jest had to stand up and tell him what he was. It wa'n't me doin' it.
It was jest like somethin' big a-pullin' me onto my feet and makin' me
talk like I did. It was jest like you was ridin' the edge of some
steep and bad goin' and a maverick takes over and you know you got no
business to put your hoss down after him. But your saddle is
a-creakin' and a-sayin', 'Go git 'im!'--and you jest nacherally go.
Kin you tell me what makes a fella do the like of that?"

"I dunno, Pete. But chasin' mavericks is different."

"Mebby. But the idee is jest the same."

"Well, I'm hopin' you don't git many more of them idees right soon.
I'm sure with you to the finish, but I ain't wishful to git mine that
way."

"I ain't askin' you to," said Pete, for he was angry with himself
despite the logic of his own argument.

They were near the herd. Andy, who had flushed hotly at Pete's rather
ungenerous intimation, spurred his pony round and rode toward a dim
figure that nodded in the starlight. Pete whirled his own pony and
rode in the opposite direction.

Toward dawn, as they circled, they met again.

"Got the makin's?" queried Pete.

"Right here," said Andy.