“That gun, he poke you in the rib, hey?”—­and Montoya chuckled.

Pete flushed and glanced down at the half-concealed weapon beneath his arm.  “Tied her on with string—­ain’t got no shoulder holster,” Pete explained in an offhand way.

“What you do with him?” The old Mexican’s deep-set eyes twinkled.  Pete studied Montoya’s face.  This was a direct but apparently friendly query.  Pete wondered if he should answer evasively or directly.  The fact was that he did not know just why he had taken the gun—­or what he intended to do with it.  After all, it was none of Montoya’s business, yet Pete did not wish to offend the old man.  He wanted to hear more about gun-fights with the cattlemen.

“Well, seein’ it’s you, senor,”—­Pete adopted the grand air as most befitting the occasion,—­“I’m packin’ this here gun to fight cow-punchers with.  Reckon you don’t know some cow-punchers killed my dad.  I was just a kid then. [Pete was now nearly fourteen.] Some day I’m goin’ to git the man what killed him.”

Montoya did not smile.  This muchacho evidently had spirit.  Pete’s invention, made on the spur of the moment, had hit “plumb center,” as he told himself.  For Montoya immediately became gracious, proffered Pete tobacco and papers, and suggested coffee, which the young Mexican made while Pete and the old man chatted.  Pete was deeply impressed by his reception.  He felt that he had made a hit with Montoya—­and that the other had taken him seriously.  Most men did not, despite the fact that he was accredited with having slain two T-Bar-T cowboys.  A strange sympathy grew between this old Mexican and the lean, bright-eyed young boy.  Perhaps Pete’s swarthy coloring and black eyes had something to do with it.  Possibly Pete’s assurance, as contrasted with the bashfulness and timidity of the old Mexican’s nephew, had something to do with Montoya’s immediate friendliness.  In any event, the visit ended with an invitation to Pete to become a permanent member of the sheep-camp, Montoya explaining that his nephew wanted to go home; that he did not like the loneliness of a herder’s life.

Pete had witnessed too many horse-trades to accept this proposal at once.  His face expressed deep cogitation, as he flicked the ashes from his cigarette and shook his head.  “I dunno.  Roth is a pretty good boss.  ’Course, he ain’t no gun-fighter—­and that’s kind of in your favor—­”

“What hombre say I make fight with gun?” queried Montoya.

“Why, everybody!  I reckon they’s mighty few of ’em want to stack up against you.”

Montoya frowned.  “I don’ talk like that,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

Pete felt that he was getting in deep—­but he had a happy inspiration.  “You don’t have to talk.  Your ole forty-four does the talking I reckon.”

“You come and cook?” queried Montoya, coming straight to the point.

“I dunno, amigo.  I’ll think about it.”