The Ridin' Kid from Powder River

by Henry Herbert Knibbs

  CHAPTER VI

  NEW VISTAS

  Much that Annersley had taught Pete was undone in the lazy, listlesslife of the sheep-camp. There was a certain slow progressiveness aboutit, however, that saved it from absolute monotony. Each day the sheepgrazed out, the distance being automatically adjusted by the coming ofnight, when they were bunched and slowly drifted back to thebedding-ground. A day or two--depending on the grazing--and they werebedded in a new place as the herder worked toward the low countryfollowed by a recurrent crispness in the air that presaged the comingof winter in the hills. Pete soon realized that, despite their seemingindependence, sheep-men were slaves of the seasons. They "followed thegrass" and fled from cold weather and snow. At times, if the winterwas severe in the lower levels, they even had to winter-feed to savethe band. Lambs became tired or sick--unable to follow the ewes--andPete often found some lone lamb hiding beneath a clump of brush whereit would have perished had he not carried it on to the flock andwatched it until it grew stronger. He learned that sheep weregregarious--that a sheep left alone on the mesa, no matter how strong,through sheer loneliness would cease to eat and slowly starve to death.Used to horses, Pete looked upon sheep with contempt. They had neitherindividual nor collective intelligence. Let them once becomefrightened and if not immediately headed off by the dogs, they wouldstampede over the brink of an arroyo and trample each other to death.This all but happened once when Montoya was buying provisions in townand Pete was in charge of the band. The camp was below the rim of acanon. The sheep were scattered over a mile or so of mesa, grazingcontentedly. The dogs, out-posted on either side of the flock, wereresting, but alert. To the left, some distance from the sheep, was thecanon-rim and a trail, gatewayed by two huge boulders, man-high, withabout enough space between them for a burro to pass. A horse couldhardly have squeezed through. Each night the sheep were headed forthis pass and worked through, one at a time, stringing down the trailbelow which was steep and sandy. At the canon bottom was water andacross the shallows were the bedding-grounds and the camp. Pete,drowsing in the sun, occasionally glanced up at the flock. He saw noneed for standing up, as Montoya always did when out with the band.The sheep were all right--and the day was hot. Presently Pete becameinterested in a mighty battle between a colony of red ants which seemedto be attacking a colony of big black ants that had in some wayinfringed on some international agreement, or overstepped thecolor-line. Pete picked up a twig and hastily scraped up a sandbarricade, to protect the red ants, who, despite their valor, seemed tobe getting the worst of it. Black ants scurried to the top of thebarricade to be grappled by the tiny red ants, who fought valiantly.Pete saw a red ant meet one of the enemy who was twice his size,wrestle with him and finally best him. Evidently this particular blackant, though deceased, was of some importance, possibly an officer, forthe little red ant seized him and bore him bodily to the rear where hein turn collapsed and was carried to the adjoining ant-hill by two ofhis comrades evidently detailed on ambulance work. "Everybodyscraps--even the bugs," said Pete. "Them little red cusses sure ain'tscared o' nothin'." Stream after stream of red ants hastened toreinforce their comrades on the barricade. The battle became general.Pete grew excited. He was scraping up another barricade when he heardone of the dogs bark. He glanced up. The sheep, frightened by abuzzard that had swooped unusually close to them, bunched and shottoward the canon in a cloud of dust. Pete jumped to his feet and ranswiftly toward the rock gateway to head them off. He knew that theywould make for the trail, and that those that did not get through thepass would trample the weaker sheep to death. The dog on the canonside of the band raced across their course, snapping at the foremost ina sturdy endeavor to turn them. But he could not. He ran, nipped asheep, and then jumped back to save himself from being cut to pieces bythe blundering feet. Young Pete saw that he could not reach the passahead of them. Out of breath and half-sobbing as he realized thefutility of his effort, he suddenly recalled an incident like this whenMontoya, failing to head the band in a similar situation, had coollyshot the leader and had broken the stampede.

