While it is possible to approach the foreman of a cattle outfit on foot and apply for work, it is—­as a certain Ulysses of the outlands once said—­not considered good form in the best families in Arizona.  Pete was only too keenly conscious of this.  There is a prestige recognized by both employer and tentative employee in riding in, swinging to the ground in that deliberate and easy fashion of the Western rider, and sauntering up as though on a friendly visit wherein the weather and grazing furnish themes for introduction, discussion, and the eventual wedge that may open up the way to employment.  The foreman knows by the way you sit your horse, dismount, and generally handle yourself, just where you stand in the scale of ability.  He does not need to be told.  Nor does he care what you have been.  Your saddle-tree is much more significant than your family tree.  Still, if you have graduated in some Far Eastern riding academy, and are, perchance, ambitious to learn the gentle art of roping, riding them as they come, and incidentally preserving your anatomy as an undislocated whole, it is not a bad idea to approach the foreman on foot and clothed in unpretentious garb.  For, as this same Ulysses of the outlands said: 

  “Rub grease on your chaps and look wise if you will,
  But the odor of tan-bark will cling round you still.”

This information alone is worth considerably more than twenty cents.

Young Pete, who had not slept much, arose and prepared breakfast, making the coffee extra strong.  Montoya liked strong coffee.  After breakfast Pete made a diagonal approach to the subject of leaving.  Could he go to Concho?  Montoya nodded.  Would it be all right if he made a visit to the Concho outfit over on the mesa?  It would be all right.  This was too easy.  Pete squirmed internally.  If Montoya would only ask why he wanted to go.  Did Montoya think he could get another boy to help with the sheep?  The old herder, who had a quiet sense of humor, said he didn’t need another boy:  that Pete did very well.  Young Pete felt, as he expressed it to himself, “jest plumb mean.”  Metaphorically he had thrown his rope three times and missed each time.  This time he made a wider loop.

“What I’m gittin’ at is, Roth over to Concho said last night if I was to go over to Bailey—­he’s the fo’man of the Concho outfit—­and ask him for a job, I could mebby land one.  Roth, he said he’d outfit me and leave me to pay for it from my wages.  Andy White, he’s pluggin’ for me over to the ranch.  I ain’t said nothin’ to you, for I wa’n’t sure—­but Roth he says mebby I could git a job.  I reckon I’m gettin’ kind of old to herd sheep.”

Montoya smiled.  “Si; I am sixty years old.”

“I know—­but—­doggone it!  I want to ride a hoss and go somewhere!”

“I will pay you three dollars a week,” said Montoya, and his eyes twinkled.  He was enjoying Pete’s embarrassment.