Pete had barely existed for twelve years.  When the trader came along with his wagon and ponies and cajoled Pete into going with him, Pete gladly turned his face toward wider horizons and the great adventure.  Yet for him the great adventure was not to end in the trading of horses and drifting from town to town all his life.

Old man Annersley held down a quarter-section on the Blue Mesa chiefly because he liked the country.  Incidently he gleaned a living by hard work and thrift.  His homestead embraced the only water for miles in any direction, water that the upland cattlemen had used from time immemorial.  When Annersley fenced this water he did a most natural and necessary thing.  He had gathered together a few head of cattle, some chickens, two fairly respectable horses, and enough timber to build a comfortable cabin.  He lived alone, a gentle old hermit whose hand was clean to every man, and whose heart was tender to all living things despite many hard years in desert and range among men who dispensed such law as there was with a quick forefinger and an uncompromising eye.  His gray hairs were honorable in that he had known no wastrel years.  Nature had shaped him to a great, rugged being fitted for the simplicity of mountain life and toil.  He had no argument with God and no petty dispute with man.  What he found to do he did heartily.  The horse-trader, camped near Concho, came to realize this.

Old man Annersley was in need of a horse.  One of his team had died that winter.  So he unhooked the pole from the buckboard, rigged a pair of shafts, and drove to Concho, where he heard of the trader and finally located that worthy drinking at Tony’s Place.  Young Pete, as usual, was in camp looking after the stock.  The trader accompanied Annersley to the camp.  Young Pete, sniffing a customer, was immediately up and doing.  Annersley inspected the horses and finally chose a horse which Young Pete roped with much swagger and unnecessary language, for the horse was gentle, and quite familiar with Young Pete’s professional vocabulary.

“This here animal is sound, safe, and a child could ride him,” asserted Young Pete as he led the languid and underfed pony to the wagon.  “He’s got good action.”  Pete climbed to the wagon-wheel and mounted bareback.  “He don’t pitch, bite, kick, or balk.”  The horse, used to being shown, loped a few yards, turned and trotted back.  “He neck-reins like a cow-hoss,” said Pete, “and he can turn in a ten-cent piece.  You can rope from him and he’ll hold anything you git your rope on.”

“Reckon he would,” said Annersley, and his eyes twinkled. “’Specially a hitchin’-rail.  Git your rope on a hitchin’-rail and I reckon that hitchin’-rail would never git away from him.”

“He’s broke right,” reasserted Young Pete.  “He’s none of your ornery, half-broke cayuses.  You ought to seen him when he was a colt!  Say, ’t wa’n’t no time afore he could outwork and outrun any hoss in our bunch.”