“Why, your dad was tellin’ me you was a reg’lar buckaroo.  Thought you knew better than to leave a rope on a hoss when he’s in a corral.”

“I forgot,” invented Pete.  “Won’t take a minute.”

“Then I’ll wait for you.  Run along while I get my lantern.”

The storekeeper’s house was but a few doors down the street, which, however, meant quite a distance, as Concho straggled over considerable territory.  He lighted the lantern and sat down on the steps waiting for the boy.  From the corral back of the store came the sound of trampling hoofs and an occasional word from Young Pete, who seemed to be a long time at the simple task of untying a drag-rope.  The store-keeper grew suspicious and finally strode back to the corral.  His first intimation of Pete’s real intent was a glimpse of the boy astride the big bay and blinking in the rays of the lantern.

“What you up to?” queried the storekeeper.

Young Pete’s reply was to dig his heels into the horse’s ribs.  The storekeeper caught hold of the bridle.  “You git down and come home with me.  Where you goin’ anyhow?”

“Take your hand off that bridle,” blustered Young Pete.

The trader had to laugh.  “Got spunk, ain’t you?  Now you git down and come along with me, Pete.  No use you riding back to the mesa to-night.  Your dad ain’t there.  You can’t find him to-night.”

Pete’s lip quivered.  What right had the store-keeper, or any man, to take hold of his bridle?

“See here, Pete, where do you think you’re goin’?”

“Home!” shrilled Pete as he swung his hat and fanned the horse’s ears.  It had been many years since that pony had had his ears fanned, but he remembered early days and rose to the occasion, leaving the storekeeper in the dust and Young Pete riding for dear life to stay in the saddle.  Pete’s hat was lost in the excitement, and next to his rifle, the old sombrero inherited from his pop was Pete’s dearest possession.  But even when the pony had ceased to pitch, Pete dared not go back for it.  He would not risk being caught a second time.

He jogged along up the mesa trail, peering ahead in the dusk, half-frightened and half-elated.  If the T-Bar-T outfit were going to run his pop out of the country, Young Pete intended to be in at the running.  The feel of the carbine beneath his leg gave him courage.  Up to the time Annersley had adopted him, Pete had had to fight and scheme and dodge his way through life.  He had asked no favors and expected none.  His pop had stood by him in his own deepest trouble, and he would now stand by his pop.  That he was doing anything especially worthy did not occur to him.  Partners always “stuck.”

The horse, anxious to be home, took the long grade quickly, restrained by Pete, who felt that it would be poor policy to tread too closely upon the heels of the T-Bar-T men.  That they intended mischief was now only too evident.  And Pete would have been disappointed had they not.  Although sophisticated beyond his years and used to the hazards of a rough life, this adventure thrilled him.  Perhaps the men would set fire to the outbuildings and the haystack, or even try to burn the cabin.  But they would have a sorry time getting to the cabin if his pop were really there.