forty, or mebby less, for cash," complained Young Pete, slipping from
the pony and tying him to the wagon-wheel.

"You go lay down!" growled the trader, and he launched a kick that
jolted Pete into the smouldering camp-fire. Pete was used to being
kicked, but not before an audience. Moreover, the hot ashes had burned
his hands. Pete's dog, hitherto asleep beneath the wagon, rose
bristling, anxious to defend his young master, but afraid of the
trader. The cowering dog and the cringing boy told Annersley much.

Young Pete, brushing the ashes from his over-alls, rose and shaking
with rage, pointed a trembling finger at the trader. "You're a doggone
liar! You're a doggone coward! You're a doggone thief!"

"Just a minute, friend," said Annersley as the trader started toward
the boy. "I reckon the boy is right--but we was talkin' hosses. I'll
give you just forty dollars for the hoss--and the boy."

"Make it fifty and you can take 'em. The kid is no good, anyhow."

This was too much for Young Pete. He could stand abuse and scant
rations, but to be classed as "no good," when he had worked so hard and
lied so eloquently, hurt more than mere kick or blow. His face
quivered and he bit his lip. Old man Annersley slowly drew a wallet
from his overalls and counted out forty dollars. "That hoss ain't
sound," he remarked and he recounted the money. He's got a couple of
wind-puffs, and he's old. He needs feedin' and restin' up. That boy
your boy?"

"That kid! Huh! I picked him up when he was starvin' to death over to