stood the old herder, a solitary figure in the wide expanse of mesa and
morning sunlight. Pete swung his hat. Montoya raised his arm in a
gesture of good-will and farewell. Pete might have to come back, but
Montoya doubted it. He knew Pete. If there was anything that looked
like a boy available in Concho, Pete would induce that boy to take his
place with Montoya, if he had to resort to force to do so.

Youth on the hilltop! Youth pausing to gaze back for a moment on a
pleasant vista of sunshine and long, lazy days--Pete brushed his arm
across his eyes. One of the dogs had left the sheep, and came frisking
toward the hill where Pete stood. Pete had never paid much attention
to the dogs, and was surprised that either of them should note his
going, at this time. "Mebby the doggone cuss knows that I'm quittin'
for good," he thought. The dog circled Pete and barked ingratiatingly.
Pete, touched by unexpected interest, squatted down and called the dog
to him. The sharp-muzzled, keen-eyed animal trotted up and nosed
Pete's hand. "You 're sure wise!" said Pete affectionately. Pete was
even more astonished to realize that it was the dog he had roped
recently. "Knowed I was only foolin'," said Pete, patting the dog's
head. The sheep-dog gazed up into Pete's face with bright, unblinking
eyes that questioned, "Why was Pete leaving camp early in the
morning--and without the burros?"

"I'm quittin' for good," said Pete.

The dog's waving tail grew still.

"That's right--honest!"--and Pete rose.

The sheep-dog's quivering joy ceased at the word. His alertness