disliked Mexicans--Montoya being the one exception. This morning he
did not pack his gun, but hung it on the cross-tree of the pack-saddle.
There were many brush rabbits on the mesa, and they made interesting
targets.

About noon he arrived at the town--Laguna. He bought the few
provisions necessary and piled them on the ground near his burros. He
had brought some cold meat and bread with him which he ate, squatted
out in front of the store. Several young loafers gathered round and
held high argument among themselves as to whether Pete was a Mexican or
not. This in itself was not altogether pleasing to Pete. He knew that
he was tanned to a swarthy hue, was naturally of a dark complexion, and
possessed black hair and eyes. But his blood rebelled at even the
suggestion that he was a Mexican. He munched his bread and meat,
tossed the crumbs to a stray dog and rolled a cigarette. One of the
Mexican boys asked him for tobacco and papers. Pete gladly proffered
"the makings." The Mexican youth rolled a cigarette and passed the
sack of tobacco to his companions. Pete eyed this breach of etiquette
sternly, and received the sack back, all but empty. But still he said
nothing, but rose and entering the store--a rambling, flat-roofed
adobe--bought another sack of tobacco. When he came out the boys were
laughing. He caught a word or two which drove the jest home. In the
vernacular, he was "an easy mark."

"Mebby I am," he said in Mexican. "But I got the price to buy my
smokes. I ain't no doggone loafer."

The Mexican youth who had asked for the tobacco retorted with some more
or less vile language, intimating that Pete was neither Mexican nor
white--an insult compared to which mere anathema was as nothing. Pete