Roth was closing shop when they entered town.  He greeted Pete heartily, remarked at his growth and invited him in.  Pete introduced Andy, quite unnecessarily, for Andy knew the storekeeper.  Pete gazed at the familiar shelves, boxes and barrels, the new saddles and rigs, and in fact at everything in the store save the showcase which contained the cheap watches, trinkets, and six-shooters.

“I got a couple o’ skins here,” he said presently.  “Mebby you could buy ’em.”

“Let’s see ’em, Pete.”

Pete unfolded the stiff skins on the counter.

“Why, I’ll give you two dollars for the lot.  The cat-skins are all right.  The coyote ain’t worth much.”

“All right.  I—­I’m needin’ the money right now,” stammered Pete—­“or I’d give ’em to you.”

“How you making it?” queried Roth.

“Fine!  But I was thinkin’ o’ makin’ a change.  Sheep is all right—­but I’m sick o’ the smell of ’em.  Montoya is all right, too.  It ain’t that.”

Roth gazed at the boy, wondering if he would say anything about the six-gun.  He liked Pete and yet he felt a little disappointed that Pete should have taken him altogether for granted.

“Montoya was in—­yesterday,” said Roth.

“Uh-huh?  Said he was comin’ over here.  He’s back in camp.  Me and Andy was lookin’ for a Chola that wants to sell a hoss.”

“Mighty poor lot of cayuses round here, Pete.  What you want with a horse?”

“‘T ain’t the hoss.  It’s the saddle an’ bridle I’m after.  If I were to offer to buy a saddle an’ bridle I’d git stuck jest as much for ’em as I would if I was to buy the whole works.  Might jest as well have the hoss.  I could trade him for a pair of chaps, mebby.”

“Goin’ to quit the sheep business?”

“Mebby—­if I can git a job ridin’.”

“Well, good luck.  I got to close up.  Come over and see me before you break camp.”

“I sure will!  Thank you for the—­for buyin’ them hides.”

Pete felt relieved—­and yet not satisfied.  He had wanted to speak about the six-shooter he had taken—­but Andy was there, and, besides, it was a hard subject to approach gracefully even under the most favorable auspices.  Perhaps, in the morning . . .

“Come on over to Tony’s Place and mebby we can run into a Mex that wants to sell out,” suggested Andy.

Pete said good-night to Roth.

“Don’t you boys get into trouble,” laughed Roth, as they left.  He had not even hinted about the six-shooter.  Pete thought that the storekeeper was “sure white.”

The inevitable gaunt, ribby, dejected pony stood at the hitching-rail of the saloon.  Pete knew it at once for a Mexican’s pony.  No white man would ride such a horse.  The boys inspected the saddle, which was not worth much, but they thought it would do.  “We could steal ’im,” suggested Andy, laughing.  “Then we could swipe the rig and turn the cayuse loose.”