Pete's rope shot out and dropped. The dog had never been roped. His
dignity was assaulted. He yelped and started straightway for Montoya,
who stood near the band, gazing, as ever, into space. Just as the rope
came taut, Pete's foot slipped and he lost the rope. The dog,
frightened out of his wits, charged down on the sheep. The trailing
rope startled them. They sagged in, crowding away from the
terror-stricken dog. Fear, among sheep, spreads like fire in dry
grass. In five seconds the band was running, with Montoya calling to
the dogs and Pete trying to capture the flying cause of the trouble.

When the sheep were turned and had resumed their grazing, Montoya, who
had caught the roped dog, strode to Pete. "It was a bad thing to do,"
he said easily. "Why did you rope him?"

Pete scowled and stammered. "Thought he was a lion. He came a-tearin'
up, and I was thinkin' o' lions. So, I jest nacherally loops him. I
was praticin'."

"First it was the gun. Now it is the rope," said Montoya, smiling.
"You make a vaquero, some day, I think."

"Oh, mebby. But I sure won't quit you till you get 'em over the range,
even if I do git a chanct to ride for some outfit. But I ain't got a
job, yet."

"I would not like to have you go," said Montoya. "You are a good boy."

Pete had nothing to say. He wished Montoya had not called him "a good
boy." That hurt. If Montoya had only scolded him for stampeding the
sheep. . . . But Montoya had spoken in a kindly way.