AC dBooks

Within a few yards of the camp the
dogs challenged him, charging down the gentle slope to where he stood.
Pete paid no attention to them, but marched up to the fire. Old
Montoya rose and greeted him pleasantly. Another Mexican, a slim
youth, bashfully acknowledged Pete's presence and called in the dogs.
Pete, who had known many outland camp-fires, made himself at home,
sitting cross-legged and affecting a mature indifference. The old
Mexican smoked and studied the youngster, amused by his evident attempt
to appear grown-up and disinterested.
"That gun, he poke you in the rib, hey?"--and Montoya chuckled.
Pete flushed and glanced down at the half-concealed weapon beneath his
arm. "Tied her on with string--ain't got no shoulder holster," Pete
explained in an offhand way.
"What you do with him?" The old Mexican's deep-set eyes twinkled.
Pete studied Montoya's face. This was a direct but apparently friendly
query. Pete wondered if he should answer evasively or directly. The
fact was that he did not know just why he had taken the gun--or what he
intended to do with it.


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