“Bueno.  It is dark, I will walk with you to Concho.”

“You think I’m a kid?” flared Pete.  “If was dark when I come over here and it ain’t any darker now.  I ain’t no doggone cow-puncher what’s got to git on a hoss afore he dast go anywhere.”

Montoya laughed.  “You come to-morrow night, eh?”

“Reckon I will.”

“Then the camp will be over there—­in the canon.  You will see the fire.”

“I’ll come over and have a talk anyway,” said Pete, still unwilling to let Montoya think him anxious.  “Buenos noches!”

Montoya nodded.  “He will come,” he said to his nephew.  “Then it is that you may go to the home.  He is small—­but of the very great courage.”

The following evening Pete appeared at the herder’s camp.  The dogs ran out, sniffed at him, and returned to the fire.  Montoya made a place for him on the thick sheepskins and asked him if he had eaten.  Yes, he had had supper, but he had no blankets.  Could Montoya let him have a blanket until he had earned enough money to buy one?

The old herder told him that he could have the nephew’s blankets; Pedro was to leave camp next day and go home.  As for money, Montoya did not pay wages.  Of course, for tobacco, or a coat or pants, he could have the money when he needed them.

Pete felt a bit taken aback.  He had burnt his bridges—­he could not return to Concho—­yet he wanted a definite wage.  “I kin pack—­make and break camp—­and sure cook the frijoles.  Pop learned me all that; but he was payin’ me a dollar a week.  He said I was jest as good as a man.  A dollar a week ain’t much.”

The old herder shook his head.  “Not until I sell the wool can I pay.”

“When do you sell that wool?”

“When the pay for it is good.  Sometimes I wait.”

“Well, I kin see where I don’t get rich herdin’ sheep.”

“We shall see.  Perhaps, if you are a good boy—­”

“You got me wrong, senor.  Roth he said I was the limit—­and even my old pop said I was a tough kid.  I ain’t doin’ this for my health.  I hooked up with you ’cause I kinda thought—­”

“Si?”

“Well, Roth was tellin’ as how you could make a six-gun smoke faster than most any hombre a-livin’.  Now, I was figurin’ if you would show me how to work this ole smoke-wagon here”—­and Pete touched the huge lump beneath his shirt—­“why, that would kinda be like wages—­but I ain’t got no money to buy cartridges.”

“I, Jose de la Crux Montoya, will show you how to work him.  It is a big gun for such a chico.”

“Oh, I reckon I kin hold her down.  When do we start the shootin’ match?”

Montoya smiled.

“Manana, perhaps.”

“Then that’s settled!” Pete heaved a sigh.  “But how am I goin’ to git them cartridges?”

“From the store.”

“That’s all right.  But how many do I git for workin’ for you?”