of dust in the distance. Pete chased the dog which naturally circled
and ran back of the group of the store. Older Mexicans gathered and
laughed. The boys, feeling secure in the presence of their seniors,
added their shrill yelps of pleasure. Pete, boiling internally,
white-faced and altogether too quiet, slowly gathered up what
provisions were usable. Presently he came upon his gun, which had been
bucked from the pack-saddle. The Mexicans were still laughing when he
strode back to the store. The dog, scenting trouble, bristled and
snarled, baring his long fangs and standing with one forefoot raised.
Before the assembly realized what had happened, Pete had whipped out
his gun. With the crash of the shot the dog doubled up and dropped in
his tracks. The boys scattered and ran. Pete cut loose in their
general direction. They ran faster. The older folk, chattering and
scolding, backed into the store. "Montoya's boy was loco. He would
kill somebody!" Some of the women crossed themselves. The
storekeeper, who knew Pete slightly, ventured out. He argued with
Pete, who blinked and nodded, but would not put up his gun. The
Mexicans feared him for the very fact that he was a boy and might do
anything. Had he been a man he might have been shot. But this did not
occur to Pete. He was fighting mad. His burros were gone and his
provisions scattered, save a few canned tomatoes that had not suffered
damage. The storekeeper started toward him. Pete centered on that
worthy's belt-buckle and told him to stay where he was.

"I'll blow a hole in you that you can drive a team through if you come
near me!" asserted Pete. "I come in here peaceful, and you doggone
Cholas wrecked my outfit and stampeded my burros; but they ain't no
Mexican can run a whizzer on me twict. I'm white--see!"

"It is not I that did this thing," said the storekeeper.