realized what had happened, Pete had whipped out
his gun. With the crash of the shot the dog doubled up and dropped in
his tracks. The boys scattered and ran. Pete cut loose in their
general direction. They ran faster. The older folk, chattering and
scolding, backed into the store. "Montoya's boy was loco. He would
kill somebody!" Some of the women crossed themselves. The
storekeeper, who knew Pete slightly, ventured out. He argued with
Pete, who blinked and nodded, but would not put up his gun. The
Mexicans feared him for the very fact that he was a boy and might do
anything. Had he been a man he might have been shot. But this did not
occur to Pete. He was fighting mad. His burros were gone and his
provisions scattered, save a few canned tomatoes that had not suffered
damage. The storekeeper started toward him. Pete centered on that
worthy's belt-buckle and told him to stay where he was.

"I'll blow a hole in you that you can drive a team through if you come
near me!" asserted Pete. "I come in here peaceful, and you doggone
Cholas wrecked my outfit and stampeded my burros; but they ain't no
Mexican can run a whizzer on me twict. I'm white--see!"

"It is not I that did this thing," said the storekeeper.

"No, but the doggone town did! I reckon when Jose Montoya comes in and
wants his grub, you'll settle all right. And he's comin'!"

"Then you will go and not shoot any one?"

"When I git ready. But you kin tell your outfit that the first Chola
that follows me is goin' to run up ag'inst a slug that'll bust him wide
open. I'm goin'--but I'm comin' back."

Pete, satisfied that he had conducted himself in a manner befitting the
occasion, backed away a few steps and finally turned and marched across
the mesa. They had wrecked his outfit. He'd show 'em! Old Montoya
knew that something was wrong when the burros drifted in with their
pack-saddles askew. He thought that possibly some coyote had stampeded
them. He righted the pack-saddles and drove the burros back toward
Laguna. Halfway across the mesa he met Pete, who told him what had
happened. Montoya said nothing. Pete had hoped that his master would
rave and threaten all sorts of vengeance. But the old man simply
nodded, and plodding along back of the burros, finally entered Laguna
and strode up to the store. All sorts of stories were afloat, stories
which Montoya discounted liberally, because he knew Pete. The owner of
the dog claimed