swing up and ride—­ride across the mesa to that dim line of hills where the sun touched the blue of the timber and the gold of the quaking-asp and burned softly on the far woodland trail that led south and south across the silent ranges!  Pete snatched a rope from the pack and walked out toward the pony.  That good animal, a bit afraid of the queer figure in the flapping overalls and flop-brimmed sombrero, snorted and swung around facing him.  Dragging his rope, Pete walked slowly forward.  The pony stopped and flung up its head.  Pete flipped the loop and set back on his heels.  The rope ran taut.  Pete was prepared for the usual battle, but the pony, instead, “came to the rope” and sniffed curiously at Pete, who patted his nose and talked to him.  Assured that his strange captor knew horses, the pony allowed him to slip the rope round his nose and mount without even sidling.  Pete was happy.  This was something like!  As for Montoya and the sheep—­they were drifting on in a cloud of dust, the burros following placidly.

“You sure caught him slick.”

Pete nodded to the bright-faced young cowboy who had stepped up to him.  Andy White was older than Pete, heavier and taller, with keen blue eyes and an expression as frank and fearless as the morning itself.  In contrast, Young Pete was lithe and dark, his face was more mature, more serious, and his black eyes seemed to see everything at a glance—­a quick, indifferent glance that told no one what was behind the expression.  Andy was light-skinned and ruddy.  Pete was swarthy and black-haired.  For a second or so they stood, then White genially thrust out his hand.  “Thanks!” he said heartily.  “You sabe ’em.”

It was a little thing to say and yet it touched Pete’s pride.  Deep in his heart he was a bit ashamed of consorting with a sheep-herder—­a Mexican; and to be recognized as being familiar with horses pleased him more than his countenance showed.  “Yes.  I handled ’em some—­tradin’—­when I was a kid.”

Andy glanced at the boyish figure and smiled.  “You’re wastin’ good time with that outfit,”—­and he gestured with his thumb toward the sheep.

“Oh, I dunno.  Jose Montoya ain’t so slow—­with a gun.”

Andy White laughed.  “Old Crux ain’t a bad old scout—­but you ain’t a Mexican.  Anybody can see that!”

“Well, just for fun—­suppose I was.”

“It would be different,” said Andy.  “You’re white, all right!”

“Meanin’ my catchin’ your cayuse.  Well, anybody’d do that.”

“They ain’t nothin’ to drink but belly-wash in this town,” said Andy boyishly.  “But you come along down to the store an’ I’ll buy.”

“I’ll go you!  I see you’re ridin’ for the Concho.”

“Uh-huh, a year.”

Pete walked beside this new companion and Pete was thinking hard.  “What’s your name?” he queried suddenly.

“White—­Andy White.  What’s yours?”

“Pete Annersley,” he replied proudly.