eloquence to heart—­for he had inspired it—­called the dog that lay back of them in the shade and set him on Pete and the burros.  If a burro hates anything it is to be attacked by a dog.  Pete whirled and swung his stick.  The dog, a huge, lean, coyote-faced animal, dodged and snapped at the nearest burro’s heels.  That placid animal promptly bucked and ran.  His brother burro took the cue and did likewise.  Presently the immediate half-mile square was decorated with loose provisions—­sugar, beans, flour, a few cans of tomatoes, and chiles broken from the sack and strung out in every direction.  The burros became a seething cloud of dust in the distance.  Pete chased the dog which naturally circled and ran back of the group of the store.  Older Mexicans gathered and laughed.  The boys, feeling secure in the presence of their seniors, added their shrill yelps of pleasure.  Pete, boiling internally, white-faced and altogether too quiet, slowly gathered up what provisions were usable.  Presently he came upon his gun, which had been bucked from the pack-saddle.  The Mexicans were still laughing when he strode back to the store.  The dog, scenting trouble, bristled and snarled, baring his long fangs and standing with one forefoot raised.  Before the assembly realized what had happened, Pete had whipped out his gun.  With the crash of the shot the dog doubled up and dropped in his tracks.  The boys scattered and ran.  Pete cut loose in their general direction.  They ran faster.  The older folk, chattering and scolding, backed into the store.  “Montoya’s boy was loco.  He would kill somebody!” Some of the women crossed themselves.  The storekeeper, who knew Pete slightly, ventured out.  He argued with Pete, who blinked and nodded, but would not put up his gun.  The Mexicans feared him for the very fact that he was a boy and might do anything.  Had he been a man he might have been shot.  But this did not occur to Pete.  He was fighting mad.  His burros were gone and his provisions scattered, save a few canned tomatoes that had not suffered damage.  The storekeeper started toward him.  Pete centered on that worthy’s belt-buckle and told him to stay where he was.

“I’ll blow a hole in you that you can drive a team through if you come near me!” asserted Pete.  “I come in here peaceful, and you doggone Cholas wrecked my outfit and stampeded my burros; but they ain’t no Mexican can run a whizzer on me twict.  I’m white—­see!”

“It is not I that did this thing,” said the storekeeper.

“No, but the doggone town did!  I reckon when Jose Montoya comes in and wants his grub, you’ll settle all right.  And he’s comin’!”

“Then you will go and not shoot any one?”

“When I git ready.  But you kin tell your outfit that the first Chola that follows me is goin’ to run up ag’inst a slug that’ll bust him wide open.  I’m goin’—­but I’m comin’ back.”