vanished. A veritable statue of dejection he stood as though pondering
the situation. Then he lifted his head and howled--the long,
lugubrious howl of the wolf that hungers.

"You said it all," muttered Pete, turning swiftly and trudging down the
road. He would have liked to howl himself. Montoya's kindliness at
parting--and his gift--had touched Pete deeply, but he had fought his
emotion then, too proud to show it. Now he felt a hot something
spatter on his hand. His mouth quivered. "Doggone the dog!" he
exclaimed. "Doggone the whole doggone outfit!" And to cheat his
emotion he began to sing, in a ludicrous, choked way, that sprightly
and inimitable range ballad;

"'Way high up in the Mokiones, among the mountain-tops,
A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones and licked his thankful chops,
When who upon the scene should ride, a-trippin' down the slope,"

"Doggone the slope!" blurted Pete as he stubbed his toe on a rock.

But when he reached Concho his eyes had cleared. Like all good
Americans he "turned a keen, untroubled face home to the instant need
of things," and after visiting Roth at the store, and though sorely
tempted to loiter and inspect saddlery, he set out to hunt up a
boy--for Montoya.

None of the Mexican boys he approached cared to leave home. Things
looked pretty blue for Pete. The finding of the right boy meant his
own freedom. His contempt for the youth of Concho grew apace. The
Mexicans were a lazy lot, who either did not want to work or were loath
to leave home and follow the sheep. "Jest kids!" he remarked