  Pete immediately sat down, and rested the barrel of his six-shooter onhis knee. He centered on the pass. A few seconds--and a big ram,several feet ahead of the others, dashed into the notch. Pete graspedhis gun with both hands and fired. The ram reared and dropped justwithin the rocky gateway. Pete saw another sheep jump over the ram anddisappear. Pete centered on the notch again and as the gray massbunched and crowded together to get through, he fired. Another sheeptoppled and fell. Still the sheep rushed on, crowding against therocks and trampling each other in a frantic endeavor to get through.Occasionally one of the leaders leaped over the two dead sheep anddisappeared down the trail. But the first force of their stampede waschecked. Dropping his gun, Pete jumped up and footed it for the notch,waving his hat as he ran. Bleating and bawling, the band turned slowlyand swung parallel to the canon-rim. The dogs, realizing that theycould now turn the sheep back, joined forces, and running a ticklishrace along the very edge of the canon, headed the band toward the safeground to the west. Pete, as he said later, "cussed 'em a plenty."When he took up his station between the band and the canon, wonderingwhat Montoya would say when he returned.

  When the old Mexican, hazing the burros across the mesa, saw Pete wavehis hat, he knew that something unusual had happened. Montoya shruggedhis shoulders as Pete told of the stampede.

  "So it is with the sheep," said Montoya casually. "These we will takeaway, for the sheep will smell the blood and not go down the trail."And he pointed to the ram and the ewe that Pete had shot. "I will goto the camp and unpack. You have killed two good sheep, but you havesaved many."

  Pete said nothing about the battle of the ants. He knew that he hadbeen remiss, but he thought that in eventually turning the sheep he hadmade up for it.

  And because Pete was energetic, self-reliant, and steady, capable oftaking the burros into town and packing back provisions promptly--forPete, unlike most boys, did not care to loaf about town--the old herderbecame exceedingly fond of him, although he seldom showed it in adirect way. Rather, he taught Pete Mexican--colloquialisms and idiomsthat are not found in books--until Pete, who already knew enough of thelanguage to get along handily, became thoroughly at home whenever hechanced to meet a Mexican--herder, cowboy, or storekeeper. Naturally,Pete did not appreciate the value of this until later--when hisfamiliarity with the language helped him out of many a tight place.But what Pete did appreciate was the old herder's skill with thesix-gun--his uncanny ability to shoot from any position on the instantand to use the gun with either hand with equal facility. In one of thedesert towns Pete had traded a mountain-lion skin for a belt andholster and several boxes of cartridges to boot, for Pete was keen atbargaining. Later the old Mexican cut down the belt to fit Pete andtaught him how to hang the gun to the best advantage. Then he taughtPete to "draw," impressing upon him that while accuracy was exceedinglydesirable, a quick draw was absolutely essential. Pete practiced earlyand late, more than disgusted because Montoya made him practice with anempty gun. He "threw down" on moving sheep, the dogs, an occasionaldistant horseman, and even on Montoya himself, but never until the oldherder had examined the weapon and assured himself that he would not besuddenly bumped off into glory by his ambitious assistant. As some menplay cards, partly for amusement and partly to keep their hands in, soPete and Montoya played the six-gun game, and neither seemed to tire ofthe amusement. Montoya frequently unloaded his own gun and making surethat Pete had done likewise, the old herder would stand opposite himand count--"Una, duo, tres," and the twain would "go for their guns" tosee who would get in the first theoretical shot. At first Pete wasslow. His gun was too heavy for him and his wrist was not quick. Buthe stuck to it until finally he could draw and shoot almost as fast ashis teacher. Later they practiced while sitting down, while recliningpropped on one elbow, and finally from a prone position, where Petelearned to roll sideways, draw and shoot even as a side-
winder of thedesert strikes without coiling. Montoya taught him to throw a shotover his shoulder, to "roll" his gun, to pretend to surrender it, and,handing it out butt first, flip it over and shoot the theoreticalenemy. He also taught him one trick which, while not consideredlegitimate by most professional gunmen, was exceedingly worth while onaccount of its deadly unexpectedness--and that was to shoot through theopen holster without drawing the gun. Such practice allowed of only alimited range, never higher than a man's belt, but as Montoyaexplained, a shot belt-high and center was most effective.

