“It ain’t the money.  You sure been square.  It ain’t that.  I reckon I jest got to go.”

“Then it is that you go.  I will find another to help.  You have been a good boy.  You do not like the sheep—­but the horses.  I know that you have been saving the money.  You have not bought cartridges.  I would give you—­”

“Hold on—­you give me my money day before yesterday.”

“Then you have a little till you get your wages from the Concho.  It is good.”

“Oh, I’m broke all right,” said Pete.  “But that don’t bother me none.  I paid Roth for that gun I swiped—­”

“You steal the gun?”

“Well, it wa’n’t jest stealin’ it.  Roth he never paid me no wages, so when I lit out I took her along and writ him it was for wages.”

“Then why did you pay him?”

Pete frowned.  “I dunno.”

Montoya nodded.  He stooped and fumbled in a pack.  Pete wondered what the old man was hunting for.

Presently, Montoya drew out the hand-carved belt and holster, held it up, and inspected it critically.  He felt of it with his calloused hands, and finally gestured to Pete.  “It is for you, muchacho.  I made it.  Stand so.  There, it should hang this way.”  Montoya buckled the belt around Pete and stepped back.  “A little to the front.  Bueno!  Tie the thong round your leg—­so.  That is well!  It is the present from Jose Montoya.  Sometimes you will remember—­”

Montoya glanced at Pete’s face.  Pete was frowning prodigiously.

“Hah!” laughed Montoya.  “You do not like it, eh?”

Pete scowled and blinked.  “It’s the best doggone holster in the world!  I—­I’m goin’ to keep that there holster as long as I live!  I—­”

Montoya patted Pete’s shoulder.  “With the sheep it is quiet, so!”—­and Montoya gestured to the band that grazed near by.  “Where you will go there will be the hard riding and the fighting, perhaps.  It is not good to kill a man.  But it is not good to be killed.  The hot word—­the quarrel—­and some day a man will try to kill you.  See!  I have left the holster open at the end.  I have taught you that trick—­but do not tie the holster down if you would shoot that way.  There is no more to say.”

Pete thought so, so far as he was concerned.  He was angry with himself for having felt emotion and yet happy in that his break with Montoya had terminated so pleasantly withal.  “I’m goin’ to town,” he said, “and git a boy to come out here.  If I can’t git a boy, I’ll come back and stay till you git one.”

Montoya nodded and strode out to where the sheep had drifted.  The dogs jumped up and welcomed him.  It was not customary for their master to leave them for so long alone with the flock.  Their wagging tails and general attitude expressed relief.