“I dunno, Andy.  All I know is that when Gary started talkin’ about Montoya I commenced to git hot inside.  I knowed I was a fool—­but I jest had to stand up and tell him what he was.  It wa’n’t me doin’ it.  It was jest like somethin’ big a-pullin’ me onto my feet and makin’ me talk like I did.  It was jest like you was ridin’ the edge of some steep and bad goin’ and a maverick takes over and you know you got no business to put your hoss down after him.  But your saddle is a-creakin’ and a-sayin’, ’Go git ’im!’—­and you jest nacherally go.  Kin you tell me what makes a fella do the like of that?”

“I dunno, Pete.  But chasin’ mavericks is different.”

“Mebby.  But the idee is jest the same.”

“Well, I’m hopin’ you don’t git many more of them idees right soon.  I’m sure with you to the finish, but I ain’t wishful to git mine that way.”

“I ain’t askin’ you to,” said Pete, for he was angry with himself despite the logic of his own argument.

They were near the herd.  Andy, who had flushed hotly at Pete’s rather ungenerous intimation, spurred his pony round and rode toward a dim figure that nodded in the starlight.  Pete whirled his own pony and rode in the opposite direction.

Toward dawn, as they circled, they met again.

“Got the makin’s?” queried Pete.

“Right here,” said Andy.

As Pete took the little sack of tobacco, their hands touched and gripped.  “I seen you standin’ side of me,” said Pete, “when I was talkin’ to Gary.”

“You was dreaming” laughed Andy.  “That was your shadow.”

“Mebby,” asserted Pete succinctly.  “But I seen out of the corner of my eye that that there shadow had its hand on its gun.  And I sure didn’t.”

CHAPTER XII

IN THE PIT

The round-up was over.  A trainload of Concho steers was on its way East, accompanied by four of the Concho boys.  The season had been a good one and prices were fair.  Bailey was feeling well.  There was no obvious reason for his restlessness.  He had eaten a hearty breakfast.  The sky was clear, and a thin, fragrant wind ran over the high mesa, a wind as refreshing as a drink of cold mountain water on a hot day.  Suddenly it occurred to Bailey that the deer season was open—­that “the hunting winds were loose.”  Somewhere in the far hills the bucks were running again.  A little venison would be a welcome change from a fairly steady diet of beef.

Bailey saddled up, and hung his rifle under the stirrup-leather.  He tucked a compact lunch in his saddle-pockets, filled a morral with grain and set off in the direction of the Blue Range.

Once on the way and his restlessness evaporated.  He did not realize that deer-hunting was an excuse to be alone.