much."

"All right. I--I'm needin' the money right now," stammered Pete--"or
I'd give 'em to you."

"How you making it?" queried Roth.

"Fine! But I was thinkin' o' makin' a change. Sheep is all right--but
I'm sick o' the smell of 'em. Montoya is all right, too. It ain't
that."

Roth gazed at the boy, wondering if he would say anything about the
six-gun. He liked Pete and yet he felt a little disappointed that Pete
should have taken him altogether for granted.

"Montoya was in--yesterday," said Roth.

"Uh-huh? Said he was comin' over here. He's back in camp. Me and
Andy was lookin' for a Chola that wants to sell a hoss."

"Mighty poor lot of cayuses round here, Pete. What you want with a
horse?"

"'T ain't the hoss. It's the saddle an' bridle I'm after. If I were
to offer to buy a saddle an' bridle I'd git stuck jest as much for 'em
as I would if I was to buy the whole works. Might jest as well have
the hoss. I could trade him for a pair of chaps, mebby."

"Goin' to quit the sheep business?"

"Mebby--if I can git a job ridin'."

"Well, good luck. I got to close up. Come over and see me before you
break camp."

"I sure will! Thank you for the--for buyin' them hides."

Pete felt relieved--and yet not satisfied. He had wanted to speak
about the six-shooter he had taken--but Andy was there, and, besides,
it was a hard subject to approach gracefully even under the most
favorable auspices. Perhaps, in the morning . . .

"Come on over to Tony's Place and mebby we can run into a Mex that
wants to sell out," suggested Andy.

Pete said good-night to Roth.

"Don't you boys get into trouble," laughed Roth, as they left. He had
not even hinted about the six-shooter. Pete thought that the
storekeeper was "sure white."

The inevitable gaunt, ribby, dejected pony stood at the hitching-rail
of the saloon. Pete knew it at once for a Mexican's pony. No white
man would ride such a horse. The boys inspected the saddle, which was
not worth much, but they thought it would do. "We could steal 'im,"
suggested Andy, laughing. "Then we could swipe the rig and turn the
cayuse loose."

For a moment this idea appealed to Pete. He had a supreme contempt for
Mexicans. But suddenly he seemed to see himself surreptitiously taking
the six-shooter from Roth's showcase--and he recalled vividly how he
had felt at the time--"jest plumb mean," as he put it. Roth had been
mighty decent to him. . . . The M