the main chance loomed, and he thought he saw his fortune shaping
toward the range and the cow-ponies. He had liked Andy White from the
beginning. Perhaps they could arrange to ride together if he (Pete)
could get work with the Concho outfit. The gist of it all was that
Pete was lonely and did not realize it. Montoya was much older, grave,
and often silent for days. He seemed satisfied with the life. Pete,
in his way, had aspirations--vague as yet, but slowly shaping toward a
higher plane than the herding of sheep. He had had experiences enough
for a man twice his age, and he knew that he had ability. As Andy
White had said, it was wasting good time, this sheep-herding. Well,
perhaps something would turn up. In the meantime there was camp to
make, water to pack, and plenty of easy detail to take up his immediate
time. Perhaps he would talk with Montoya after supper about making a
change. Perhaps not. It might be better to wait until he saw Andy
White again.

In camp that night Montoya asked Pete if he were sick. Pete shook his
head; "Jest thinkin'," he replied.

Old Montoya, wise in his way, knew that something had occurred, yet he
asked no further questions, but rolled a cigarette and smoked,
wondering whether Young Pete were dissatisfied with the pay he gave
him--for Pete now got two dollars a week and his meals. Montoya
thought of offering him more. The boy was worth more. But he would
wait. If Pete showed any disposition to leave, then would be time
enough to speak. So they sat by the fire in the keen evening air, each
busy with his own thoughts, while the restless sheep bedded down,
bleating and shuffling, and the dogs lay with noses toward the fire,
apparently dozing, but ever alert for a stampede; alert for any
possibility--even as were Montoya and Pete, although outwardly placid