  Pete took an almost vicious delight in perfecting himself in thistrick. He knew of most of the other methods--but shooting with the gunin the holster was difficult and for close-range work, and just inproportion to its difficulty Pete persevered.

  He was fond of Montoya in an offhand way, but with the lessons ingunmanship his fondness became almost reverence for the old man's easyskill and accuracy. Despite their increasing friendliness, Pete couldnever get Montoya to admit that he had killed a man--and Pete thoughtthis strange, at that time.

  Pete's lessons were not always without grief. Montoya, ordinarilygenial, was a hard master to please. Finally, when Pete was allowed touse ammunition in his practice, and insisted on sighting at an object,Montoya reproved him sharply for wasting time. "It is like this," hewould say; illustrating on the instant he would throw a shot into thechance target without apparent aim. Once he made Pete put down his gunand take up a handful of stones. "Now shoot," he said. Pete, muchchagrined, pelted the stones rapidly at the empty can target. To hissurprise he missed it only once. "Now shoot him like that," saidMontoya. Pete, chafing because of this "kid stuff," as he called thestone-throwing, picked up his gun and "threw" five shots at the can.He was angry and he shot fast, but he hit the can twice. From thatminute he "caught on." Speed tended toward accuracy, premising one wasused to the "feel" of a gun. And accuracy tended toward speed, givingone assurance. Even as one must throw a stone with speed to beaccurate, so one must shoot with speed. It was all easy enough--likeeverything else--when you had the hang of it.

  How often a hero of fiction steps into a story--or rides into it--whosedeadly accuracy, lightning-like swiftness, appalling freedom fromaccident, ostrich-like stomach and camel-like ability to go withoutwater, earn him the plaudits of a legion of admiring readers. Aproposof such a hero, your old-timer will tell you, "that there ain't no suchanimal." If your old-timer is a friend--perchance carrying thenever-mentioned scars of cattle-wars and frontier raids--he may tellyou that many of the greatest gunmen practiced early and late, spentall their spare money on ammunition, never "showed-off" before anaudience, always took careful advantage of every fighting chance, savedtheir horses and themselves from undue fatigue when possible, neverkilled a man when they could avoid killing him, bore themselvesquietly, didn't know the meaning of Romance, but were strong forutility, and withal worked as hard and suffered as much in becomingproficient in their vocation as the veriest artisan of the cities.Circumstances, hazard, untoward event, even inclination towardexcitement, made some of these men heroes, but never in their own eyes.There were exceptions, of course, but most of the exceptions wereburied.

  And Young Pete, least of all, dreamed of becoming a hero. He likedguns and all that pertained to them. The feel of a six-shooter in hishand gave him absolute pleasure. The sound of a six-shooter was musicto him, and the potency contained in the polished cylinder filled withblunt-nosed slugs was something that he could appreciate. He was aborn gunman, as yet only in love with the tools of his trade,interested more in the manipulation than in eventual results. Hewished to become expert, but in becoming expert he forgot for the timebeing his original intent of eventually becoming the avenger ofAnnersley. Pride in his ability to draw quick and shoot straight, withan occasional word of praise from old Montoya, pretty well satisfiedhim. When he was not practicing he was working, and thought only ofthe task at hand.

  Pete was generally liked in the towns where he occasionally boughtprovisions. He was known as "Montoya's boy," and the townsfolk had ahigh respect for the old Mexican. One circumstance, however, ruffledthe placid tenor of his way and tended to give him the reputation ofbeing a "bronco muchacho"--a rough boy; literally a bad boy, as whitefolks would have called him.

  Montoya sent him into town for some supplies. As usual, Pete rode oneof the burros. It was customary for Pete to leave his gun in camp whengoing to town. Montoya had suggested that he do this, as much forPete's sake as for anything else. The old man knew that slightly olderboys were apt to make fun of Pete for packing such a disproportionatelylarge gun--or, in fact, for packing any gun at all. And Montoya alsofeared that Pete might get into trouble. Pete was pugnacious,independent, and while always possessing enough humor to hold his ownin a wordy argument, he had much pride, considering himself the equalof any man and quite above the run of youths of the towns. And hedisliked Mexicans--Montoya being the one exception. This morning hedid not pack his gun, but hung it on the cross-tree of the pack-saddle.There were many brush rabbits on the mesa, and they made interestingtargets.

