“He jest run right in front of the hen when I cut loose.  He might ‘a’ knowed better.”

“We’ll go see.”  And Annersley plodded to the yard, picked up the defunct rooster and entered the cabin.

Young Pete cooled down to a realization that his new pop was not altogether pleased.  He followed Annersley, who told him to put the gun back in the corner.

“Got to clean her first,” asserted Young Pete.

“You look out you don’t shoot yourself,” said Annersley from the kitchen.

“Huh,” came from the ambitious, young hunter of feathered game, “I know all about guns—­and this here ole musket sure needs cleanin’ bad.  She liked to kicked my doggone head off.”

They ate what was left of the hen, and a portion of the rooster.  After supper Annersley sat outside with the boy and talked to him kindly.  Slowly it dawned upon Young Pete that it was not considered good form in the best families of Arizona to slay law-abiding roosters without explicit directions and permission from their owners.  The old man concluded with a promise that if Young Pete liked to shoot, he should some day have a gun of his own if he, in turn, would agree to do no shooting without permission.  The promise of a real gun of his own touched Young Pete’s tough little heart.  He stuck out his hand.  The compact was sealed.

“Git a thirty-thirty,” he suggested.

“What do you know about thirty-thirties?”

“Huh, I know lots.  My other pop was tellin’ me you could git a man with a thirty a whole heap farther than you could with any ole forty-four or them guns.  I shot heaps of rabbits with his.”

“Well, we’ll see.  But you want to git over the idee of gettin’ a man with any gun.  That goes with horse-tradin’ and liquor and such.  But we sure aim to live peaceful, up here.”

Meanwhile, Young Pete, squatting beside Annersley, amused himself by spitting tobacco juice at a procession of red ants that trailed from nowhere in particular toward the doorstep.

“Makes ’em sick,” he chuckled as a lucky shot dissipated the procession.

“It’s sure wastin’ cartridges on mighty small game,” remarked Annersley.

“Don’t cost nothin’ to spit on ’em,” said Young Pete.

“Not now.  But when you git out of chewin’-tobacco, then where you goin’ to git some more?”

“To the store, I reckon.”

“Uh-huh.  But where you goin’ to git the money?”

“He was givin’ me all the chewin’ I wanted,” said Pete.

“Uh-huh.  Well, I ain’t got no money for chewin’-tobacco.  But I tell you what, Pete.  Now, say I was to give you a dollar a week for—­for your wages.  And say I was to git you one of them guns like you said; you couldn’t shoot chewin’-tobacco in that gun, could you?”

“Most anybody knows that!” laughed Pete.

“But you could buy cartridges with that dollar—­an’ shoot lots.”