the half-concealed weapon beneath his
arm. "Tied her on with string--ain't got no shoulder holster," Pete
explained in an offhand way.

"What you do with him?" The old Mexican's deep-set eyes twinkled.
Pete studied Montoya's face. This was a direct but apparently friendly
query. Pete wondered if he should answer evasively or directly. The
fact was that he did not know just why he had taken the gun--or what he
intended to do with it. After all, it was none of Montoya's business,
yet Pete did not wish to offend the old man. He wanted to hear more
about gun-fights with the cattlemen.

"Well, seein' it's you, senor,"--Pete adopted the grand air as most
befitting the occasion,--"I'm packin' this here gun to fight
cow-punchers with. Reckon you don't know some cow-punchers killed my
dad. I was just a kid then. [Pete was now nearly fourteen.] Some day
I'm goin' to git the man what killed him."

Montoya did not smile. This muchacho evidently had spirit. Pete's
invention, made on the spur of the moment, had hit "plumb center," as
he told himself. For Montoya immediately became gracious, proffered
Pete tobacco and papers, and suggested coffee, which the young Mexican
made while Pete and the old man chatted. Pete was deeply impressed by
his reception. He felt that he had made a hit with Montoya--and that
the other had taken him seriously. Most men did not, despite the fact
that he was accredited with having slain two T-Bar-T cowboys. A
strange sympathy grew between this old Mexican and the lean,
bright-eyed young boy. Perhaps Pete's swarthy coloring and black eyes
had something to do with it. Possibly Pete's assurance, as contrasted
with the bashfulness and timidity of the old Mexican's nephew, had
something to do with Montoya's immediate friendliness. In any event,
the visit ended with an invitation to Pete to become a permanent member
of the sheep-camp, Montoya explaining that his nephew wanted to go
home; that he did not like the loneliness of a herder's life.

Pete had witnessed too many horse-trades to accept this proposal at
once. His face expressed deep cogitation, as he flicked the ashes from
his cigarette and shook his head. "I dunno. Roth is a pretty good
boss. 'Course, he ain't no gun-fighter--and that's kind of in your
favor--"

"What hombre say I make fight with gun?" queried Montoya.

"Why, everybody! I reckon they's mighty few of 'em want to stack up
against you."

Montoya frowned.