  About noon he arrived at the town--Laguna. He bought the fewprovisions necessary and piled them on the ground near his burros. Hehad brought some cold meat and bread with him which he ate, squattedout in front of the store. Several young loafers gathered round andheld high argument among themselves as to whether Pete was a Mexican ornot. This in itself was not altogether pleasing to Pete. He knew thathe was tanned to a swarthy hue, was naturally of a dark complexion, andpossessed black hair and eyes. But his blood rebelled at even thesuggestion that he was a Mexican. He munched his bread and meat,tossed the crumbs to a stray dog and rolled a cigarette. One of theMexican boys asked him for tobacco and papers. Pete gladly proffered"the makings." The Mexican youth rolled a cigarette and passed thesack of tobacco to his companions. Pete eyed this breach of etiquettesternly, and received the sack back, all but empty. But still he saidnothing, but rose and entering the store--a rambling, flat-roofedadobe--bought another sack of tobacco. When he came out the boys werelaughing. He caught a word or two which drove the jest home. In thevernacular, he was "an easy mark."

  "Mebby I am," he said in Mexican. "But I got the price to buy mysmokes. I ain't no doggone loafer."

  The Mexican youth who had asked for the tobacco retorted with some moreor less vile language, intimating that Pete was neither Mexican norwhite--an insult compared to which mere anathema was as nothing. Peteknew that if he started a row he would get properly licked--that theboys would all pile on him and chase him out of town. So he turned hisback on the group and proceeded to pack the burros. The Mexican boysforgot the recent unpleasantness in watching him pack. They realizedthat he knew his business. But Pete was not through with them yet.When he had the burros in shape to travel he picked up the stick withwhich he hazed them and faced the group. What he said to them wasenough with some to spare for future cogitation. He surpassed mereinvective with flaming innuendos as to the ancestry, habits, andappearance of these special gentlemen and of Mexicans in general. Heknew Mexicans and knew where he could hit hardest. He wound up withgentle intimation that the town would have made a respectable pigsty,but that a decent pig would have a hard time keeping his self-respectamong so many descendants of the canine tribe. It was a beautiful, aneloquent piece of work, and even as he delivered it he felt ratherproud of his command of the Mexican idiom. Then he made a mistake. Hepromptly turned his back and started the burros toward the distantcamp. Had he kept half an eye on the boys he might have avoidedtrouble. But he had turned his back. They thought that he was bothangry and afraid. They also made a slight mistake. The youth who hadborrowed the tobacco and who had taken most of Pete's eloquence toheart--for he had inspired it--called the dog that lay back of them inthe shade and set him on Pete and the burros. If a burro hatesanything it is to be attacked by a dog. Pete whirled and swung hisstick. The dog, a huge, lean, coyote-faced animal, dodged and snapped
at the nearest burro's heels. That placid animal promptly bucked andran. His brother burro took the cue and did likewise. Presently theimmediate half-mile square was decorated with loose provisions--sugar,beans, flour, a few cans of tomatoes, and chiles broken from the sackand strung out in every direction. The burros became a seething cloudof dust in the distance. Pete chased the dog which naturally circledand ran back of the group of the store. Older Mexicans gathered andlaughed. The boys, feeling secure in the presence of their seniors,added their shrill yelps of pleasure. Pete, boiling internally,white-faced and altogether too quiet, slowly gathered up whatprovisions were usable. Presently he came upon his gun, which had beenbucked from the pack-saddle. The Mexicans were still laughing when hestrode back to the store. The dog, scenting trouble, bristled andsnarled, baring his long fangs and standing with one forefoot raised.Before the assembly realized what had happened, Pete had whipped outhis gun. With the crash of the shot the dog doubled up and dropped inhis tracks. The boys scattered and ran. Pete cut loose in theirgeneral direction. They ran faster. The older folk, chattering andscolding, backed into the store. "Montoya's boy was loco. He wouldkill somebody!" Some of the women crossed themselves. Thestorekeeper, who knew Pete slightly, ventured out. He argued withPete, who blinked and nodded, but would not put up his gun. TheMexicans feared him for the very fact that he was a boy and might doanything. Had he been a man he might have been shot. But this did notoccur to Pete. He was fighting mad. His burros were gone and hisprovisions scattered, save a few canned tomatoes that had not suffereddamage. The storekeeper started toward him. Pete centered on thatworthy'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 comenear me!" asserted Pete. "I come in here peaceful, and you doggoneCholas wrecked my outfit and stampeded my burros; but they ain't noMexican 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 andwants 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 Cholathat follows me is goin' to run up ag'inst a slug that'll bust him wideopen. I'm goin'--but I'm comin' back."

