They sat outside the store and drank bottled pop and swapped youthful yarns of the range and camp until Pete decided that he had better go.  But his heart was no longer with the sheep.

He rose and shook hands with Andy.  “If you git a chanct, ride over to our camp sometime.  I’m goin’ up the Largo.  You can find us.  Mebby”—­and he hesitated, eying the pony—­“mebby I might git a chanct to tie up to your outfit.  I’m sick of the woolies.”

“Don’t blame you, amigo.  If I hear of anything I’ll come a-fannin’ and tell you.  So-long.  She’s one lovely mornin’.”

Pete turned and plodded down the dusty road.  Far ahead the sheep shuffled along, the dogs on either side of the band and old Montoya trudging behind and driving the burros.  Pete said nothing as he caught up with Montoya, merely taking his place and hazing the burros toward their first camp in the canon.

It was an aimless life, with little chance of excitement; but riding range—­that was worth while!  Already Pete had outgrown any sense of dependency on the old Mexican.  He felt that he was his own man.  He had been literally raised with the horses and until this morning he had not missed them so much.  But the pony and the sprightly young cowboy, with his keen, smiling face and swinging chaps, had stirred longings in Young Pete’s heart that no amount of ease or outdoor freedom with the sheep could satisfy.  He wanted action.  His life with Montoya had made him careless but not indolent.  He felt a touch of shame, realizing that such a thought was disloyal to Montoya, who had done so much for him.  But what sentiment Pete had, ceased immediately, however, when the main chance loomed, and he thought he saw his fortune shaping toward the range and the cow-ponies.  He had liked Andy White from the beginning.  Perhaps they could arrange to ride together if he (Pete) could get work with the Concho outfit.  The gist of it all was that Pete was lonely and did not realize it.  Montoya was much older, grave, and often silent for days.  He seemed satisfied with the life.  Pete, in his way, had aspirations—­vague as yet, but slowly shaping toward a higher plane than the herding of sheep.  He had had experiences enough for a man twice his age, and he knew that he had ability.  As Andy White had said, it was wasting good time, this sheep-herding.  Well, perhaps something would turn up.  In the meantime there was camp to make, water to pack, and plenty of easy detail to take up his immediate time.  Perhaps he would talk with Montoya after supper about making a change.  Perhaps not.  It might be better to wait until he saw Andy White again.

In camp that night Montoya asked Pete if he were sick.  Pete shook his head; “Jest thinkin’,” he replied.