"Ten dollars."

"He is a good horse--very fast. He is worth much more. I sell him for
twenty dollars."

"Si."

Andy White put his hand on Pete's shoulder. "Say, Pete," he whispered,
"I know this hombre. The poor cuss ain't hardly got enough sense to
die. He comes into town reg'lar and gits drunk and he's got a whole
corral full of kids and a wife, over to the Flats. I'm game, but it's
kinda tough, takin' his hoss. It's about all he's got, exceptin' a
measly ole dog and a shack and the clothes on his back. That saddle
ain't worth much, anyhow."

Pete thought it over. "It's his funeral," he said presently.

"That's all right--but dam' if I want to bury him." And Andy, the
sprightly, rolled a cigarette and eyed Pete, who stood pondering.

Presently Pete turned to the Mexican. "I was only joshin' you, amigo.
You fork your cayuse and fan it for home."

Pete felt that his chance of buying cheap equipment had gone
glimmering, but he was not unhappy. He gestured to Andy. Together
they strode across to the store and sat on the rough wood platform.
Pete kicked his heels and whistled a range tune. Andy smoked and
wondered what Pete had in mind. Suddenly Pete rose and pulled up his
belt. "Come on over to Roth's house," he said. "I want to see him."