“That kid!  Huh!  I picked him up when he was starvin’ to death over to Enright.  I been feedin’ him and his no-account dog for a year, and neither of ’em is worth what he eats.”

“So?  Then I reckon you won’t be missin’ him none if I take him along up to my place.”

The horse-trader did not want to lose Young Pete, but he did want Annersley’s money.  “I’ll leave it to him,” he said, flattering himself that Pete dare not leave him.

“What do you say, son?”—­and old man Annersley turned to Pete.  “Would you like to go along up with me and help me to run my place?  I’m kind o’ lonesome up there, and I was thinkin’ o’ gettin’ a pardner.”

“Where do you live?” queried Pete, quickly drying his eyes.

“Why, up in those hills, which don’t no way smell of liquor and are tellin’ the truth from sunup to sunup.  Like to come along and give me a hand with my stock?”

“You bet I would!”

“Here’s your money,” said Annersley, and he gave the trader forty dollars.  “Git right in that buckboard, son.”

“Hold on!” exclaimed the trader.  “The kid stays here.  I said fifty for the outfit.”

“I’m goin’,” asserted Young Pete.  “I’m sick o’ gettin’ kicked and cussed every time I come near him.  He licked me with a rawhide last week.”

“He did, eh?  For why?”

“’Cause he was drunk—­that’s why!”

“Then I reckon you come with me.  Such as him ain’t fit to raise young ’uns.”

Young Pete was enjoying himself.  This was indeed revenge—­to hear some one tell the trader what he was, and without the fear of a beating.  “I’ll go with you,” said Pete.  “Wait till I git my blanket.”

“Don’t you touch nothin’ in that wagon!” stormed the trader.

“Git your blanket, son,” said Annersley.

The horse-trader was deceived by Annersley’s mild manner.  As Young Pete started toward the wagon, the trader jumped and grabbed him.  The boy flung up his arms to protect his face.  Old man Annersley said nothing, but with ponderous ease he strode forward, seized the trader from behind, and shook that loose-mouthed individual till his teeth rattled and the horizon line grew dim.

“Git your blanket, son,” said Annersley, as he swung the trader round, deposited him face down in the sand, and sat on him.  “I’m waitin’.”

“Goin’ to kill him?” queried Young Pete, his black eyes snapping.

“Shucks, no!”

“Kin I kick him—­jest onct, while you hold him down?”

“Nope, son.  That’s too much like his way.  You run along and git your blanket if you’re goin’ with me.”

Young Pete scrambled to the wagon and returned with a tattered blanket, his sole possession, and his because he had stolen it from a Mexican camp near Enright.  He scurried to the buckboard and hopped in.

Annersley rose and brought the trader up with him as though the latter were a bit of limp tie-rope.