“I’m Pete Annersley.  I reckon you know who my pop was.”

Bailey nodded.  “The T-Bar-T,” he said, turning toward the men.  They shook their heads and were silent, gazing curiously at the boy, of whom it was said that he had “bumped off” two T-Bar-T boys in a raid some years ago.  Young Pete felt his ground firmer beneath him.  The men had ceased laughing.  If it had not been for that unfortunate stumble . . .

“You’re sportin’ a right good rig,” said the foreman.

“I aim to,” said Pete quickly.  “If I hadn’t gone broke buyin’ it, I’d ride up here on a real hoss.”

“Things are pretty slack right now,” said Bailey.  “Glad to see you—­but they won’t be nothin’ doin’ till fall.  Won’t you set down?  We’re goin’ to eat right soon.”

“Thanks.  I ain’t a-missin’ a chanct to eat.  And I reckon ole Rowdy there could do somethin’ in that line hisself.”

Bailey smiled.  “Turn your horse into the corral.  Better pack your saddle over here.  That pup will chew them new latigos if he gets near it.”

“That doggone pup come mighty nigh bustin’ me,”—­and Pete smiled for the first time since arriving.  “But the pup was havin’ a good time, anyhow.”

“Say, I want to shake with you!” said a big puncher, rising and sticking out a strong, hairy hand.

Pete’s face expressed surprise.  “Why—­sure!” he stammered, not realizing that his smiling reference to the pup had won him a friend.

“He’s sure a hard-boiled kid,” said one of the men as Pete unsaddled and led Rowdy to the corral.  “Did you catch his eye?  Black—­and shinin’; plumb full of deviltry—­down in deep.  That kid’s had to hit some hard spots afore he growed to where he is.”

“And he can take his medicine,” asserted another cowboy.  “He was mad enough to kill that hoss and the bunch of us—­but he held her down and bellied up to us like a real one.  Looks like he had kind of a Injun streak in him.”

Bailey nodded.  “Wish I had a job for the kid.  He would make good.  He’s been driftin’ round the country with old man Montoya for a couple of years.  Old man Annersley picked him up down to Concho.  The kid was with a horse-trader.  He would have been all right with Annersley, but you boys know what happened.  This ain’t no orphan asylum, but—­well, anyhow—­did you size up the rig he’s sportin’?”

“Some rig.”

“And he says he went broke to buy her.”

“Some kid.”

“Goin’ to string him along?” queried another cowboy.

“Nope,” replied Bailey.  “The pup strung him plenty.  Mebby we’ll give him a whirl at a real horse after dinner.  He’s itchin’ to climb a real one and show us, and likewise to break in that new rig.”

“Or git busted,” suggested one of the men.

“By his eye, I’d say he’ll stick,” said Bailey.  “Don’t you boys go to raggin’ him too strong about ridin’, for I ain’t aimin’ to kill the kid.  If he can stick on Blue Smoke, I’ve a good mind to give him a job.  I told Andy to tell him there wa’n’t no chanct up here—­but the kid comes to look-see for hisself.  I kind o’ like that.”