about the six-shooter he had taken--but Andy was there, and, besides,
it was a hard subject to approach gracefully even under the most
favorable auspices. Perhaps, in the morning . . .

"Come on over to Tony's Place and mebby we can run into a Mex that
wants to sell out," suggested Andy.

Pete said good-night to Roth.

"Don't you boys get into trouble," laughed Roth, as they left. He had
not even hinted about the six-shooter. Pete thought that the
storekeeper was "sure white."

The inevitable gaunt, ribby, dejected pony stood at the hitching-rail
of the saloon. Pete knew it at once for a Mexican's pony. No white
man would ride such a horse. The boys inspected the saddle, which was
not worth much, but they thought it would do. "We could steal 'im,"
suggested Andy, laughing. "Then we could swipe the rig and turn the
cayuse loose."

For a moment this idea appealed to Pete. He had a supreme contempt for
Mexicans. But suddenly he seemed to see himself surreptitiously taking
the six-shooter from Roth's showcase--and he recalled vividly how he
had felt at the time--"jest plumb mean," as he put it. Roth had been
mighty decent to him. . . . The Mexican, a wizened little man,
cross-eyed and wrinkled, stumbled from the saloon.

"Want to sell your hoss?" Pete asked in Mexican.

"Si! How much you give?" said the other, coming right to the point.