  Pete, satisfied that he had conducted himself in a manner befitting theoccasion, backed away a few steps and finally turned and marched acrossthe mesa. They had wrecked his outfit. He'd show 'em! Old Montoyaknew that something was wrong when the burros drifted in with theirpack-saddles askew. He thought that possibly some coyote had stampededthem. He righted the pack-saddles and drove the burros back towardLaguna. Halfway across the mesa he met Pete, who told him what hadhappened. Montoya said nothing. Pete had hoped that his master wouldrave and threaten all sorts of vengeance. But the old man simplynodded, and plodding along back of the burros, finally entered Lagunaand strode up to the store. All sorts of stories were afloat, storieswhich Montoya discounted liberally, because he knew Pete. The owner ofthe dog claimed damages. Montoya, smiling inwardly, referred thatgentleman to Pete, who stood close to his employer, hoping that hewould start a real row, but pretty certain that he would not. That wasMontoya's way. The scattered provisions as far as possible weresalvaged and fresh supplies loaded on the burros. When Montoya wasready to leave he turned to the few Mexicans in front of the store:"When I send my boy in here for flour and the beans and the sugar, itwill be well to keep the dogs away--and to remember that it is Jose dela Crux that has sent him. For the new provisions I do not pay.Adios, senors."

  Pete thought that this was rather tame--but still Montoya's manner wasdecidedly business-like. No one controverted him--not even thestorekeeper, who was the loser.

  A small crowd had assembled. Excitement such as this was rare inLaguna. While still in plain sight of the group about the store, andas Montoya plodded slowly along behind the burros, Pete turned andlaunched his parthian shot--that eloquently expressive gesture ofcontempt and scorn wherein is employed the thumb, the nose, and theoutspread fingers of one hand. He was still very much a boy.

  About a year later--after drifting across a big territory of grazingland, winter-feeding the sheep near Largo, and while preparing to drivesouth again and into the high country--Pete met young Andy White, aclean-cut, sprightly cowboy riding for the Concho outfit. Andy hadridden down to Largo on some errand or other and had tied his pony infront of the store when Montoya's sheep billowed down the street andfrightened the pony. Young Pete, hazing the burros, saw the pony pullback and break the reins, whirl and dash out into the open and circlethe mesa with head and tail up. It was a young horse, not actuallywild, but decidedly frisky. Pete had not been on a horse for manymonths. The beautiful pony, stamping and snorting in the morning sun,thrilled Pete clear to his toes. To ride--anywhere--what a contrast toplodding along with the burros! To feel a horse between his kneesagain! To swing up and ride--ride across the mesa to that dim line ofhills where the sun touched the blue of the timber and the gold of thequaking-asp and burned softly on the far woodland trail that led southand south across the silent ranges! Pete snatched a rope from the packand walked out toward the pony. That good animal, a bit afraid of thequeer figure in the flapping overalls and flop-brimmed sombrero,snorted and swung around facing him. Dragging his rope, Pete walkedslowly forward. The pony stopped and flung up its head. Pete flippedthe loop and set back on his heels. The rope ran taut. Pete wasprepared for the usual battle, but the pony, instead, "came to therope" and sniffed curiously at Pete, who patted his nose and talked tohim. Assured that his strange captor knew horses, the pony allowed himto slip the rope round his nose and mount without even sidling. Petewas happy. This was something like! As for Montoya and thesheep--they were drifting on in a cloud of dust, the burros followingplacidly.

