flapping overalls and flop-brimmed sombrero,
snorted and swung around facing him. Dragging his rope, Pete walked
slowly forward. The pony stopped and flung up its head. Pete flipped
the loop and set back on his heels. The rope ran taut. Pete was
prepared for the usual battle, but the pony, instead, "came to the
rope" and sniffed curiously at Pete, who patted his nose and talked to
him. Assured that his strange captor knew horses, the pony allowed him
to slip the rope round his nose and mount without even sidling. Pete
was happy. This was something like! As for Montoya and the
sheep--they were drifting on in a cloud of dust, the burros following
placidly.

"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 eyes
and an expression as frank and fearless as the morning itself. In
contrast, Young Pete was lithe and dark, his face was more mature, more
serious, and his black eyes seemed to see everything at a glance--a
quick, indifferent glance that told no one what was behind the
expression. Andy was light-skinned and ruddy. Pete was swarthy and
black-haired. For a second or so they stood, then White genially
thrust 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 in
his heart he was a bit ashamed of consorting with a sheep-herder--a
Mexican; and to be recognized as being familiar with horses pleased him
more than his countenance showed. "Yes. I handled 'em
some--tradin'--when I was a kid."

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

"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 a
Mexican. 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 Andy
boyishly. "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?"