Montoya glanced at Pete's face. Pete was frowning prodigiously.

"Hah!" laughed Montoya. "You do not like it, eh?"

Pete scowled and blinked. "It's the best doggone holster in the world!
I--I'm goin' to keep that there holster as long as I live! I--"

Montoya patted Pete's shoulder. "With the sheep it is quiet, so!"--and
Montoya gestured to the band that grazed near by. "Where you will go
there will be the hard riding and the fighting, perhaps. It is not
good to kill a man. But it is not good to be killed. The hot
word--the quarrel--and some day a man will try to kill you. See! I
have left the holster open at the end. I have taught you that
trick--but do not tie the holster down if you would shoot that way.
There is no more to say."

Pete thought so, so far as he was concerned. He was angry with himself
for having felt emotion and yet happy in that his break with Montoya
had terminated so pleasantly withal. "I'm goin' to town," he said,
"and git a boy to come out here. If I can't git a boy, I'll come back
and stay till you git one."

Montoya nodded and strode out to where the sheep had drifted. The dogs
jumped up and welcomed him. It was not customary for their master to
leave them for so long alone with the flock. Their wagging tails and
general attitude expressed relief.

Pete, topping the rise that hides the town of Concho from the northern
vistas, turned and looked back. Far below, on a slightly rounded knoll