Three weeks later, almost to a day, the sheep were grazing below the town of Concho, near the camp where Pete had first visited Montoya and elected to work for him.  On the higher levels several miles to the east was the great cattle outfit of the Concho; the home-buildings, corrals, and stables.  Pete had seen some of the Concho boys—­chance visitors at the homestead on the Blue—­and he had been thinking of these as the sheep drifted toward Concho.  After all, he was not equipped to ride, as he had no saddle, bridle, chaps, boots, and not even a first-class rope.  Pete had too much pride to acknowledge his lack of riding-gear or the wherewithal to purchase it, even should he tie up with the Concho boys.  So when Andy White, again visiting the sheep-camp, told Pete that the Concho foreman had offered no encouragement in regard to an extra hand, Pete nodded as though the matter were of slight consequence, which had the effect of stirring Andy to renewed eloquence anent the subject—­as Pete had hoped.  The boys discussed ways and means.  There was much discussion, but no visible ways and means.  Andy’s entire wealth was invested in his own gay trappings.  Pete possessed something like seventeen dollars.  But there is nothing impossible to youth—­for when youth realizes the impossible, youth has grown a beard and fears the fire.

Both boys knew that there were many poor Mexicans in the town of Concho who, when under the expansive influence of wine, would part with almost anything they or their neighbors possessed, for a consideration.  There were Mexicans who would sell horse, saddle, and bridle for that amount, especially when thirsty—­for seventeen dollars meant unlimited vino and a swaggering good time—­for a time.  Pete knew this only too well.  He suggested the idea to Andy, who concurred with enthusiasm.

“Cholas is no good anyhow,” blurted Andy.  “You ain’t robbin’ nobody when you buy a Chola outfit.  Let’s go!”

Montoya, who sat by the fire, coughed.

“‘Course, I was meanin’ some Cholas,” said Andy.

The old herder smiled to himself.  The boys amused him.  He had been young once—­and very poor.  And he had ridden range in his youthful days.  A mild fatalist, he knew that Pete would not stay long, and Montoya was big enough not to begrudge the muchacho any happiness.

“I’m goin’ over to town for a spell,” explained Pete.

Montoya nodded.

“I’m comin’ back,” Pete added, a bit embarrassed.

“Bueno.  I shall be here.”

Pete, a bit flustered, did not quite catch the mild sarcasm, but he breathed more freely when they were out of sight of camp.  “He’s sure a white Mexican,” he told Andy.  “I kind o’ hate to leave him, at that.”

“You ain’t left him yet,” suggested Andy with the blunt candor of youth.

Pete pondered.  Tucked under his arm were the two bobcat skins and the coyote-hide.  He would try to sell them to the storekeeper, Roth.  All told, he would then have about twenty dollars.  That was quite a lot of money—­in Concho.