"Kin I kick him--jest onct, while you hold him down?"

"Nope, son. That's too much like his way. You run along and git your
blanket if you're goin' with me."

Young Pete scrambled to the wagon and returned with a tattered blanket,
his sole possession, and his because he had stolen it from a Mexican
camp near Enright. He scurried to the buckboard and hopped in.

Annersley rose and brought the trader up with him as though the latter
were a bit of limp tie-rope.

"And now we'll be driftin'," he told the other.

Murder burned in the horse-trader's narrow eyes, but immediate physical
ambition was lacking.

Annersley bulked big. The horse-trader cursed the old man in two
languages. Annersley climbed into the buckboard, gave Pete the
lead-rope of the recent purchase, and clucked to his horse, paying no
attention whatever to the volley of invectives behind him.

"He'll git his gun and shoot you in the back," whispered Young Pete.

"Nope, son. He'll jest go and git another drink and tell everybody in
Concho how he's goin' to kill me--some day. I've handled folks like
him frequent."

"You sure kin fight!" exclaimed Young Pete enthusiastically.