Pete smiled his slow smile and pushed back his hat.  “I reckon you’re right about that.  I never did no shootin’ in company.  Ole Jose Montoya always said to do your practicin’ by yourself, and then nobody knows just how you would play your hand.”

Bailey frowned and nodded.  “Well, seein’ as I’m in on it, Pete, I’d kind of like to know myself.”

“Why, I’m jest figurin’ that some day mebby somebody’ll want to hang my hide on the fence.  I don’t aim to let him.”

“Meanin’ Gary?”

“The same.  I ain’t lookin’ for Gary—­even if he did shoot down Pop Annersley—­nor I ain’t tryin’ to keep out of his way.  I’m ridin’ this country and I’m like to meet up with him ’most any time.  That’s all.”

“Shucks, Pete!  You forget Gary.  He sure ain’t worth gettin’ hung for.  Gary ain’t goin’ to put you down so long as you ride for the Concho.  He knows somebody ‘d get him.  You jest practice shootin’ all you like—­but tend to business the rest of the time and you’ll live longer.  You can figure on one thing, if Gary was to get you he wouldn’t live to get out of this country.”

“You’re handin’ me your best card,” said Pete.  “Gary killed Annersley.  The law didn’t get Gary.  And none of you fellas got him.  He’s ridin’ this here country yet.  And you was tellin’ me to forget him.”

“But that’s different, Pete.  No one saw Gary shoot Annersley.  It was night.  Annersley was killed in his cabin—­by a shot through the window.  Anybody might have fired that shot.  Why, you were there yourself—­and you can’t prove who done it.”

“I can’t, eh?  Well, between you and me, Jim, I know.  One of Gary’s own men said that night when they were leavin’ the cabin, ’It must ‘a’ been Steve that drilled the ole man because Steve was the only puncher who knowed where the window was and fired into it.’”

“I didn’t know that.  So you aim to even up, eh?”

“Nope.  I jest aim to be ready to even up.”

Bailey strode back to his horse.  “I’m goin’ up in the hills and look for a deer.  Want to take a little pasear with me?”

“Suits me, Jim.”

“Come on, then.”

They mounted and rode side by side across the noon mesa.

The ponies stepped briskly.  The air was like a song.  Far away the blue hills invited exploration of their timbered and mysterious silences.

“Makes a fella feel like forgettin’ everything and everybody—­but jest this,” said Pete, gesturing toward the ranges.

“The bucks’ll be on the ridges,” remarked Bailey.

CHAPTER XIII

GAME

The got their buck—­a big six-point—­just before the sun dipped below the flaming sky-line.  In order to pack the meat in, one or the other would have to walk.  Pete volunteered, but Bailey generously offered to toss up for the privilege of riding.  He flipped a coin and won.  “Suits me,” said Pete, grinning.  “It’s worth walkin’ from here to the ranch jest to see you rope that deer on my hoss.  I reckon you’ll sweat.”