  "You sure caught him slick."

  Pete nodded to the bright-faced young cowboy who had stepped up to him.Andy White was older than Pete, heavier and taller, with keen blue eyesand an expression as frank and fearless as the morning itself. Incontrast, Young Pete was lithe and dark, his face was more mature, moreserious, and his black eyes seemed to see everything at a glance--aquick, indifferent glance that told no one what was behind theexpression. Andy was light-skinned and ruddy. Pete was swarthy andblack-haired. For a second or so they stood, then White geniallythrust out his hand. "Thanks!" he said heartily. "You sabe 'em."

  It was a little thing to say and yet it touched Pete's pride. Deep inhis heart he was a bit ashamed of consorting with a sheep-herder--aMexican; and to be recognized as being familiar with horses pleased himmore than his countenance showed. "Yes. I handled 'emsome--tradin'--when I was a kid."

  Andy glanced at the boyish figure and smiled. "You're wastin' goodtime with that outfit,"--and he gestured with his thumb toward thesheep.

  "Oh, I dunno. Jose Montoya ain't so slow--with a gun."

  Andy White laughed. "Old Crux ain't a bad old scout--but you ain't aMexican. Anybody can see that!"

  "Well, just for fun--suppose I was."

  "It would be different," said Andy. "You're white, all right!"

  "Meanin' my catchin' your cayuse. Well, anybody'd do that."

  "They ain't nothin' to drink but belly-wash in this town," said Andyboyishly. "But you come along down to the store an' I'll buy."

  "I'll go you! I see you're ridin' for the Concho."

  "Uh-huh, a year."

  Pete walked beside this new companion and Pete was thinking hard."What's your name?" he queried suddenly.

  "White--Andy White. What's yours?"

  "Pete Annersley," he replied proudly.

  They sat outside the store and drank bottled pop and swapped youthfulyarns of the range and camp until Pete decided that he had better go.But his heart was no longer with the sheep.

  He rose and shook hands with Andy. "If you git a chanct, ride over to
our camp sometime. I'm goin' up the Largo. You can find us.Mebby"--and he hesitated, eying the pony--"mebby I might git a chanctto tie up to your outfit. I'm sick of the woolies."

  "Don't blame you, amigo. If I hear of anything I'll come a-fannin' andtell you. So-long. She's one lovely mornin'."

  Pete turned and plodded down the dusty road. Far ahead the sheepshuffled along, the dogs on either side of the band and old Montoyatrudging behind and driving the burros. Pete said nothing as he caughtup with Montoya, merely taking his place and hazing the burros towardtheir first camp in the canon.

  It was an aimless life, with little chance of excitement; but ridingrange--that was worth while! Already Pete had outgrown any sense ofdependency on the old Mexican. He felt that he was his own man. Hehad been literally raised with the horses and until this morning he hadnot missed them so much. But the pony and the sprightly young cowboy,with his keen, smiling face and swinging chaps, had stirred longings inYoung Pete's heart that no amount of ease or outdoor freedom with thesheep could satisfy. He wanted action. His life with Montoya had madehim careless but not indolent. He felt a touch of shame, realizingthat such a thought was disloyal to Montoya, who had done so much forhim. But what sentiment Pete had, ceased immediately, however, whenthe main chance loomed, and he thought he saw his fortune shapingtoward the range and the cow-ponies. He had liked Andy White from thebeginning. Perhaps they could arrange to ride together if he (Pete)could get work with the Concho outfit. The gist of it all was thatPete was lonely and did not realize it. Montoya was much older, grave,and often silent for days. He seemed satisfied with the life. Pete,in his way, had aspirations--vague as yet, but slowly shaping toward ahigher plane than the herding of sheep. He had had experiences enoughfor a man twice his age, and he knew that he had ability. As AndyWhite had said, it was wasting good time, this sheep-herding. Well,perhaps something would turn up. In the meantime there was camp tomake, water to pack, and plenty of easy detail to take up his immediatetime. Perhaps he would talk with Montoya after supper about making achange. Perhaps not. It might be better to wait until he saw AndyWhite again.

