“Would you lick me if I bought chewin’?”

“Shucks, no!  I was jest leavin’ it to you.”

“When do I git that dollar—­the first one?”

Annersley smiled to himself.  Pete was shrewd and in no way inclined to commit himself carelessly.  Horse-trading had sharpened his wits to a razor-edge and dire necessity and hunger had kept those wits keen.  Annersley was amused and at the same time wise enough in his patient, slow way to hide his amusement and talk with Pete as man to man.  “Why, you ain’t been workin’ for me a week yet!  And come to think—­that rooster was worth five dollars—­every cent!  What you say if I was to charge that rooster up to you?  Then after five weeks you was to git a dollar, eh?”

Pete pondered this problem.  “Huh!” he exclaimed suddenly.  “You et more ’n half that rooster—­and some of the hen.”

“All right, son.  Then say I was to charge you two dollars for what you et?”

“Then, I guess beans is good enough for me.  Anyhow, I never stole your rooster.  I jest shot him.”

“Which is correct.  Beckon we’ll forgit about that rooster and start fresh.”  The old man fumbled in his pocket and brought up a silver dollar.  “Here’s your first week’s wages, son.  What you aim to do with it?”

“Buy cartridges!” exclaimed Pete.  “But I ain’t got no gun.”

“Well, we’ll be goin’ to town right soon.  I’ll git you a gun, and mebby a scabbard so you can carry it on the saddle.”

“Kin I ride that hoss I seen out there?” queried Pete.

“What about ridin’ the hoss you sold me?  From what you said, I reckon they ain’t no hoss can touch him, in this country.”

Pete hesitated on the thin edge of committing himself, tottered and almost fell, but managed to retain his balance.  “Sure, he’s a good hoss!  Got a little age on him, but that don’t hurt none.  I was thinkin’ mebby you’d like that other cayuse of yours broke right.  Looks to me like he needs some handlin’ to make a first-class saddle-hoss.”

The old man smiled broadly.  Pete, like a hungry mosquito, was hard to catch.

“You kin ride him,” said Annersley. “’Course, if he pitches you—­” And the old man chuckled.

“Pitch me?  Say, pardner, I’m a ridin’ son-of-a-gun from Powder River and my middle name is ‘stick.’  I kin ride ‘m comin’ and goin’—­crawl ’m on the run and bust ’m wide open every time they bit the dirt.  Turn me loose and hear me howl.  Jest give me room and see me split the air!  You want to climb the fence when I ’m a-comin’!”

“Where did you git that little song?” queried Annersley.

“Why—­why, that’s how the fellas shoot her over to the round-up at Magdalena and Flag.  Reckon I been there!”

“Well, don’t you bust ole Apache too hard, son.  He’s a mighty forgivin’ hoss—­but he’s got feelin’s.”

“Huh!  You’re a-joshin’ me agin.  I seen your whiskers kind o’ wiggle.  You think I’m scared o’ that hoss?”