earn him the plaudits of a legion of admiring readers. Apropos
of such a hero, your old-timer will tell you, "that there ain't no such
animal." If your old-timer is a friend--perchance carrying the
never-mentioned scars of cattle-wars and frontier raids--he may tell
you that many of the greatest gunmen practiced early and late, spent
all their spare money on ammunition, never "showed-off" before an
audience, always took careful advantage of every fighting chance, saved
their horses and themselves from undue fatigue when possible, never
killed a man when they could avoid killing him, bore themselves
quietly, didn't know the meaning of Romance, but were strong for
utility, and withal worked as hard and suffered as much in becoming
proficient in their vocation as the veriest artisan of the cities.
Circumstances, hazard, untoward event, even inclination toward
excitement, made some of these men heroes, but never in their own eyes.
There were exceptions, of course, but most of the exceptions were
buried.

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

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

Montoya sent him into town for some supplies. As usual, Pete rode one
of the burros. It was customary for Pete to leave his gun in camp when
going to town. Montoya had suggested that he do this, as much for
Pete's sake as