and it ain't any darker now. I ain't no doggone cow-puncher what's got
to git on a hoss afore he dast go anywhere."

Montoya laughed. "You come to-morrow night, eh?"

"Reckon I will."

"Then the camp will be over there--in the cañon. You will see the
fire."

"I'll come over and have a talk anyway," said Pete, still unwilling to
let Montoya think him anxious. "Buenos noches!"

Montoya nodded. "He will come," he said to his nephew. "Then it is
that you may go to the home. He is small--but of the very great
courage."

The following evening Pete appeared at the herder's camp. The dogs ran
out, sniffed at him, and returned to the fire. Montoya made a place
for him on the thick sheepskins and asked him if he had eaten. Yes, he
had had supper, but he had no blankets. Could Montoya let him have a
blanket until he had earned enough money to buy one?

The old herder told him that he could have the nephew's blankets; Pedro
was to leave camp next day and go home. As for money, Montoya did not
pay wages. Of course, for tobacco, or a coat or pants, he could have
the money when he needed them.

Pete felt a bit taken aback. He had burnt his bridges--he could not
return to Concho--yet he wanted a definite wage. "I kin pack--make and