from undue fatigue when possible, never killed a man when they could avoid killing him, bore themselves quietly, didn’t know the meaning of Romance, but were strong for utility, and withal worked as hard and suffered as much in becoming proficient in their vocation as the veriest artisan of the cities.  Circumstances, hazard, untoward event, even inclination toward excitement, made some of these men heroes, but never in their own eyes.  There were exceptions, of course, but most of the exceptions were buried.

And Young Pete, least of all, dreamed of becoming a hero.  He liked guns and all that pertained to them.  The feel of a six-shooter in his hand gave him absolute pleasure.  The sound of a six-shooter was music to him, and the potency contained in the polished cylinder filled with blunt-nosed slugs was something that he could appreciate.  He was a born gunman, as yet only in love with the tools of his trade, interested more in the manipulation than in eventual results.  He wished to become expert, but in becoming expert he forgot for the time being his original intent of eventually becoming the avenger of Annersley.  Pride in his ability to draw quick and shoot straight, with an occasional word of praise from old Montoya, pretty well satisfied him.  When he was not practicing he was working, and thought only of the task at hand.

Pete was generally liked in the towns where he occasionally bought provisions.  He was known as “Montoya’s boy,” and the townsfolk had a high respect for the old Mexican.  One circumstance, however, ruffled the placid tenor of his way and tended to give him the reputation of being a “bronco muchacho”—­a rough boy; literally a bad boy, as white folks would have called him.

Montoya sent him into town for some supplies.  As usual, Pete rode one of the burros.  It was customary for Pete to leave his gun in camp when going to town.  Montoya had suggested that he do this, as much for Pete’s sake as for anything else.  The old man knew that slightly older boys were apt to make fun of Pete for packing such a disproportionately large gun—­or, in fact, for packing any gun at all.  And Montoya also feared that Pete might get into trouble.  Pete was pugnacious, independent, and while always possessing enough humor to hold his own in a wordy argument, he had much pride, considering himself the equal of any man and quite above the run of youths of the towns.  And he disliked Mexicans—­Montoya being the one exception.  This morning he did not pack his gun, but hung it on the cross-tree of the pack-saddle.  There were many brush rabbits on the mesa, and they made interesting targets.