Old Montoya, wise in his way, knew that something had occurred, yet he asked no further questions, but rolled a cigarette and smoked, wondering whether Young Pete were dissatisfied with the pay he gave him—­for Pete now got two dollars a week and his meals.  Montoya thought of offering him more.  The boy was worth more.  But he would wait.  If Pete showed any disposition to leave, then would be time enough to speak.  So they sat by the fire in the keen evening air, each busy with his own thoughts, while the restless sheep bedded down, bleating and shuffling, and the dogs lay with noses toward the fire, apparently dozing, but ever alert for a stampede; alert for any possibility—­even as were Montoya and Pete, although outwardly placid and silent.

Next morning, after the sheep were out, Pete picked up a pack-rope and amused himself by flipping the loop on the burros, the clumps of brush, stubs, and limbs, keeping at it until the old herder noticed and nodded.  “He is thinking of the cattle,” soliloquized Montoya.  “I will have to get a new boy some day.  But he will speak, and then I shall know.”

While Pete practiced with the rope he was figuring how long it would take him to save exactly eighteen dollars and a half, for that was the price of a Colt’s gun such as he had taken from the store at Concho.  Why he should think of saving the money for a gun is not quite clear.  He already had one.  Possibly because they were drifting back toward the town of Concho, Pete wished to be prepared in case Roth asked him about the gun.  Pete had eleven dollars pinned in the watch-pocket of his overalls.  In three weeks, at most, they would drive past Concho.  He would then have seventeen dollars.  Among his personal effects he had two bobcat skins and a coyote-hide.  Perhaps he could sell them for a dollar or two.  How often did Andy White ride the Largo Canon?  The Concho cattle grazed to the east.  Perhaps White had forgotten his promise to ride over some evening.  Pete swung his loop and roped a clump of brush.  “I’ll sure forefoot you, you doggone longhorn!” he said.  “I’ll git my iron on you, you maverick!  I’m the Ridin’ Kid from Powder River, and I ride ’em straight up an’ comin’.”  So he romanced, his feet on the ground, but his heart with the bawling herd and the charging ponies.  “Like to rope a lion,” he told himself as he swung his rope again.  “Same as High-Chin Bob.”  Just then one of the dogs, attracted by Pete’s unusual behavior, trotted up.

Pete’s rope shot out and dropped.  The dog had never been roped.  His dignity was assaulted.  He yelped and started straightway for Montoya, who stood near the band, gazing, as ever, into space.  Just as the rope came taut, Pete’s foot slipped and he lost the rope.  The dog, frightened out of his wits, charged down on the sheep.  The trailing rope startled them.  They sagged in, crowding away from the terror-stricken dog.  Fear, among sheep, spreads like fire in dry grass.  In five seconds the band was running, with Montoya calling to the dogs and Pete trying to capture the flying cause of the trouble.