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The trader had to laugh. "Got spunk, ain't you? Now you git down and
come along with me, Pete. No use you riding back to the mesa to-night.
Your dad ain't there. You can't find him to-night."
Pete's lip quivered. What right had the store-keeper, or any man, to
take hold of his bridle?
"See here, Pete, where do you think you're goin'?"
"Home!" shrilled Pete as he swung his hat and fanned the horse's ears.
It had been many years since that pony had had his ears fanned, but he
remembered early days and rose to the occasion, leaving the storekeeper
in the dust and Young Pete riding for dear life to stay in the saddle.
Pete's hat was lost in the excitement, and next to his rifle, the old
sombrero inherited from his pop was Pete's dearest possession. But
even when the pony had ceased to pitch, Pete dared not go back for it.
He would not risk being caught a second time.
He jogged along up the mesa trail, peering ahead in the dusk,
half-frightened and half-elated. If the T-Bar-T outfit were going to
run his pop out of the country, Young Pete intended to be in at the
running.


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