  In camp that night Montoya asked Pete if he were sick. Pete shook hishead; "Jest thinkin'," he replied.

  Old Montoya, wise in his way, knew that something had occurred, yet heasked no further questions, but rolled a cigarette and smoked,wondering whether Young Pete were dissatisfied with the pay he gavehim--for Pete now got two dollars a week and his meals. Montoyathought of offering him more. The boy was worth more. But he wouldwait. If Pete showed any disposition to leave, then would be timeenough to speak. So they sat by the fire in the keen evening air, eachbusy with his own thoughts, while the restless sheep bedded down,bleating and shuffling, and the dogs lay with noses toward the fire,apparently dozing, but ever alert for a stampede; alert for anypossibility--even as were Montoya and Pete, although outwardly placidand silent.

  Next morning, after the sheep were out, Pete picked up a pack-rope andamused himself by flipping the loop on the burros, the clumps of brush,stubs, and limbs, keeping at it until the old herder noticed andnodded. "He is thinking of the cattle," soliloquized Montoya. "I willhave to get a new boy some day. But he will speak, and then I shallknow."

  While Pete practiced with the rope he was figuring how long it wouldtake him to save exactly eighteen dollars and a half, for that was theprice of a Colt's gun such as he had taken from the store at Concho.Why he should think of saving the money for a gun is not quite clear.He already had one. Possibly because they were drifting back towardthe town of Concho, Pete wished to be prepared in case Roth asked himabout the gun. Pete had eleven dollars pinned in the watch-pocket ofhis overalls. In three weeks, at most, they would drive past Concho.He would then have seventeen dollars. Among his personal effects hehad two bobcat skins and a coyote-hide. Perhaps he could sell them fora dollar or two. How often did Andy White ride the Largo Canon? TheConcho cattle grazed to the east. Perhaps White had forgotten hispromise to ride over some evening. Pete swung his loop and roped aclump of brush. "I'll sure forefoot you, you doggone longhorn!" hesaid. "I'll git my iron on you, you maverick! I'm the Ridin' Kid fromPowder River, and I ride 'em straight up an' comin'." So he romanced,his feet on the ground, but his heart with the bawling herd and thecharging ponies. "Like to rope a lion," he told himself as he swunghis rope again. "Same as High-Chin Bob." Just then one of the dogs,attracted by Pete's unusual behavior, trotted up.

  Pete's rope shot out and dropped. The dog had never been roped. Hisdignity was assaulted. He yelped and started straightway for Montoya,who stood near the band, gazing, as ever, into space. Just as the ropecame taut, Pete's foot slipped and he lost the rope. The dog,frightened out of his wits, charged down on the sheep. The trailingrope startled them. They sagged in, crowding away from theterror-stricken dog. Fear, among sheep, spreads like fire in drygrass. In five seconds the band was running, with Montoya calling tothe dogs and Pete trying to capture the flying cause of the trouble.

  When the sheep were turned and had resumed their grazing, Montoya, whohad caught the roped dog, strode to Pete. "It was a bad thing to do,"he said easily. "Why did you rope him?"

  Pete scowled and stammered. "Thought he was a lion. He came a-tearin'up, and I was thinkin' o' lions. So, I jest nacherally loops him. Iwas praticin'."

  "First it was the gun. Now it is the rope," said Montoya, smiling."You make a vaquero, some day, I think."

  "Oh, mebby. But I sure won't quit you till you get 'em over the range,even if I do git a chanct to ride for some outfit. But I ain't got ajob, yet."

  "I would not like to have you go," said Montoya. "You are a good boy."

  Pete had nothing to say. He wished Montoya had not called him "a goodboy." That hurt. If Montoya had only scolded him for stampeding thesheep. . . . But Montoya had spoken in a kindly way.