The first real inkling that Andy White had of Pete’s deeper nature was occasioned by an incident during the round-up.

The cutting-out and branding were about over.  The Concho men, camped round their wagon, were fraternizing with visitors from the Blue and T-Bar-T.  Every kind of gossip was afloat.  The Government was going to make a game preserve of the Blue Range.  Old man Dobson, of the Eight-O-Eight, had fired one of his men for packing whiskey into the camp:  “Dobson was drunk hisself!” was asserted.  One sprightly and inventive son-of-saddle-leather had brought a pair of horse-clippers to the round-up.  Every suffering puncher in the outfit had been thrown and clipped, including the foreman, and even the cattle inspector.  Rumor had it that the boys from the Blue intended to widen their scope of operation and clip everybody.  The “gentleman [described in the vernacular] who started to clip my [also described] head’ll think he’s tackled a tree-kitty,” stated a husky cowboy from the T-Bar-T.

Old Montoya’s name was mentioned by another rider from the T-Bar-T.  Andy who was lying beside Pete, just within the circle of firelight, nudged him.

“We run every nester out of this country; and it’s about time we started in on the sheep,” said this individual, and he spoke not jestingly, but with a vicious meaning in his voice, that silenced the talk.

Bailey was there and Houck, the T-Bar-T foreman, Bud Long, foreman of the Blue, and possibly some fifteen or eighteen visiting cowboys.  The strident ill-nature of the speaker challenged argument, but the boys were in good-humor.

“What you pickin’ on Montoya for?” queried a cowboy, laughing.  “He ain’t here.”

Pete sat up, naturally interested in the answer.

“He’s lucky he ain’t,” retorted the cow-puncher.

“You’re lucky he ain’t,” came from Pete’s vicinity.

“Who says so?”

Andy White tugged at Pete’s sleeve.  “Shut up, Pete!  That’s Steve Gary talkin’.  Don’t you go mixin’ with Gary.  He’s right quick with his gun.  What’s a-bitin’ you, anyhow?”

“Who’d you say?” queried Pete.

“Gary—­Steve Gary.  Reckon you heard of him.”

“Who says I’m lucky he ain’t here?” again challenged Gary.

“Shut up, Steve,” said a friendly cowboy.  “Can’t you take a josh?”

“Who’s lookin’ for a row, anyhow?” queried another cowboy.  “I ain’t.”

The men laughed.  Pete’s face was somber in the firelight.  Gary!  The man who had led the raid on Pop Annersley’s homestead.  Pete knew that he would meet Gary some day, and he was curious to see the man who was responsible for the killing of Annersley.  He had no definite plan—­did not know just what he would do when he mot him.  Time had dulled the edge of Pete’s earlier hatred and experience had taught him to leave well enough alone.  But that strident voice, edged with malice, had stirred bitter memories.  Pete felt that should he keep silent it would reflect on his loyalty to both Montoya and Annersley.  There were men there who knew he had worked for Montoya.  They knew, but hardly expected that Pete would take up Gary’s general challenge.  He was but a youth—­hardly more than a boy.  The camp was somewhat surprised when Pete got to his feet and stepped toward the fire.