“And now we’ll be driftin’,” he told the other.

Murder burned in the horse-trader’s narrow eyes, but immediate physical ambition was lacking.

Annersley bulked big.  The horse-trader cursed the old man in two languages.  Annersley climbed into the buckboard, gave Pete the lead-rope of the recent purchase, and clucked to his horse, paying no attention whatever to the volley of invectives behind him.

“He’ll git his gun and shoot you in the back,” whispered Young Pete.

“Nope, son.  He’ll jest go and git another drink and tell everybody in Concho how he’s goin’ to kill me—­some day.  I’ve handled folks like him frequent.”

“You sure kin fight!” exclaimed Young Pete enthusiastically.

“Never hit a man in my life.  I never dast to,” said Annersley.

“You jest set on ’em, eh?”

“Jest set on ’em,” said Annersley.  “You keep tight holt to that rope.  That fool hoss acts like he wanted to go back to your camp.”

Young Pete braced his feet and clung to the rope, admonishing the horse with outland eloquence.  As they crossed the arroyo, the led horse pulled back, all but unseating Young Pete.

“Here, you!” cried the boy.  “You quit that—­afore my new pop takes you by the neck and the—­pants and sits on you!”

“That’s the idea, son.  Only next time, jest tell him without cussin’.”

“He always cusses the hosses,” said Young Pete.  “Everybody cusses ’em.”

“‘Most everybody.  But a man what cusses a hoss is only cussin’ hisself.  You’re some young to git that—­but mebby you’ll recollect I said so, some day.”

“Didn’t you cuss him when you set on him?” queried Pete.

“For why, son?”

“Wa’n’t you mad?”

“Shucks, no.”

“Don’t you ever cuss?”

“Not frequent, son.  Cussin’ never pitched any hay for me.”

Young Pete was a bit disappointed.  “Didn’t you never cuss in your life?”

Annersley glanced down at the boy.

“Well, if you promise you won’t tell nobody, I did cuss onct, when I struck the plough into a yellow-jacket’s nest which I wa’n’t aimin’ to hit, nohow.  Had the reins round my neck, not expectin’ visitors, when them hornets come at me and the hoss without even ringin’ the bell.  That team drug me quite a spell afore I got loose.  When I got enough dirt out of my mouth so as I could holler, I set to and said what I thought.”

“Cussed the hosses and the doggone ole plough and them hornets—­and everything!” exclaimed Pete.

“Nope, son, I cussed myself for hangin’ them reins round my neck.  What you say your name was?”

“Pete.”

“What was the trader callin’ you—­any other name besides Pete?”

“Yes, I reckon he was.  When he is good ‘n’ drunk he would be callin’ me a doggone little—­”

“Never mind, I know about that.  I was meanin’ your other name.”