“Just a leetle mite, son.  Or you wouldn’t ‘a’ sung that there high-chin song.  There’s some good riders that talk lots.  But the best riders I ever seen, jest rode ’em—­and said nothin’.”

“Like when you set on my other pop, eh?”

“That’s the idee.”

Pete, used to a rough-and-tumble existence, was deeply impressed by the old man’s quiet outlook and gentle manner.  While not altogether in accord with Annersley’s attitude in regard to profanity and chewing tobacco—­still, Young Pete felt that a man who could down the horse-trader and sit on him and suffer no harm was somehow worth listening to.

CHAPTER III

A WARNING

That first and unforgettable year on the homestead was the happiest year of Pete’s life.  Intensely active, tireless, and resourceful—­as are most youngsters raised in the West—­he learned to milk the tame cow, manipulate the hay-rake, distinguish potato-vines from weeds and hoe accordingly, and through observation and Annersley’s thrifty example, take care of his clothing and few effects.  The old man taught Pete to read and to write his own name—­a painful process, for Young Pete cared nothing for that sort of education and suffered only that he might please his venerable partner.  When it came to the plaiting of rawhide into bridle-reins and reatas, the handling of a rope, packing for a hunting trip, reading a dim trail when tracking a stray horse, or any of the many things essential to life in the hills, Young Pete took hold with boyish enthusiasm, copying Annersley’s methods to the letter.  Pete was repaid a thousand-fold for his efforts by the old man’s occasional: 

“Couldn’t ‘a’ done it any better myself, pardner.”

For Annersley seldom called the boy “Pete” now, realizing that “pardner” meant so much more to him.

Pete had his rifle—­an old carbine, much scratched and battered by the brush and rock—­a thirty-thirty the old man had purchased from a cowboy in Concho.

Pete spent most of his spare time cleaning and polishing the gun.  He had a fondness for firearms that almost amounted to a passion.  Evenings, when the work was done and Annersley sat smoking in the doorway, Young Pete invariably found excuse to clean and oil his gun.  He invested heavily in cartridges and immediately used up his ammunition on every available target until there was not an unpunctured tin can on the premises.  He was quick and accurate, finally scorning to shoot at a stationary mark and often riding miles to get to the valley level where there were rabbits and “Jacks,” that he occasionally bowled over on the run.  Once he shot a coyote, and his cup of happiness brimmed—­for the time being.

All told, it was a most healthful and happy life for a boy, and Young Pete learned, unconsciously, to “ride, shoot, and Tell the Truth,” as against “Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic,” for which he cared nothing.  Pete might have gone far—­become a well-to-do cattleman or rancher—­had not Fate, which can so easily wipe out all plans and precautions in a flash, stepped in and laid a hand on his bridle-rein.