Perhaps Pete's swarthy coloring and black eyes
had something to do with it. Possibly Pete's assurance, as contrasted
with the bashfulness and timidity of the old Mexican's nephew, had
something to do with Montoya's immediate friendliness. In any event,
the visit ended with an invitation to Pete to become a permanent member
of the sheep-camp, Montoya explaining that his nephew wanted to go
home; that he did not like the loneliness of a herder's life.
Pete had witnessed too many horse-trades to accept this proposal at
once. His face expressed deep cogitation, as he flicked the ashes from
his cigarette and shook his head. "I dunno. Roth is a pretty good
boss. 'Course, he ain't no gun-fighter--and that's kind of in your
favor--"
"What hombre say I make fight with gun?" queried Montoya.
"Why, everybody! I reckon they's mighty few of 'em want to stack up
against you."
Montoya frowned. "I don' talk like that," he said, shrugging his
shoulders.
Pete felt that he was getting in deep--but he had a happy inspiration.
"You don't have to talk. Your ole forty-four does the talking I
reckon.
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