"Who says I'm lucky he ain't here?" again challenged Gary.

"Shut up, Steve," said a friendly cowboy. "Can't you take a josh?"

"Who's lookin' for a row, anyhow?" queried another cowboy. "I ain't."

The men laughed. Pete's face was somber in the firelight. Gary! The
man who had led the raid on Pop Annersley's homestead. Pete knew that
he would meet Gary some day, and he was curious to see the man who was
responsible for the killing of Annersley. He had no definite plan--did
not know just what he would do when he mot him. Time had dulled the
edge of Pete's earlier hatred and experience had taught him to leave
well enough alone. But that strident voice, edged with malice, had
stirred bitter memories. Pete felt that should he keep silent it would
reflect on his loyalty to both Montoya and Annersley. There were men
there who knew he had worked for Montoya. They knew, but hardly
expected that Pete would take up Gary's general challenge. He was but
a youth--hardly more than a boy. The camp was somewhat surprised when
Pete got to his feet and stepped toward the fire.

"I'm the one that said you was lucky Montoya wasn't here," he asserted.
"And I'm leavin' it to my boss, or Bud Long, or your own boss"--and he
indicated Houck with a gesture--"if I ain't right."

"Who in hell are you, anyhow?" queried Gary,

"Me? I'm Pop Annersley's boy, Pete. Mebby you recollec' you said
you'd kill me if I talked about that shootin'. I was a kid then--and I
was sure scared of the bunch that busted into the shack--three growed
men ag'in' a kid--a-threatenin' what they'd do to the man that bumped