Pete allowed a reasonable length of time to elapse and then approached the storekeeper.  “Gimme a box of thirty-thirties,” he said, fishing up some silver from his overall pocket.

“Where’d you get all that money, Pete?”

“Why, I done stuck up the fo’man of the T-Bar-T on pay-day and made him shell out,” said Pete.

The storekeeper grinned.  “Here you be.  Goin’ huntin’?”

“Uh-huh.  Huntin’ snakes.”

“Honest, now!  Where’d you git the change?”

“My wages!” said Young Pete proudly.  “Pop is givin’ me a dollar a week for helpin’ him.  We’re pardners.”

“Your pop is right good to you, ain’t he?”

“You bet!  And he can lick any ole bunch of cow-chasers in this country.  Somebody’s goin’ to git hurt if they monkey with him!”

“Where ’d you get the idea anybody was going to monkey with your dad?”

Young Pete felt that he had been incautious.  He refused to talk further, despite the storekeeper’s friendly questioning.  Instead, the boy roamed about the store, inspecting and commenting upon saddlery, guns, canned goods, ready-made clothing, and showcase trinkets, his ears alert for every word exchanged by the storekeeper and a chance customer.  Presently two cowboys clumped in, joshed with the store-keeper, bought tobacco and ammunition—­a most usual procedure, and clumped out again.  Young Pete strolled to the door and watched them enter the adobe saloon across the way—­Tony’s Place—­the rendezvous of the riders of the high mesas.  Again a group of cowboys arrived, jesting and roughing their mounts.  They entered the store, bought ammunition, and drifted to the saloon.  It was far from pay-day, as Pete knew.  It was also the busy season.  There was some ulterior reason for so many riders assembling in town.  Pete decided to find out just what they were up to.

After supper he meandered across to the saloon, passed around it, and hid in an empty barrel near the rear door.  He was uncomfortable, but not unhappy.  He listened for a chance word that might explain the presence of so many cowboys in town that day.  Frequently he heard Gary’s name mentioned.  He had not seen Gary with the others.  But the talk was casual, and he learned nothing until some one remarked that it was about time to drift along.  They left in a body, taking the mesa trail that led to the Blue.  This was significant.  They usually left in groups of two or three, as their individual pleasure dictated.  And there was a business-like alertness about their movements that did not escape Young Pete.

The Arizona stars were clear and keen when he crept round to the front of the saloon and pattered across the road to the store.  The storekeeper was closing for the night.  Young Pete, restlessly anxious to follow the T-Bar-T men, invented an excuse to leave the storekeeper, who suggested that they go to bed.

“Got to see if my hoss is all right,” said Pete.  “The ole fool’s like to git tangled up in that there drag-rope I done left on him.  Beckon I’ll take it off.”