Annersley had helped the boy to a certain self-respect which Pete subconsciously felt that he had lost when Roth, the storekeeper, gave him a home and work but no pay.  Young Pete did not dislike Roth, but the contrast of Roth’s close methods with the large, free-handed dealings of Annersley was ever before him.  Pete was strong for utility.  He had no boyish sense of the dramatic, consciously.  He had never had time to play.  Everything he did, he did seriously.  So when he left Concho at dusk one summer evening, he did not “run away” in any sense.  He simply decided that it was time to go elsewhere—­and he went.

The old Mexican, Montoya, had a band of sheep in the high country.  Recently the sheep had drifted past Concho, and Pete, alive to anything and everything that was going somewhere, had waited on the Mexican at the store.  Sugar, coffee, flour, and beans were packed on the shaggy burros.  Pete helped carry the supplies to the doorway and watched him pack.  The two sharp-nosed sheep-dogs interested Pete.  They seemed so alert, and yet so quietly satisfied with their lot.  The last thing the old Mexican did was to ask for a few cartridges.  Pete did not understand just what kind he wanted.  With a secretiveness which thrilled Pete clear to the toes, the old herder, in the shadowy rear of the store, drew a heavy six-shooter from under his arm and passed it stealthily to Pete, who recognized the caliber and found cartridges for it.  Pete’s manner was equally stealthy.  This smacked of adventure!  Cattlemen and sheepmen were not friendly, as Pete knew.  Pete had no love for the “woolies,” yet he hated cattlemen.  The old Mexican thanked him and invited him to visit his camp below Concho.  Possibly Pete never would have left the storekeeper—­or at least not immediately—­had not that good man, always willing to cater to Pete’s curiosity as to guns and gunmen, told him that old Montoya, while a Mexican, was a dangerous man with a six-gun; that he was seldom molested by the cattlemen, who knew him to be absolutely without fear and a dead shot.

“Huh!  That old herder ain’t no gun-fighter!” Pete had said, although he believed the storekeeper.  Pete wanted to hear more.

“Most Mexicans ain’t,” replied Roth, for Pete’s statement was half a challenge, half a question.  “But Jose Montoya never backed down from a fight—­and he’s had plenty.”

Pete was interested.  He determined to visit Montoya’s camp that evening.  He said nothing to Roth, as he intended to return.

Long before Pete arrived at the camp he saw the tiny fire—­a dot of red against the dark—­and he heard the muffled trampling of the sheep as they bedded down for the night.  Within a few yards of the camp the dogs challenged him, charging down the gentle slope to where he stood.  Pete paid no attention to them, but marched up to the fire.  Old Montoya rose and greeted him pleasantly.  Another Mexican, a slim youth, bashfully acknowledged Pete’s presence and called in the dogs.  Pete, who had known many outland camp-fires, made himself at home, sitting cross-legged and affecting a mature indifference.  The old Mexican smoked and studied the youngster, amused by his evident attempt to appear grown-up and disinterested.