“I’m the one that said you was lucky Montoya wasn’t here,” he asserted.  “And I’m leavin’ it to my boss, or Bud Long, or your own boss”—­and he indicated Houck with a gesture—­“if I ain’t right.”

“Who in hell are you, anyhow?” queried Gary,

“Me?  I’m Pop Annersley’s boy, Pete.  Mebby you recollec’ you said you’d kill me if I talked about that shootin’.  I was a kid then—­and I was sure scared of the bunch that busted into the shack—­three growed men ag’in’ a kid—­a-threatenin’ what they’d do to the man that bumped off two of their braves.  You was askin’ who talked up awhile back.  It was me.”

Gary was on his feet and took a step toward Pete when young Andy rose.  Pete was his bunkie.  Andy didn’t want to fight, but if Gary pulled his gun . . .

Bailey got up quietly, and turning his back on Gary told Pete and Andy to saddle up and ride out to relieve two of the boys on night-herd.

It was Bud Long who broke the tension.  “It’s right late for young roosters to be crowin’ that way,” he chuckled.

Everybody laughed except Gary.  “But it ain’t too late for full-growed roosters to crow!” he asserted.

Long chuckled again.  “Nope.  I jest crowed.”

Not a man present missed the double-meaning, including Gary.  And Gary did not want any of Long’s game.  The genial Bud had delicately intimated that his sympathies were with the Concho boys.  Then there were Bailey and Bill Haskins and several others among the Concho outfit who would never see one of their own get the worst of it.  Gary turned and slunk away toward his own wagon.  One after another the T-Bar-T boys rose and followed.  The Annersley raid was not a popular subject with them.

Bailey turned to Long.  “Thanks, Bud.”

“‘Mornin’, Jim,” said Long facetiously.  “When ’d you git here?”

Two exceedingly disgruntled young cowboys saddled up and rode out to the night-herd.  They had worked all day, and now they would have to ride herd the rest of the night, for it was nearing twelve.  As relief men they would have to hold their end of the herd until daybreak.

“I told you to shut up,” complained Andy.

“I wasn’t listenin’ to you,” said Pete,

“Yes!  And this is what we git for your gittin’ red-headed about a ole Mexican sheep-herder.  But, honest, Pete, you sure come clost to gittin’ yours.  Gary mebby wouldn’t ‘a’ pulled on you—­but he’d ‘a’ sure trimmed you if Bailey hadn’t stepped in.”

“He’d never put a hand on me,” stated Pete.

“You mean you’d ‘a’ plugged ’im?”

“I’m meanin’ I would.”

“But, hell, Pete, you ain’t no killer!  And they’s no use gettin’ started that way.  They’s plenty as would like to see Gary bumped off—­but I don’t want to be the man to do it.  Suppose Gary did lead that raid on ole man Annersley?  That’s over and done.  Annersley is dead.  You’re livin’—­and sure two dead men don’t make a live one.  What’s the good o’ takin’ chances like that?”