no
love for the "woolies," yet he hated cattlemen. The old Mexican
thanked him and invited him to visit his camp below Concho. Possibly
Pete never would have left the storekeeper--or at least not
immediately--had not that good man, always willing to cater to Pete's
curiosity as to guns and gunmen, told him that old Montoya, while a
Mexican, was a dangerous man with a six-gun; that he was seldom
molested by the cattlemen, who knew him to be absolutely without fear
and a dead shot.

"Huh! That old herder ain't no gun-fighter!" Pete had said, although
he believed the storekeeper. Pete wanted to hear more.

"Most Mexicans ain't," replied Roth, for Pete's statement was half a
challenge, half a question. "But Jose Montoya never backed down from a
fight--and he's had plenty."

Pete was interested. He determined to visit Montoya's camp that
evening. He said nothing to Roth, as he intended to return.

Long before Pete arrived at the camp he saw the tiny fire--a dot of red
against the dark--and he heard the muffled trampling of the sheep as
they bedded down for the night. Within a few yards of the camp the
dogs challenged him, charging down the gentle slope to where he stood.
Pete paid no attention to them, but marched up to the fire. Old
Montoya rose and greeted him pleasantly. Another Mexican, a slim
youth, bashfully acknowledged Pete's presence and called in the dogs.
Pete, who had known many outland camp-fires, made himself at home,
sitting cross-legged and affecting a mature indifference. The old
Mexican smoked and studied the youngster, amused by his evident attempt
to appear grown-up and disinterested.

"That gun, he poke you in the rib, hey?"--and Montoya chuckled.

Pete flushed and glanced down at