For a moment this idea appealed to Pete.  He had a supreme contempt for Mexicans.  But suddenly he seemed to see himself surreptitiously taking the six-shooter from Roth’s showcase—­and he recalled vividly how he had felt at the time—­“jest plumb mean,” as he put it.  Roth had been mighty decent to him. . . .  The Mexican, a wizened little man, cross-eyed and wrinkled, stumbled from the saloon.

“Want to sell your hoss?” Pete asked in Mexican.

“Si!  How much you give?” said the other, coming right to the point.

“Ten dollars.”

“He is a good horse—­very fast.  He is worth much more.  I sell him for twenty dollars.”

“Si.”

Andy White put his hand on Pete’s shoulder.  “Say, Pete,” he whispered, “I know this hombre.  The poor cuss ain’t hardly got enough sense to die.  He comes into town reg’lar and gits drunk and he’s got a whole corral full of kids and a wife, over to the Flats.  I’m game, but it’s kinda tough, takin’ his hoss.  It’s about all he’s got, exceptin’ a measly ole dog and a shack and the clothes on his back.  That saddle ain’t worth much, anyhow.”

Pete thought it over.  “It’s his funeral,” he said presently.

“That’s all right—­but dam’ if I want to bury him.”  And Andy, the sprightly, rolled a cigarette and eyed Pete, who stood pondering.

Presently Pete turned to the Mexican.  “I was only joshin’ you, amigo. 
You fork your cayuse and fan it for home.”

Pete felt that his chance of buying cheap equipment had gone glimmering, but he was not unhappy.  He gestured to Andy.  Together they strode across to the store and sat on the rough wood platform.  Pete kicked his heels and whistled a range tune.  Andy smoked and wondered what Pete had in mind.  Suddenly Pete rose and pulled up his belt.  “Come on over to Roth’s house,” he said.  “I want to see him.”

“He’s turned in,” suggested Andy.

“That’s all right.  I got to see him.”

“I’m on!  You’re goin’ to pay somethin’ down on a rig, and git him to let you take it on time.  Great idee!  Go to it!”

“You got me wrong,” said Pete.

Roth had gone to bed, but he rose and answered the door when he heard Pete’s voice.  “Kin I see you alone?” queried Pete.

“I reckon so.  Come right in.”

Pete blinked in the glare of the lamp, shuffled his feet as he slowly counted out eighteen dollars and a half.  “It’s for the gun I took,” he explained.

Roth hesitated, then took the money.

“All right, Pete.  I’ll give you a receipt.  Just wait a minute.”

Pete gazed curiously at the crumpled bit of paper that Roth fetched from the bedroom.  “I took a gun an’ cartriges for Wagges.  You never giv me Wages.”

Pete heaved a sigh.  “I reckon we’re square.”

Roth grinned.  “Knowed you’d come back some day.  Reckon you didn’t find a Mexican with a horse to sell, eh?”